And if thou aske of me what I desire, Or why so doubtfull I do write to thee, Would namelesse I might tell what I require, Till that my sweet were granted vnto me: Which if to know, thou wouldst make further triall A maiden asketh but a maids deniall. In token of my wounded heart, I would Within these blotted lines there might apeare My colour pale, my body leane and cold, My watery eyes, my sighes and heauy cheere, Then mightst perceiue I were in loue with thee, And how the flames of loue tormenteth me. I call the Gods as witnesse to the same Poore wretched wench, I stroue to flie the dart And did my best that out-rage for to tame Which _Cupid_ had alotted for my smart, No wench bare more then did to me betide, Which forc'd me shew the cause that I would hide. Then mercy at thy gentle hands I craue, In fearefull wise to thee I make my mone, Thou onely maist thy louer spill or saue, No enemy doth sue, but such a one That is aly'd most sweetly vnto thee, Yet in a neerer band would linked be. My life is thine, and thou didst giue it me, Then loue thy selfe and thou wilt me affect, My beauty's much, and is deriu'd from thee, Then all thy owne be carefull to respect. O stop thy eares, and heare not _Myrha's_ name, And shut thy eies wh[=e] thou dost read the same. My youthfull yeares rash folly doth beseeme, The skill of law to aged folkes belong, And all is lawfull that we list, I deeme, We take no notice of the right or wrong, If it offend to take thy owne in't bed, Let that offence be layd vpon my head. Then set apart the dread of worldly shame, And take the Gods, as presidents herein, My pregnant wit shall shun all future blame, Our pleasure scapes wel, hid with name of kin, And you may clip and kisse, and play with me, A daughters name me thinkes a cloke wil bee. Haue mercy now, I haue my case exprest, Which loue inforst my fearefull hand to write: O grant thy daughter this her first request, That is the occasion of her chiefe delight, This Epitaph deserue thou not; I haue, The cruel father tooke the life he gaue. And though my lines are blotted euery where, 'Twas with my teares that fell ere it was dry, And if my letters scribled do appeare, Whereby you thinke some other wrot to try Your mind: because my curious hand is mist, A fearefull minde, doth bring a shaking fist. And so these scrambled lines I do commend Vnto your loue, be-blurred all with teares, With feruent hope they shall no whit offend, The minde is base, that stil continuall feares. And note you which is the greater blot, To get no childe or kill that you haue got.