Not that in colour it was like thy haire, For Armelets of that thou maist let me weare: Nor that thy hand it oft embrac'd and kist, For so it had that good, which oft I mist: Nor for that silly old moralitie, 5 That as these linkes were knit, our love should bee: Mourne I that I thy seavenfold chaine have lost; Nor for the luck sake; but the bitter cost. O, shall twelve righteous Angels, which as yet No leaven of vile soder did admit; 10 Nor yet by any way have straid or gone From the first state of their Creation; Angels, which heaven commanded to provide All things to me, and be my faithfull guide; To gaine new friends, t'appease great enemies; 15 To comfort my soule, when I lie or rise; Shall these twelve innocents, by thy severe Sentence (dread judge) my sins great burden beare? Shall they be damn'd, and in the furnace throwne, And punisht for offences not their owne? 20 They save not me, they doe not ease my paines, When in that hell they'are burnt and tyed in chains. Were they but Crownes of France, I cared not, For, most of these, their naturall Countreys rot I think possesseth, they come here to us, 25 So pale, so lame, so leane, so ruinous; And howsoe'r French Kings most Christian be, Their Crownes are circumcis'd most Iewishly. Or were they Spanish Stamps, still travelling, That are become as Catholique as their King, 30 Those unlickt beare-whelps, unfil'd pistolets That (more than Canon shot) availes or lets; Which negligently left unrounded, looke Like many angled figures, in the booke Of some great Conjurer that would enforce 35 Nature, as these doe justice, from her course; Which, as the soule quickens head, feet and heart, As streames, like veines, run through th'earth's every part, Visit all Countries, and have slily made Gorgeous _France_, ruin'd, ragged and decay'd; 40 _Scotland_, which knew no State, proud in one day: And mangled seventeen-headed _Belgia_. Or were it such gold as that wherewithall Almighty _Chymiques_ from each minerall, Having by subtle fire a soule out-pull'd; 45 Are dirtely and desperately gull'd: I would not spit to quench the fire they'are in, For, they are guilty of much hainous Sin. But, shall my harmlesse angels perish? Shall I lose my guard, my ease, my food, my all? 50 Much hope which they should nourish will be dead, Much of my able youth, and lustyhead Will vanish; if thou love let them alone, For thou wilt love me lesse when they are gone; And be content that some lowd squeaking Cryer 55 Well-pleas'd with one leane thred-bare groat, for hire, May like a devill roare through every street;