God hath had a gen’rous hand in giving
Lovely things and pretty tricks to thee.
Long as I, my dear, retain my living
I, your other eyes, may help you see:
Your manner is much sweeter than my measure
Like scooping seas in tablespoons away,
And counting far more glitt’ring golden treasure
Than I could ever spend to make you stay.
Suppose this is the pain that I must shoulder;
Imagine that I give until I die.
You told me I was good, said you were colder
And when I called you pretty, asked me, “Why?”
But if I write my love, you can't complain
So I shall give you verse this way again.