Love is too young to know
what conscience is;
Yet who knows not, conscience is born of
love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my
amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self
prove.
For thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body's
treason;
My soul doth tell my body that he
may
Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther
reason,
But rising at thy name, doth point out
thee
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this
pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to
be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy
side.
No want of conscience hold it that I
call
Her 'love,' for whose dear love I rise
and fall.
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