Address to His Mistress

Wrong not sweet empress of my heart
The merit of true passion,
Pretending that he feels no smart,
That shews forth no compassion.

Since if my plaints come not to prove
The conquests of thy beauty,
They come not from defect of love,
But from excess of duty.

For knowing that they come to serve
A saint of such perfection,
As all desire, but none deserve
A place in her affection.

I'd rather choose to want relief
Than venture the revealing ;
Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair distrusts the healing.