To Oliver Cookerill

Thou once didst wrong me, but I all forgive,
And wish thou maist in lesse vexation live,
Than when thou didst of bootlesse love complaine,
Whose heate in teares of dripping spent thy braine;
When, with a sunke cheeke and a sobbing heart,
In roaring Rime thou didst discharge thy smart,
And like a leaden Serring lay'st alone,
Ready to squirt out life at every grone.
Yet, when thou couldst not thy deare Doll obtaine,
Didst with reproach her Maiden same distaine:
This was not faire; but doe no more amisse,
And Cupid with both eyes will winke at this.