SONG. The willing Prisoner to his Mistris.

LEt fooles great Cupids yoake disdaine,
Loving their owne wild freedome better;
Whilst proud of my triumphant chaine
I sit, and court my beauteous fetter.

Her murdring glances, snaring haires,
And her bewitching smiles, so please me,
As he brings ruine, that repaires
The sweet afflictions that disease me.

Hide not those panting balls of snow,
With envious vayles, from my beholding;
Vnlock those lips, their pearly row,
In a sweet smile of love unfolding.

And let those eyes, whose motion wheeles
The restlesse Fate of every lover,
Survey the paines, my sicke heart feeles,
And wounds themselves, have made discover.