Wittes Pilgrimage, Sonnet 51

LOue, leaue thy Lodge (my Hart) and enter Hirs
Who plac'd thee there; that she may know what paine:
Thou hast in pleasures, and what rest in Stirs,
Which being done, returne to mine againe:
For, though, at once, thou glad, and grieue the same,
Thou griu'st It so, as still It would bee griu'd,
So Hirs might still bee melted with His flame:
And so made One till they bee life-depriu'd.
Or, if not so made one, that Odds should cease,
Yet Odds might light bee made, by mutuall Loue:
Then, in that Warre wee might enioy sweete peace:
So, wee should thinke Warre sweete, and so It proue:
But if she loue not too, ô Loue thou art
Hart to my griefe, and grife vnto my Hart.