To the Blest Evanthe

Let those complain that feel Love's cruelty,
And in sad legends write their woes;
With roses gently has corrected me,
My war is without rage or blows:
My mistress' eyes shine fair on my desires,
And hope springs up inflamed with her new fires.

No more an exile will I dwell,
With folded arms, and sighs all day,
Reckoning the torments of my hell,
And flinging my sweet joys away:
I am called home again to quiet peace;
My mistress smiles, and all my sorrows cease.

Yet, what is living in her eye,
Or being blessed with her sweet tongue,
If these no other joys imply?

A golden gyve, a pleasing wrong:
To be your own but one poor month, I'd give
My youth, my fortune, and then leave to live.