’T’is cowardise, to strive wher none resist:
Pray thee leave off, I yeeld unto thy band;
Doe nott thus, still, in thine owne powre persist,
Beehold I yeeld: lett forces bee dismist;
I ame thy subject, conquer’d, bound to stand,
Never thy foe, butt did thy claime assist
Seeking thy due of those who did withstand;
Butt now, itt seemes, thou would’st I should thee love;
I doe confess, t’was thy will made mee chuse;
And thy faire showes made mee a lover prove
When I my freedome did, for paine refuse.
Yett this Sir God, your boyship I dispise;
Your charmes I obay, butt love nott want of eyes.