Loue, if thou wilt once more
That I to thee returne,
Sweete God, make me not burne
For quiuering age that doth spent dayes deplore;
Nor doe not wound my hart
For some vnconstant boy,
Who ioyes to loue, yet makes of loue a toy:
But, ah! if I must prooue thy golden dart,
Of grace, O let mee finde
A sweet young louer with an aged mind.
Thus Lilla pray'd, and Idas did replie
Who heard, Deare, haue thy wish, for such am I.