Deare cherish this, and with itt my soules will,
Nor for itt rann away doe itt abuse,
Alas itt left poore mee your brest to chuse
As the blest shrine wher itt would harbour still;

Then favor shew, and nott unkindly kill
The hart which fled to you, butt doe excuse
That which for better, did the wurse refuse,
And pleas'd I'le bee, though hartles my lyfe spill,

Butt if you will bee kind, and just indeed,
Send mee your hart which in mines place shall feed
On faithfull love to your devotion bound;

Ther shall itt see the sacrifises made
Of pure, and spottles love which shall nott vade
While soule, and body are together found.