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 be griu'd,
So Hirs might still be 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, we should thinke Warre sweete, and so It proue:
But if she loue not too, o Loue thou art
Hart to my griefe , and griefe vnto my Hart.