Astrophel and Stella — 59
Deere, why make you more of a dogge than me? If he doe love, alas I burne in love; If he waite well, I never thence would move; If he be faire, yet but a dogge can be; Little he is, so little worth is he: He barkes, my songs thyne owne voyce oft doth prove; Bidden, (perhaps) he fetcheth thee a glove? But I unbid, fetch even my soule to thee Yet while I languish, him that bosome clips, That lap doth lap, nay lets in spight of spight This sour-breath’d mate tast of those sugred lips; Alas, if you graunt onely such delight To witles things, then Love I hope, (since wit Becomes a clogge) will soone ease me of it.