Wat’red Was My Wine
LATE tired with woe, even ready for to pine,With rage of love, I called my love unkind;She in whose eyes love, though unfelt, doth shine,Sweet said that I true love in her should find.I joyed; but straight thus wat’red was my wine,That love she did, but loved a love not blind;Which would not let me, whom she loved, declineFrom nobler course, fit for my birth and mind:And therefore, by her love’s authority,Wiled me these tempests of vain love to fly,And anchor fast myself on virtue’s shore.Alas, if this the only metal beOf love new-coined to help my beggary,Dear, love me not, that you may love me more.
THOMAS LODGE 1556–1625