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P
Aire is my love, but not so faire as fickle.
Milde as a Douc, but neither true nor muffle,
Frightier then glaffé, and yet as glaffé is brittle,
Soiter then waxé, and yet as Iron ruffy:
A lily pale, with damaske die to grace her,
None fairer, nor none falter to declare her.
Her lips to mine how often hath the loyned,
Fenwume each luffe her other of true lous swearing:
How many tales to please me hath the coyned,
Dreading my lous, the luffe wheteof still fearing.
Yet in the mids of all her pure protellings,
Her faith, her other, her tears, and all were iexflings.
She burnt with lous, as straw with fire flameth,
She burnt out lous, as Boone as straw out burneth:
She fram'd the lous, and yet she foyld the framing,
She bad lous laft, and yet the tell a turning.
Was this a lous, or a Letcher whether
Bad in the belt, though excellent in neither.
B
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