CLI

    Love is too young to know what conscience is, Yet who knows not conscience is born of love？ Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss, Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove： For, thou betraying me, I do betray My nobler part to my gross body's treason； My soul doth tell my body that he may Triumph in love； flesh stays no farther reason, But rising at thy name doth point out thee, As his triumphant¹ prize. Proud of this pride, He is contented² thy poor drudge³ to be, To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. No want of conscience hold it that I call Her 'love,' for whose dear love I rise and fall.