Let me think any rival's letter mine,
and at next nine
Keep midnight's promise; mistake by the way
The maid, and tell the lady of that delay;
Only let me love none, no, not the sport;
From country grass, to comfitures of Court,
Or city's quelque-choses, let report
My mind transport.
The bargain's good: if, when I'm old, I be
Inflamed by thee,
If thine own honor, or my shame, or pain,
Thou covet, most at that age thou shalt gain.
Do thy will then, then subject and degree
And fruit of love, Love, I submit to thee;
Spare me till then, I'll bear it, though she be
One that loves me.
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