If euer tongue with heauen inticing cries,
If euer words blowne from a rented hart,
If euer teares shed from a Louers eyes,
If euer sighes issue of griefe and smart,
If euer trembling pen with more then skill,
If euer paper, witnes of true loue,
If euer inke, cheefe harbenger of will,
If euer sentence made with art to moue,
If all of these combinde by
Cupids
power,
My long-borne liking to anatomise:
Had but the art, with art for to discouer
What loue in me doth by his art comprise.
Then might the heauens, the earth, water and ayre,
Be witnes that I thinke thee onely fayre.