Deare famish not what you your selfe gave food,
Destroy not what your glory is to save:
Kill not that soule to which you spirit gave,
In pitty, not disdaine, your triumph stood.
An easie thing it is to shed the bloud
Of one who at your will yeelds to the grave:
But more you may true worth by mercy crave,
When you preserve, not spoyle, but nourish good.
Your sight is all the food I doe desire,
Then sacrifice me not in hidden fire,
Or stop the breath which did your praises move.
Think but how easie 'tis a sight to give,
Nay even desert, since by it I doe live,
I but Camelion-like, would live, and love.