Though I thy Mithridates were, 
Framed to defy the poison-dart, 
Yet must thou fold me unaware 
To know the rapture of thy heart, 
And I but render and confess 
The malice of thy tenderness. 

For elegant and antique phrase, 
Dearest, my lips wax all too wise; 
Nor have I known a love whose praise 
Our piping poets solemnize, 
Neither a love where may not be 
Ever so little falsity.