text: Love leave to urge, thou knowst thou hast the hand;
      Tis cowardise, to strive wher none resist:
      Pray thee leave off, I yeeld unto thy band;
      Doe nott thus, still, in thine owne powre persist,
  
  Beehold I yeeld: lett forces bee dismist;
      I ame thy subject, conquerd, bound to stand,
      Never thy foe, butt did thy claime assist
      Seeking thy due of those who did withstand;
  
  Butt now, itt seemes, thou wouldst I should thee love;
      I doe confess, twas thy will made mee chuse;
      And thy faire showes made mee a lover prove
      When I my freedome did, for paine refuse.
  
  Yett this Sir God, your boyship I dispise;
  Your charmes I obay, butt love nott want of eyes.