¶Yea though I die the
scandale will
suruiue,
205And be an eie-
sore in my golden coate:
¶Some loth
some da
sh the Herrald will contriue,
¶To cipher me how fondlie I did dote:
¶That my po
steritie
sham'd with the note
¶_Shall cur
se my bones, and hold it for no
sinne,
210_To wi
sh that I their father had not beene.
¶VVhat win I if I gaine the thing I
seeke?
¶A dreame, a breath, a froth of fleeting ioy,
¶VVho buies a minutes mirth to waile a weeke?
¶Or
sels eternitie to get a toy?
215For one
sweete grape who will the vine de
stroy?
¶_Or what fond begger, but to touch the crowne,
¶_VVould with the
scepter
straight be
strokē down?
¶If
COLATINVS dreame of my intent,
¶VVill he not wake, and in a de
sp'rate rage
220Po
st hither, this vile purpo
se to preuent?
¶This
siege that hath ingirt his marriage,
¶This blur to youth, this
sorrow to the
sage,
¶_This dying vertue, this
suruiuing
shame,
¶_VVho
se crime will beare an euer-during blame.