To His Rivall

A poem by Michael Drayton

Her lou'd I most,
By thee that 's lost,
Though she were wonne with leasure;
She was my gaine,
But to my paine,
Thou spoyl'st me of my Treasure.

The Ship full fraught
With Gold, farre sought,
Though ne'r so wisely helmed,
May suffer wracke
In sayling backe,
By Tempest ouer-whelmed.

But shee, good Sir,
Did not preferre
You, for that I was ranging;
But for that shee
Found faith in mee,
And she lou'd to be changing.

Therefore boast not
Your happy Lot,
Be silent now you haue her;
The time I knew
She slighted you,
When I was in her fauour.

None stands so fast,
But may be cast
By Fortune, and disgraced:
Once did I weare
Her Garter there,
Where you her Gloue haue placed.

I had the Vow
That thou hast now,
And Glances to discouer
Her Loue to mee,
And she to thee
Reades but old Lessons ouer.

She hath no Smile
That can beguile,
But as my Thought I know it;
Yea, to a Hayre,
Both when and where,
And how she will bestow it.

What now is thine,
Was onely mine,
And first to me was giuen;
Thou laugh'st at mee,
I laugh at thee,
And thus we two are euen.

But Ile not mourne,
But stay my Turne,
The Wind may come about, Sir,
And once againe
May bring me in,
And help to beare you out, Sir.

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