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The Song Book 37
I ask'd you leave, you bade me love,
Is't now a time to chide me? No, no, no, I'll love you still,
What fortune e'er betide me.
The sun, whose beams most glorious are,
Rejecteth no beholder; And your sweet beauty, past compare,
Made my poor eyes the bolder. When beauty moves, and wit delights,
And signs of kindness bind me, There, O there, where'er I go,
I'll leave my heart behind me.
[If I have wrong'd you, tell me wherein,
And I will soon amend it; In recompense of such a sin,
Here is my heart, I'll send it. If that will not your mercy move,
Then for my life I care not; Then, O then, torment me still,
And take my life, and spare not.]
From Ford's Musique of Sundry Kinds.