I Have Pursued Her, As Love Hath

Holy, Fair, And Wise Is She; The Heaven Such Grace Did Lend Her, That She Might Admired Be.

Then Will I Raise Aloft The Milk-white Rose. For Whose Sweet Smell The Air Shall Be Perfumed.

I Pray You, In Your Letters, When You Shall These Unlucky Deeds Relate, Speak Of Me As I Am; Nothing Extenuate, Nor Set Down Aught In Malice. Then Must You Speak Of One That Loved Not Wisely But Too Well; Of One Not Easily Jealous, But Being Wrought, Perplexed In The Extreme. . .

Say As You Think And Speak It From Your Souls.

Oh What Fools We Mortals Are.