A Dissembling Mistris
Was it A forme, A Gate, a grace,
Was it their sweetnes meerly;
Was it the Heav'n of a bright face,
That made me Love so deerly;
Was it A skin of Silke or Snow,
That soule And sences wounded;
Was' t any of these or all of these,
Wher on my fayth was founded;
Ah no! 'twas a far deerer part
Then all the rest that won me,
'Twas A faire Cloathd, but faining hart
I Lov'de and has undone me.
Was it their sweetnes meerly;
Was it the Heav'n of a bright face,
That made me Love so deerly;
Was it A skin of Silke or Snow,
That soule And sences wounded;
Was' t any of these or all of these,
Wher on my fayth was founded;
Ah no! 'twas a far deerer part
Then all the rest that won me,
'Twas A faire Cloathd, but faining hart
I Lov'de and has undone me.
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