I pray thee spare me gentle boy,
Press me no more for that slight toy,
That foolish trifle of your heart;
I swear it will not do its part,
Though you do what suits you employing your power and art.
For through long custom it is known
The little secrets, and is grown
Sullen and wise, will have its will,
And like old hawks pursue that’s still
That makes least sport, flies only where it can kill.
Some youth have not made their story,
Will think perhaps the pain is the glory,
And mannerly sit out love's feast;
I shall be carving of the best,
Rudely call for the last course before the rest.
And oh when once that course is past,
How short a time the feast doth last?
Men die and scarce say elegance,
Or civilly once thank the Godly face
That did invite, but they cowardly seek another place…
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