XXVIIThough I thy Mithridates were,Framed to defy the poison-dart,Yet must thou fold me unawareTo know the rapture of thy heart,And I but render and confessThe malice of thy tenderness.For elegant and antique phrase,Dearest, my lips wax all too wise;Nor have I known a love whose praiseOur piping poets solemnize,Neither a love where may not beEver so little falsity.
Though I thy Mithridates were,Framed to defy the poison-dart,Yet must thou fold me unawareTo know the rapture of thy heart,And I but render and confessThe malice of thy tenderness.For elegant and antique phrase,Dearest, my lips wax all too wise;Nor have I known a love whose praiseOur piping poets solemnize,Neither a love where may not beEver so little falsity.