Myra

I, with whose colours Myra dress'd her head,

I, that ware posies of her own hand-making,

I, that mine own name in the chimneys read

By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking:

I, that on Sunday at the church-stile found

A garland sweet with true-love-knots in flowers,

Which I to wear about mine arms was bound

That each of us might know that all was ours:

I, that did wear the ring her mother left,

I, for whose love she gloried to be blaméd,

I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft,

I, who did make her blush when I was naméd:

Was it for this that I might Myra see

Washing the water with her beauty's white?

Yet would she never write her love to me.

Thinks wit of change when thoughts are in delight?