To His Young Mistress

Fair flower of fifteen springs, that still Art scarcely blossomed from the bud, Yet hast such store of evil will, A heart so full of hardihood, Seeking to hide in friendly wise The mischief of your mocking eyes. If you have pity, child, give o’er; Give back the heart you stole from me, Pirate, setting so little store On this your captive from Love’s sea, Holding his misery for gain, And making pleasure of his pain. Another, not so fair of face, But far more pitiful than you, Would take my heart, if of his grace, My heart would give her of Love’s due; And she shall have it, since I find That you are cruel and unkind. Nay, I would rather that it died, Within your white hands prisoning, Would rather that it still abide In your ungentle comforting. Than change its faith, and seek to her That is more kind, but not so fair.