Dear, why make you more of a dog than me?
If he do love, I burn, I burn in love;
If he wait well, I never thence would move;
If he be fair, yet but a dog can be.
Little he is, so little worth is he;
He barks, my songs thy own voice oft doth prove;
Bidden, perhaps he fetcheth thee a glove;
But I unbid fetch even my soul to thee.
Yet while I languish, him that bosom clips,
That lap doth lap, nay lets, in spite of spite,
This sour-breathed mate taste of those sugared lips.
Alas, if you grant only such delight
To witless things, then love, I hope (since wit
Becomes a clog) will soon ease me of it.
Sir Philip Sidney: The Major Works
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