Poetry Archives

Depose your finger of that ring,
  And crowne mine with’t awhile;
Now I restor’t.  Pray, dos it bring
  Back with it more of soile?
Or shines it not as innocent,
As honest, as before ’twas lent?

So then inrich me with that treasure,
  ’Twill but increase your store,
And please me, fair one, with that pleasure
  Must please you still the more.
Not to save others is a curse
The blackest, when y’are ne’re the worse.