I looked upon her with a soldier’s eye,
That liked, but had a rougher task in hand
than to drive liking to the name of love:
But now I am return’d, and that war-thoughts
Have left their places vacant, in their rooms
Come thronging soft and delicate desires
Shall quips, and sentences, and these paper bullets of the brain awe a man from the career of his humor? No: the world must be peopled.
I will requite thee;
Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand
He hath a heart as sound as a bell.
Could she here deny
The story that is printed in her blood?
Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,
Charm ache with air and agony with words