Liv

Assure your selfe, it fell not all to ground;° For all so deare as life is to my hart, I deeme your love, and hold me to you bound: Ne let vaine feares procure your needlesse smart, Where cause is none, but to your rest depart. Not all content, yet seemd she to appease Her mournefull plaintes, beguiled of her art, And fed with words that could not chuse but please, So slyding softly forth, she turned as to her ease.