Xxvii

And you fresh budd of vertue springing fast, Whom these sad eyes saw nigh unto deaths dore, What hath poore Virgin for such perill past Wherewith you to reward? Accept therefore My simple selfe, and service evermore; And he that high does sit, and all things see With equall eyes, their merites to restore, Behold what ye this day have done for mee, And what I cannot quite, requite with usuree.