On Going to the Wars

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde, That from the nunnerie Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, To warre and armes I flee.

True, a new mistresse now I chase.— The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith imbrace A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such As you, too, shall adore; I could not love thee, deare, so much, Loved I not honour more.