by THOMAS CAREW (1595 – c. 1640)
Feare not, dear Love, that I’le reveale
Those houres of pleasure we two steale;
No eye shall see, nor yet the sun
Descry, what thou and I have done;
No eare shall heare our love, but wee
Silent as the night will bee.
The God of Love himselfe, whose dart
Did first wound mine, and then thy heart,
Shall never know that we can tell
What sweets in stolne embraces dwell.
This only meanes may find it out,
If, when I dye, physicians doubt
What caus’d my death, and there to view
Of all their judgements which was true,
Rip up my heart, Oh! then, I feare,
The world will see thy picture there.