I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more.
To Lucasta, Going to the Wars Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As thou too shalt adore; I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more.
I could not love thee, dear, so much Loved I not honour more.
