Why court'st thou death instead of me?
Why, mistress, must thou prove thy worth
By putting all thy foes to flee
Despite the virtues of thy birth?
For lady, spurn me as you must
I know and love thy bravery
That's never failed to keep thy trust
In th'face of the King's knavery
Yet may I hope, my mistress gay,
My plea your fair ear reaches:
You dress yourself in fine array
And put on skirts instead of breeches?
I dare not test, lest what I find
Is frailer yet, a bubbled glass
That shatters in a changing wind
Or withers, like the mower's grass
Yet, lady, your secret's secure
- As yet is mine: that I am yours.
If you wondered what Luce was writing during A Wilderness of Sin....