FUll of rebellion, I would die,
Or fight, or travell, or denie
That thou hast ought to do with me.
                                                 O tame my heart;
                                   It is thy highest art
To captivate strong holds to thee.

If thou shalt let this venome lurk,
And in suggestions fume and work,
My soul will turn to bubbles straight,
                                                 And thence by kinde
                                   Vanish into a winde,
Making thy workmanship deceit.

O smooth my rugged heart, and there
Engrave thy rev’rend Law and fear;
Or make a new one, since the old 
                                                 Is saplesse grown,
                                   And a much fitter stone
To hide my dust, then thee to hold.