Thou that deserv'st not this mere ink and paper,
Whose wantonness is far and wide divulged,
To my bosom and wit stand'st such a gaoler,
That in my blind eyes all thy sins be purged.
Thy love I seek not; great fool else were I.
But to keep in the private parts of Fortune,
Thy favours enjoy and never belie,
Contents me, whoe'er may thee importune.
Thus am I in rough terms with Reputation,
Chasing none but lascivious Lady Lust.
A guilty delight's all my compensation;
Still, indulge in foul sin I simply must.
´Tis sterling tender in my witless reckoning
Like those I give thee at thy very beckoning.