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The Heart
By Michael Drayton
If thus we needs must goe,
What shall our one Heart doe,
This One made of our Two?
Madame, two Hearts we brake,
And from them both did take
The best, one Heart to make.
Halfe this is of your Heart,
Mine in the other part,
Ioyn'd by our equall Art.
Were it cymented, or sowne,
By Shreds or Pieces knowne,
We each might find our owne.
But 'tis dissolu'd, and fix'd,
And with such cunning mix'd,
No diffrence that betwixt.
But how shall we agree,
By whom it kept shall be,
Whether by you, or me?
It cannot two Brests fill,
One must be heartlesse still,
Vntill the other will.
It came to me one day,
When I will'd it to say,
With whether it would stay?
It told me, in your Brest,
Where it might hope to rest:
For if it were my Ghest,
For certainety it knew,
That I would still anew
Be sending it to you.
Neuer, I thinke, had two
Such worke, so much to doo,
A Vnitie to woo.
Yours was so cold and chaste,
Whilst mine with zeale did waste,
Like Fire with Water plac'd.
How did my Heart intreat,
How pant, how did it beat,
Till it could giue yours heat!
Till to that temper brought,
Through our perfection wrought,
That blessing eythers Thought.
In such a Height it lyes,
From this base Worlds dull Eyes,
That Heauen it not enuyes.
All that this Earth can show,
Our Heart shall not once know,
For it too vile and low.
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