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Poem	What mystery was this; that I should finde My blood in kissing you to stay behinde? 'Twas not for want of color that requirde My blood for paynt: No dye could be desirde On that fayre silke, where scarlett were a spott And where the juice of lillies but a blotte. 'Twas not the signe of murther that did taynt The harmlesse beauty of so pure a saynt: Yes, of a loving murther, which rough steele Could never worke; such as we joy to feele: Wherby the ravisht soule though dying lives, Since life and death the selfsame object gives. If at the presence of a murtherer The wound will bleede and tell the cause is ther, A touch will doe much more, and thus my heart, When secretly it felt the killing darte, Shew'd it in blood: which yet doth more complayne Because it cannot be so touched againe. This wounded heart, to shew its love most true, Sent forth a droppe and writ its minde on you. Never was paper halfe so white as this, Nor waxe so yeelding to the printed kisse, Nor seal'd so strong. Noe letter ere was writt That could the author's minde so truly hitt. For though myselfe to foreigne countries flie, My blood desires to keepe you company. Here could I spill it all: thus I can free Mine enemy from blood, though slayne I be: But slayne I cannot bee, nor meete with ill, Since but by you I have no blood to spill.
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