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A secret love or two, I must confess,
I kindly welcome for change in close playing.
But my dear husband I love ne’ertheless;
His desires whole or half quickly allaying,
At all times ready to offer redress.
His own he never wants but hath it duly,
Yet twits me I keep not touch with him truly.
The more a spring is drawn, the more it flows.
No lampless light retains by lighting others.
Is he a loser his loss that ne’er knows?
Or is he wealthy that waste treasure smothers?
My churl vows no man shall sent his sweet rose.
His own enough and more I give him duly,
Yet still he twits me I keep not touch truly.
Wise archers bear more than one shaft to field.
The venturer loads not with one ware his shipping.
Should warriors learn but one weapon to wield?
Or thrive fair plants e’er the worse for the slipping?
One dish cloys many fresh appetite yield.
Mine own I’ll use, and his he shall have duly.
Judge then, what debt or can keep touch more truly?