A Necklace by William Strode
These veines are nature's nett,
These cords by art are sett.
If love himselfe flye here,
Love is intangled here.
Loe! on my neck this twist I bind,
For to hang him that steales my mynde:
Unless hee hang alive in chaynes
I hang and dye in lingring paynes.
Theis threads enjoy a double grace,
Both by the gemme and by the place