The little tear.

To gild my speech with silvered tongue so bright,
I weave sweet words to shape a fair disguise.
Yet in the web of flattery and light,
Truth slumbers deep beneath my hollow guise.

I lie to like, and liking thus I feign,
For love and favor, fleeting as the tide.
Yet in such sport, my heart doth bear the stain,
Of whispers false that in the dark abide.

But what is truth if not a fickle game,
Where honesty doth oft bring bitter woe?
If lies bring love and keep away the blame,
Then shall I lie, and none shall ever know.

Yet conscience stirs and bids my soul to weep,
For love untrue is love I cannot keep.