To Sir Philip, Qualified Thanks

Dear, why make you more of a blade than me?
If it do splash, I plunge, I plunge unsung;
It it hang well, better still am I hung;
If it be long, yet but a blade can be.
Heavy it is, yet lighter worth than me;
It swings, my dance thy own step oft does prove;
Displayed, perhaps it bolsters you above,
But undisplayed is my soul fetched to thee.
Yet while I languish, it that post-room tips,
That lap doth lap, nay wins, in spite of spite,
This cumbered mate grinds on thy sugared hips,
Alas, if you grant only such delight
To witless bars, then love, I hope, since wit
Becomes a log, will soon ease me of it.