Ong haue I long'd to see my Loue againe,
Still haue I wisht, but neuer could obtaine it;
Rather than all the world (if I might gaine it)
Would I desire my loues sweet precious gaine.
Yet in my soule I see him euerie day,
See him, and see his still sterne countenaunce,
But (ah) what is of long continuance,
Where Maiestie and Beautie beares the sway?
Sometimes, when I imagine that I see him,
(As loue is full of foolish fantasies)
VVeening to kisse his lips, as my loues fee's,
I feele but Aire: nothing but Aire to bee him.
Thus with Ixion, kisse I clouds in vaine:
Thus with Ixion, feele I endles paine.
Herry-lipt Adonis in his snowie shape,
Might not compare with his pure Iuorie white,
On whose faire front a Poets pen may write,
Whose rosiate red excels the crimson grape,
His loue-enticing delicate soft limbs,
Are rarely fram'd t'intrap poore gazing eies:
His cheekes, the Lillie and Carnation dies,
With louely tincture which Apolloes dims.
His lips ripe strawberries in Nectar wet,
His mouth a Hiue, his tongue a hony-combe,
Where Muses (like Bees) make their mansion.
His teeth pure Pearle in blushing Correll set.
Oh hdw can such a body sinne-procuring,
Be slow to loue, and quicke to hate, enduring?