I shall be very loath To say your eyes are twinckling Starres agen, Your lipps twin cherries and out blush the rubie, Your azure veines vye beauty with the Saphire Or that your swelling breasts are hills of Ivory, Pillowes for Jove to rest his amorous head, When my owne Conscience tells me that Bunhill Is worth a hundred on 'em, and but Higate Compar'd with 'em is Paradice.

And for her sake ile power my poore Soule forth In floods of inke; but did not his kinde hand Barre me with violent grace, I wood consume In the white flames of her impassionate love, Ere my harsh lipps shood vent the odorous blaze.