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.

Her virgin train the tender scissars ply, Vein the green leaf, the purple petal dye: Round wiry stems the flaxen tendril bends, 160 Moss creeps below, and waxen fruit impends.

THE PETRIFIED FERN In a valley, centuries ago, Grew a little fern-leaf green and slender, Veining delicate and fibers tender, Waving when the wind crept down so low; Rushes tall and moss and grass grew round it, Playful sunbeams darted in and found it, Drops of dew stole down by night and crowned it.