My love and I for kisses play'd

This keepes my hands From Cupid’s bands.

Whene’er the wast makes too much hast, That hast againe makes too much wast.

I saw faire Cloris walke alone Where feather’d rayne came softly downe, And Jove descended from his tower To court her in a silver shower; The wanton snowe flewe to her breast Like little birds into their nest,

Tread soft, for if you wake this Knight alone, You raise an Hoast: Religions Champion, His Cuntreys Staffe, Rights bold Distributer, His Neighbours Guard, the Poor mans Almoner, Who dyes with Works about him, as did He, Shall rise attended …

Here silken twynes, there locks you see— Now tell me which the softer bee?

Song like a rose should be; Each rhyme a petal sweet; For fragrance, melody, That when her lips repeat The words, her heart may know What secret makes them so:—