This keepes my hands

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

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?

My love and I for kisses play'd, Shee would keepe stake, I was content, But when I wonne shee would be paid; This made mee aske her what she meant. Pray, since I see (quoth she) your wrangling vayne, Take your owne kisses, give me myne …

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,

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way, And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes Upon the fast receding hills that dim and distant rise.