And yet, because 'tis more renown To make a shadow shine, she's brown; A brown for which Heaven would disband The galaxy, and stars be tanned; Brown by reflection as her eye Deals out the summer's livery. Old dormant windows must confess 20 Her beams; their glimmering spectacles, Struck with the splendour of her face, Do th' office of a burning-glass. Now where such radiant lights have shown, No wonder if her cheeks be grown Sunburned, with lustre of her own. My sight took pay, but (thank my charms!) I now impale her in mine arms; (Love's compasses confining you, Good angels, to a circle too.) 30 Is not the universe strait-laced When I can clasp it in the waist? My amorous folds about thee hurled, With Drake I girdle in the world; I hoop the firmament, and make This, my embrace, the zodiac. How would thy centre take my sense When admiration doth commence At the extreme circumference? Now to the melting kiss that sips 40 The jellied philtre of her lips; So sweet there is no tongue can praise 't Till transubstantiate with a taste. Inspired like Mahomet from above By th' billing of my heavenly dove, Love prints his signets in her smacks, Those ruddy drops of squeezing wax, Which, wheresoever she imparts, They're privy seals to take up hearts. Our mouths encountering at the sport, 50 My slippery soul had quit the fort, But that she stopped the sally-port. Next to these sweets, her lips dispense (As twin conserves of eloquence) The sweet perfume her breath affords, Incorporating with her words. No rosary this vot'ress needs-- Her very syllables are beads; No sooner 'twixt those rubies born, But jewels are in ear-rings worn. 60 With what delight her speech doth enter; It is a kiss o' th' second venter. And I dissolve at what I hear, As if another Rosamond were Couched in the labyrinth of my ear. Yet that 's but a preludious bliss, Two souls pickeering in a kiss. Embraces do but draw the line, 'Tis storming that must take her in. When bodies join and victory hovers 70 'Twixt the equal fluttering lovers, This is the game; make stakes, my dear! Hark, how the sprightly chanticleer (That Baron Tell-clock of the night) Sounds boutesel to Cupid's knight. Then have at all, the pass is got, For coming off, oh, name it not! Who would not die upon the spot?