Sweete kisse, thy sweetes I faine would sweetely indite, Which even of sweetnes, sweetest sweeter art; Pleasing’st consort, where each sense holds a part, With coopling Doves guides _Venus_ chariot right, Best charge and brav’st retraite in _Cupids_ sight. A double key which openeth to the hart, Most ritch when most his ritches it imparte. Nest of yong joyes, Scholemaster of delight, Teaching the meanes at once to take and give, The friendly fray where blowes do wound and heale, The prettie death while each in other live, Poore hopes first wealth a stage of promised weale. Breakefast of love, but loe, loe where shee is Cease we to praise, now praie wee for a kisse. Sweet swelling lip well maiest thou swell in pride Since best wittes thinke it witt thee to admire, Natures praise, vertues stall, _Cupids_ colde fire, Whence words, not words but heavenly graces slide, The newe _Pernassus_ where the _Muses_ byde: Sweeteness of Musicke, Wisomes beautifier, Breather of life, and fastner of desire, Where Beauties blush in Honors graine is dyde. Thus much my hart compeld my mouth to say: But now, spite of my heart my tongue will stay, Loathing al lyes, doubting this flatterieis, And no spurre can this restie race renewe; Without how farre this praise is short of you, Sweete lipp you teach my mouth with one sweete kisse. O Kisse which doth those ruddie gemmes impart, Or Gemmes or fruits of new found Parradise, Breathing all blisse and sweetnes to the hart, Teaching dumbe lips a nobler exercise. O kisse which soules even soules together ties By links of Love, and onely natures Art, How faine would I paint thee to all mens eies, Or of thy gifts at least shade out some part? But shee forbids, with blushing words shee saies, Shee builds her fame on higher seated praise: But my heart burnes, I cannot silent be, Then since deare life, you faine would have me peace. And I (mad with delight) want wit to cease, Stop you my mouth with still still kissing me. Nymph of the garden where all beauties be, Beauties which do in excellencie passe, His who till death lockt in a watry glasse, Or hirs whom nak’d the Trojan boy did see. Sweete garden Nymph that keepes the Cherrie tree, Whose fruit doth far the Hesperian tast surpasse, Most sweete faire, most faire sweete, do not alasse From comming neere these Cherries banish mee, For though full of desire, emptie of wit, Admitted late by your best graced grace, I caught at one of them an hungry bit, Pardon that fault, once more graunt me the place, And so I sweare even by the same delite, I will but kisse, I never more will bite.