WIT. No, my tune-full Miſtreſſe? Then, ſurely, _Loue_ hath none: nor _Beauty_ any; Nor _Nature_ violenced, in both theſe: With all whoſe gentle tongues you ſpeake, at once. 60 I thought I had inough remou’d, already, That ſcruple from your breſt, and left yo’ all reaſon; When, through my mornings perſpectiue I ſhewd you A man ſo aboue excuſe, as he is the cauſe, Why any thing is to be done vpon him: 65 And nothing call’d an iniury, miſ-plac’d. I’rather, now had hope, to ſhew you how _Loue_ By his acceſſes, growes more naturall: And, what was done, this morning, with ſuch force Was but deuis’d to ſerue the preſent, then. 70 That ſince _Loue_ hath the honour to approach _He grows more familiar in his Court-ſhip._ Theſe ſiſter-ſwelling breſts; and touch this ſoft, And roſie hand; hee hath the skill to draw Their _Nectar_ forth, with kiſſing; and could make More wanton ſalts, from this braue promontory, 75 Downe to this valley, then the nimble _Roe_; _playes with her paps, kiſſeth her hands, &c._ Could play the hopping _Sparrow_, ’bout theſe nets; And ſporting _Squirell_ in theſe criſped groues; Bury himſelfe in euery _Silke-wormes_ kell, Is here vnrauell’d; runne into the ſnare, 80 Which euery hayre is, caſt into a curle, To catch a _Cupid_ flying: Bath himselfe In milke, and roſes, here, and dry him, there; Warme his cold hands, to play with this ſmooth, round, [124] And well torn’d chin, as with the _Billyard_ ball; 85 Rowle on theſe lips, the banks of loue, and there At once both plant, and gather kiſſes. _Lady_, Shall I, with what I haue made to day here, call All ſenſe to wonder, and all faith to ſigne The myſteries reuealed in your forme? 90 And will _Loue_ pardon mee the blasphemy I vtter’d, when I ſaid, a glaſſe could ſpeake This beauty, or that fooles had power to iudge it? _Doe but looke, on her eyes! They doe light-- All that_ Loue’s _world comprizeth! 95 Doe but looke on her hayre! it is bright, As_ Loue’s _ſtarre, when it riſeth! Doe but marke, her fore-head’s ſmoother, Then words that ſooth her! And from her arched browes, ſuch a grace 100 Sheds it ſelfe through the face; As alone, there triumphs to the life, All the gaine, all the good, of the elements ſtrife!_