My Mistres (writing) as her hand did shake
The Pen did dash, which on her gowne did spurt:
One drop more higher than the rest did take,
And to presume to touch her Brest it durst.
Upon her daintie bosome it did light,
Wherewith she blusht, in show like damaske Rose:
Presumptuous Blacke, how dar'dst thou tuch that White,
Wherein a world of gladsome pleasure growes?
Yet (spite of envie) hapt it for the best,
To the white more grace, more bewtie twas to th'brest.