O words, which fall like sommer-dew on me;
O breath, more sweet than is the growing beane;
O tongue, in which all honyed liquors be;
O voyce, that doth the thrush in shrilnesse staine, —
Doe you say still, this is her promise due,
That she is mine, as I to her am true.

Gay haire, more gay than straw when haruest lies;
Lips, red and plump as cherrie's ruddie side;
Eyes, faire and great, like faire great oxe's eyes;
O breast, in which two white sheepe swell in pride, —
Ioyne you with me, to seale this promise due,
That she be mine, as I to her am true.

But thou, white skin, as white as cruddes well prest,
So smooth as sleekestone, like it, smoothes each part;
And thou, deare flesh, as soft as wooll new drest,
And yet as hard as brawne made hard by art, —
First fower but say, next fower their saying seale,
But you must pay the gage of promist weale