O sacred blush, impurpling cheekes' pure skies,
With crimson wings which spred thee like the morne;
O bashfull looke, sent from those shining eyes,
Which, though cast down on earth, couldst Heauen adorne;
O tongue, in which most lushious nectar lies,
That can at once both blesse and make forlorne;
Dear corrall lip, which beautie beautifies,
That trembling stood ere that her words were borne,
And you her words, words, no, but golden chaines,
Which did captiue mine eares, ensnare my soule,
Wise image of her minde, minde that containes
A power, all power of senses to controule;
Yee all from loue disswade so sweetly mee,
That I loue more, if more my loue could bee.