Speake Eccho, tell; how may I call my love? But how his Lamps that are so christaline? Oh happy starrs that make your heavens divine: And happy Iems that admiration move. How tearm'st his golden tresses wav'd with aire? Oh lovely haire of your more-lovely Maister, Image of love, faire shape of Alablaster, Why do'st thou drive thy Lover to dispaire? How do'st thou cal the bed wher beuty grows? Faire virgine-Rose, whose mayden blossoms cover The milke-white Lilly, thy imbracing Lover: Whose kisses makes thee oft thy red to love. And blushing oft for shame, when he hath kist thee, He vades away, and thou raing'st where it list thee. |