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Ometimes I wish that I his pillow were,

So might I steale a kisse, and yet not seene,

So might I gaze vpon his sleeping eine,

Although I did it with a panting feare:

But when I well consider how vaine my wish is,

Ah foolish Bees (thinke I) that doe not sucke

His lips for hony; but poore flowers doe plucke

Which haue no sweet in them: when his sole kisses,

Are able to reuiue a dying soule.

Kisse him, but sting him not, for if you doe,

His angry voice your flying will pursue:

But when they heare his tongue, what can controule,

Their back-returne? for then they plaine may see,

How hony-combs from his lips dropping bee.

Iana (on a time) walking the wood,

To sport herselfe, of her faire traine forlorne,

Chaunc't for to pricke her foote against a thorne,

And from thence issu'd out a streame of blood.

No sooner shee was vanisht out of sight,

But loues faire Queen came there away by chance,

And hauing of this hap a glym'ring glance,

She put the blood into a christall bright,

When being now come vnto mount Rhodope,

With her faire hands she formes a shape of Snow,

And blends it with this blood; from whence doth grow

A louely creature, brighter than the Dey.

And being christned in faire Paphos shrine,

She call'd him Ganymede: as all diuine.