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Ong haue I long'd to see my Loue againe,

Still haue I wisht, but neuer could obtaine it;

Rather than all the world (if I might gaine it)

Would I desire my loues sweet precious gaine.

Yet in my soule I see him euerie day,

See him, and see his still sterne countenaunce,

But (ah) what is of long continuance,

Where Maiestie and Beautie beares the sway?

Sometimes, when I imagine that I see him,

(As loue is full of foolish fantasies)

VVeening to kisse his lips, as my loues fee's,

I feele but Aire: nothing but Aire to bee him.

Thus with Ixion, kisse I clouds in vaine:

Thus with Ixion, feele I endles paine.

Herry-lipt Adonis in his snowie shape,

Might not compare with his pure Iuorie white,

On whose faire front a Poets pen may write,

Whose rosiate red excels the crimson grape,

His loue-enticing delicate soft limbs,

Are rarely fram'd t'intrap poore gazing eies:

His cheekes, the Lillie and Carnation dies,

With louely tincture which Apolloes dims.

His lips ripe strawberries in Nectar wet,

His mouth a Hiue, his tongue a hony-combe,

Where Muses (like Bees) make their mansion.

His teeth pure Pearle in blushing Correll set.

Oh hdw can such a body sinne-procuring,

Be slow to loue, and quicke to hate, enduring?