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When I consider, dearest, thou dost stay But here a-while, to languish and decay, Like to these garden-glories, which here be The flowery-sweet resemblances of thee; With grief of heart, methinks, I thus do cry: Would thou hadst ne'er been born, or might'st not die.

Rare are thy cheeks, Susanna, which do show Ripe cherries smiling, while that others blow.

Clear are her eyes, Like purest skies, Discovering from thence A baby there That turns each sphere, Like an Intelligence.

A baby, see Note to 38, "To his mistress objecting to him neither toying nor talking".

Her pretty feet Like snails did creep A little out, and then, As if they played at Bo-Peep, Did soon draw in again.