Resembling much a duskie nett of wyres;
A loftie buttock, barrd with azure veines,
Whose comelie swelling, when my hand distreines, 116

Or wanton checketh with a harmlesse stype,
It makes the fruites of loue oftsoone be rype,
And pleasure pluckt too tymelie from the stemme
To dye ere it hath seene Jerusalem. 120

O Gods! that euer anie thing so sweete,
So suddenlie should fade awaie, and fleete!
Hir armes are spread, and I am all unarm'd,
Lyke one with Ouid's cursed hemlocke charm'd; 124

So are my Limms unwealdlie for the fight
That spend their strength in thought of hir delight.
What shall I doe to shewe my self a man?
It will not be for ought that beawtie can. 128

I kisse, I clap, I feele, I view at will,
Yett dead he lyes, not thinking good or ill.
"Unhappie me," quoth shee, "and wilt' not stand?
Com, lett me rubb and chafe it with my hand! 132

Perhaps the sillie worme is labour'd sore,
And wearied that it can doe noe more;
If it be so, as I am greate a-dread,
I wish tenne thousand times that I were dead. 136

How ere it is, no meanes shall want in me,