Tell me no more her eyes are like 
Two rising suns that wonder strike,
For it 'twere so, how could it be, 
They should be thus eclipsed by me?

Tell me no more her breasts do grow,
Like rising hills of melting snow,
For if 'twere so, how could they lie
So near the sunshine of her eye?

Tell me no more the restless spheres,
Compared to her voice, frights our ears,
For if 'twere so, how then could death
Dwell with such discord in her breath?

No, say her eyes portenders are
Of ruin, or some blazing star,
Else I should feel from that fair fire
Some heat to cherish my desire.

Say that her breasts, though cold as snow,
Are hard as marble when I woo,
Else they would soften and relent
With sighs enflamed from me sent.

Say that although like to the moon,
She's heavenly fair, yet changed as soon,
Else she would constant once remain
Either to pity or disdain.

That so by one of them I might
Be kept alive or murdered quite,
For 'tis less cruel thus to kill
Where life does but increase the ill.