Come, you pretty false-ey'd wanton,
    Leaue your crafty smiling :
Thinke you to escape me now
    With slipp'ry words beguiling ?
No ;  you mockt me th'other day ;
    When you got loose, you fled away ;
But, since I haue caught you now,
    Ile clip your wings for flying :
Smothring kisses fast Ile heape,
    And keepe you so from crying.

Sooner may you count the starres,
    And number hayle down pouring,
Tell the Osiers of the Temmes,
    Or Goodwins Sands deuouring,
Then the thicke-showr'd kisses here
    Which now thy tyred lips must beare.
Such a haruest neuer was,
    So rich and full of pleasure,
But 'tis spent as soone as reapt,
    So trustlesse is loues treasure.

Would it were dumb midnight now,
    When all the world lyes sleeping :
Would this place some Desert were,
    Which no man hath in keeping.
My desires should then be safe,
    And when you cry'd then would I laugh :
But if ought might breed offence,
    Loue onely should be blamed :
I would liue your seruant still,
    And you my Saint vnnamed.