 | Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies |  |
To his Mistress.
While as the locks of time, and smoother farThan sliding streames skin and tresses are.
Sweet as Arabian Odours, when in fire
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(VVhen as the courteous wind doth court our sence,
And nourish it with sweet intelligence)
Is thy pure breath; only this difference know,
That sent is forc't, but thine is natural so
Soft as the plumy moss that overspreads
The tender circle of young Turtle heads,
Are thy two breasts, which enviously do swell
To think that that should this, this that excell:
And yet asham'd such strife their pride hath bread,
Both blush and tip themselves with bashfull red.
Typs, locks, streams, odours, down, nor blushes are
So red, so sweet, so smooth, so faire.
| Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies | |