Or that my ceaseless thoughts may sleep and rest;
Send me some honey to make sweet my hive,
That in my passions I may hope the best.
I beg no ribbon wrought with thine own hands
To knit our loves in the fantastic strain
Of new-touched youth; nor ring to show the stands
Of our affection:—that as that's round and plain,
So should our loves meet in simplicity,—
No, nor the corals which thy wrist infold
Laced up together in congruity