I'll clip[299] and kiss thee with all contentation;
For thy return shall fall the vowed oblation;
And in the form of beds we'll strew soft sand;
Each little hill shall for a table stand:
There, wine being filled, thou many things shalt tell,
How, almost wrecked, thy ship in main seas fell.50
And hasting to me, neither darksome night,
Nor violent south-winds did thee aught affright,
I'll think all true, though it be feignèd matter!
Mine own desires why should myself not flatter?