Man.
Set Phoebus, set, a fayrer sunne doth rise,
From the bright Radience of my Mrs. eyes
Then euer thou begat’st. I dare not looke,
Each haire a golden line, each word a hooke,
The more I striue, the more I still am tooke. [5]
Wom.
Fayre seruant, come, the day these eyes doe lend
To warme thy blood, thou doest so vainely spend.
Come strangled breath.