Stop you my mouth with still still kissing me.
Nymph of the garden where all beauties be,
Beauties which do in excellencie passe,
His who till death lockt in a watry glasse,
Or hirs whom nak’d the Trojan boy did see.
Sweete garden Nymph that keepes the Cherrie tree,
Whose fruit doth far the Hesperian tast surpasse,
Most sweete faire, most faire sweete, do not alasse
From comming neere these Cherries banish mee,
For though full of desire, emptie of wit,