Marble mixt red and white, doe enterlace.
The Windowes now, through which this heavenly guest
Lookes ore the world, and can finde nothing such,
Which dare claime from those lights the name of best,
Of touch they are, that without touch doe touch,
Which Cupids selfe, from beauties mine did drawe:
Of touch they are, and poore I am their strawe.
Reason, in faith thou art well serv’d, that still
Would’st brabling be, with sence and love in me:
I rather with thee climbe the Muses hill,