Nymph. Thy ink, my paper, make me guess
20Our nuptial bed will prove a press,
And in our sports, if any came,
They'll read a wanton epigram.
Boy. Why should my black thy love impair?
Let the dark shop commend the ware;
Or, if thy love from black forbears,
I'll strive to wash it off with tears.
Nymph. Spare fruitless tears, since thou must needs
Still wear about thee mourning weeds.