Unica scorned me, when her I would have sweetly kist
And railing at me said, "Go with a mischief, where thou list!
Thinkest thou, a wretched Neatherd, me to kiss! I have no will
After the country guise to smouch! Of city lips I skill!
My lovely mouth, so much as in thy dream, thou shalt not touch!
How dost thou look! How dost thou talk! How play'st thou the slouch!
How daintily thou speak'st! What Courting words thou bringest out!
How soft a beard thou hast! How fair thy locks hang round about!
Thy lips are like a sick man's lips! thy hands, so black they be!