Whose kisses makes thee oft thy red to lose.
And blushing oft for shame, when he hath kist thee,
He vades away, and thou raing'st where it list thee.
SONNET. XIIII.
Ere, hold this gloue (this milk-white cheueril gloue)
Not quaintly ouer-wrought with curious knots,
Not deckt with golden spangs, nor siluer spots,
Yet wholsome for thy hand as thou shalt proue.