I feele but Aire: nothing but Aire to bee him.
Thus with Ixion, kisse I clouds in vaine:
Thus with Ixion, feele I endles paine.
SONNET. XVII.
Herry-lipt Adonis in his snowie shape,
Might not compare with his pure Iuorie white,
On whose faire front a Poets pen may write,
Whose rosiate red excels the crimson grape,
His loue-enticing delicate soft limbs,