Of my clear mind, and motions of my breast.
But if it question’d be to what intent
With Venice-glasses I do you present,
I answer, that I could no gift perceive
So fit for me to give, you to receive:
For those rare Graces that in you excel,
And you that hold them, one may parallel
Unto a Venice-glass, which as ’tis clear,
And can admit no poyson to come near,
So virtue dwells in you, nor can endure