For ’tis dhrames and not sleep comes into my head;
And ’tis all about you,
My sweet Molly Carew—
And indeed ’tis a sin and a shame;
You’re complater than Nature
In every feature,
The snow can’t compare
With your forehead so fair;
And I rather would see just one blink of your eye
Than the purtiest star that shines out of the sky—