When I swear, yet, sweet, believe me,
are almost equal in beauty to that exquisite song of Fletcher’s, commencing
Take, oh, take those lips away.
Or that complimentary song of Sir John Suckling’s, beginning
Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy bears comparison,
Who sees it, is undone
For streaks of red were mingled there
Such as are on a Catharine pear,
The side that’s next the sun.