Yet, if they were not thrown at me,
I could not cast one thought at thee.
I'd rather marry a disease
Than court the thing I cannot please;
She that will cherish my desires,
Must feed my flames with equal fires.
What pleasure is there in a kiss,
To him that doubts the heart's not his?
I love thee, not 'cause thou art fair,
Smoother than down, softer than air,