What superstition thought divine.
Quicke fancy how it mockes delight?
As we conceive, things are not such,
The glow-worme is as warme as bright,
Till the deceitfull flame we touch.
When I have sold my heart to lust,
And bought repentance with a kisse
I find the malice of my dust,
That told me hell contain'd a blisse.
The Rose yeelds her sweete blandishment