That Cupid wantons in her eye,
Or perfumes vapour from her breath,
And 'mongst the dead thou once must lie.[6]
Nor is't thy birth. For I was ne're
So vaine as in that to delight:
Which ballance it, no weight doth beare,
Nor yet is object to the sight,
But onely fils the vulgar eare.
Nor yet thy fortunes: Since I know
They in their motion like the Sea: