Have you plac’d the bank of kisses,
Where you say, men gather blisses,
Rip’ned with a breath more sweet,
Than when flowers and west-winds meet.
Nay, her white and polish’d neck,
With the lace that doth it deck,
Is my mother’s! hearts of slain
Lovers, made into a chain!
And between each rising breast
Lies the valley, call’d my nest,