George Turberville

"My Girle, thou gazest much vpon the golden Skies: Would I were Heauen, I would behold thée then with all mine eies."

"Discharge thy dole, Thou subtile soule, It standes in little stéede To cursse the kisse That causer is Thy chirrie lip doth bléede. Thy bloud ascends To make amends For domage thou hast donne: For by the same I felt a flame More scorching than the Sunne. Thou reftst my harte By secret Arte, My sprites were quite subdude: My Senses fled And I was ded, Thy lippes were scarce imbrude. The kisse was thine, The hurt was mine, My hart felt all the paine: Twas it that bled And lookte so red, I tell thée once againe. But if you long To wreake your wrong Vpon your friendly fo: Come kisse againe And put to paine The man that hurt you so."