"I with whose colors Myra drest her head, I, that ware posies of her owne hand making, I, that mine owne name in the chimnies read By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking: Must I looke on? in hope time comming may With change bring back my turne againe to play.I, that on Sunday at the Church-stile found, A Garland sweet, with true-love knots in flowers, Which I to weare about mine arme was bound, That each of us might know that all was ours: Must I now lead an idle life in wishes? And follow Cupid for his loaves, and fishes?I, that did weare the ring her Mother left, I, for whose love she gloried to be blamèd, I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft, I, who did make her blush when I was namèd; Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft and go naked, Watching with sighs, till dead love be awakèd?I, that when drowsie Argus fell asleep, Like Jealousie o’rewatchèd with Desire, Was even warnèd modestie to keepe, While her breath speaking kindled Natures fire: Must I looke on a-cold, while others warme them? Doe Vulcans brothers in such fine nets arme them?Was it for this that I might Myra see Washing the water with her beauties, white, Yet would she never write her love to me; Thinks wit of change while thoughts are in delight? Mad Girles must safely love, as they may leave, No man can print a kisse, lines may deceive."