Speake Eccho, tell; how may I call my loue?
Loue.
Loue.
But how his Lamps that are so christaline?
Eyne.
Oh happy starrs that make your heauens diuine:
And happy Iems that admiration moue.
How tearm'st his golden tresses wan'd with aire?
Haire.
Oh louely haire of your more-louely Maister,
Image of loue, faire shape of Alablaster,
Why do'st thou driue thy Louer to dispaire?
How do'st thou cal the bed wher beuty grows?
Rose.
Faire virgine-Rose, whose mayden blossoms couer
The milke-white Lilly, thy imbracing Louer:
Whose kisses makes thee oft thy red to lose.
And blushing oft for shame, when he hath kist thee,
He vades away, and thou raing'st where it list thee.