SONNET. VIII.

Sometimes I wish that I his pillow were,
     So might I steale a kisse, and yet not seene,
     So might I gaze vpon his sleeping eine,
Although I did it with a panting feare:
But when I well consider how vaine my wish is,
     Ah foolish Bees (thinke I) that doe not lucke,
     His lips for hony; but poore flowers doe plucke
Which haue no sweet in them: when his sole kisses,
Are able to reuiue a dying soule.
     Kisse him, but sting him not, for if you doe,
     His angry voice your flying will pursue:
But when they heare his tongue, what can controule,
     Their back�returne? for then they plaine may see,
     How hony-combs from his lips dropping bee.