SONNET. XIII.

Speake Eccho, tell; how may I call my loue? Loue.
     But how his Lamps that are so christaline? Eyne.
     Oh happy starts that make your heauens diuine:
And happy Iems that admiration moue.
How tearm'st his golde~ tresses wau'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 whe~ he hath kist thee,
     He vades away, & thou raing'st where it list thee.