Cherry-lipt Adonis in his snowie shape, Might not compare with his pure Ivorie white, On whose faire front a Poets pen may write, Whose rosiate red excels the crimson grape, His love-enticing delicate soft limbs, Are rarely fram'd t'intrap poore gazing eies: His cheekes, the Lillie and Carnation dies, With lovely tincture which Apolloes dims. His lips ripe strawberries in Nectar wet, His mouth a Hive, his tongue a hony-combe, Where Muses (like Bees) make their mansion. His teeth pure Pearle in blushing Correll set. Oh how can such a body sinne-procuring, Be slow to love, and quicke to hate, enduring? |