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Poem	No marvell if the Sunne's bright eye Shower downe hott flames; that qualitie Still waytes on light; but when wee see Those sparkling balles of ebony Distil such heat, the gazer straight Stands so amazed at the sight As when the lightning makes a breach Through pitchie clouds: can lightning reach The marrowe hurting not the skynne? Your eyes to me the same have byn; Can jett invite the loving strawe With secrett fire? so those can draw, And can, where ere they glance a dart, Make stubble of the strongest hart. Oft when I looke I may descry A little face peep through your eye; Sure 'tis the boy, who wisely chose His throne among such rayes as those, Which, if his quiver chance to fail, May serve for darts to kill withal: If to such powerful shafts I yeild, If with so many wounds I bleed, Think me noe coward, though I lye Thus prostrate with your charming eye: Did I say but your eye? I sweare Death's in your beauty everywhere. Your waxen hands when I recall, Your lily breasts, their melting vale, Your damaske cheeks, your lilly skynne, Your corral lipp and dainty chynne, Your shining locks and amber breath, All pleasing instruments of death, Your eye may spare itselfe: mine owne When all your parts are duly knowne From any part may fetch a dart To wound itselfe. Kill not my hart, By saying that I will dispise The parentage from which you rise: I know it well, and likewise knowe That I my myselfe my breath doe owe To Woolsey's roofe, and can it bee I should disdayne your pedigree? Or is your Sire a butcher found? The fitter you to make a wound; Wound mee againe and more and more, So you againe will mee restore, But if resemblance tell the father I think hee was an Angell rather.
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