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Poem	Julia, I bring To thee this Ring. Made for thy finger fit; To shew by this, That our love is (Or sho'd be) like to it. Close though it be, The joynt is free: So when Love's yoke is on, It must not gall, Or fret at all With hard oppression. But it must play Still either way; And be, too, such a yoke, As not too wide, To over-slide; Or be so strait to choak. So we, who beare, The beame, must reare Our selves to such a height: As that the stay Of either may Create the burden light. And as this round Is no where found To flaw, or else to sever: So let our love As endless prove; And pure as Gold for ever.
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