Thy lips on mine

If I must die, oh let me choose my death:

Suck out my soul with kisses, cruel maid,

In thy breast's crystal balls embalm my breath,

Dole it all out in sighs when I am laid.

Thy lips on mine like cupping-glasses clasp,

Let our tongues meet and strive as they would sting,

Crush out my wind with one straight girting grasp,

Stabs on my heart keep time whilst thou dost sing.

Thy eyes like searing irons burn out mine,

In thy fair tresses stifle me outright;

Like Circe change me to a loathsome swine,

So I may live forever in thy sight.

Into heaven's joys none can profoundly see

Except that first they meditate on thee.