Quoth she, The matter’s not so far gone
As you suppose:  Two words t’ a bargain: 
That may be done, and time enough,
When you have given downright proof;
And yet ’tis no fantastic pique 545
I have to love, nor coy dislike: 
’Tis no implicit, nice aversion
T’ your conversation, mein, or person,
But a just fear, lest you should prove
False and perfidious in love:, 550
For if I thought you could be true,
I could love twice as much as you.

Quoth he, My faith as adamanatine,
As chains of destiny, I’ll maintain: 
True as Apollo ever spoke, 555
Or Oracle from heart of oak;
And if you’ll give my flame but vent,
Now in close hugger-mugger pent,
And shine upon me but benignly,
With that one, and that other pigsney, 560
The sun and day shall sooner part,
Than love or you shake off my heart;
The sun, that shall no more dispense
His own but your bright influence. 
I’ll carve your name on barks of trees, 565
With true-loves-knots and flourishes,
That shall infuse eternal spring,
And everlasting flourishing: 
Drink ev’ry letter on’t in stum,
And make it brisk champaign become; 570
Where-e’er you tread, your foot shall set
The primrose and the violet: 
All spices, perfumes, and sweet powders,
Shall borrow from your breath their odours: 
Nature her charter shall renew, 575
And take all lives of things from you;
The world depend upon your eye,
And when you frown upon it, die: 
Only our loves shall still survive,
New worlds and natures to out-live:  580
And, like to heralds’ moons, remain
All crescents, without change or wane.

Hold, hold, quoth she; no more of this,
Sir Knight; you take your aim amiss: 
For you will find it a hard chapter 585
To catch me with poetic rapture,
In which your mastery of art
Doth shew itself, and not your heart: 
Nor will you raise in mine combustion
By dint of high heroic fustian. 590
She that with poetry is won,
Is but a desk to write upon;
And what men say of her, they mean
No more than on the thing they lean. 
Some with Arabian spices strive 595
T’ embalm her cruelly alive;
Or season her, as French cooks use
Their haut-gousts, bouillies, or ragousts: 
Use her so barbarously ill,
To grind her lips upon a mill, 600
Until the facet doublet doth
Fit their rhimes rather than her mouth: 
Her mouth compar’d to an oyster’s, with
A row of pearl in’t —­ stead of teeth. 
Others make posies of her cheeks, 605