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But now, my lord, what you say to my suit?
Let two more summers wither in their pride Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.
Go thither, and with unattainted eye compare her face with some that i shall show
I'll go along, no such sight to be shown, but to rejoice in splendor of mine own
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray; grant thou, lets faith turn to despair
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake
Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take kisses her Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged
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