Ay, me, (quoth Venus) young, and so vnkinde,
VVhat bare excuses mak'st thou to be gon ?
Ile sigh celestiall breath, whose gentle winde,
Shall coole the heate of this descending sun:
  Ile make a shadow for thee of my heares,
  If they burn too,Ile quench them with my teares.

The sun that shines from heauen, shines but warme,
And lo I lye betweene that sunne ,and thee :
The heate I haue from thence doth litle harme,
Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me,
  And were I not immortall, life were done,
  Betweene this heauenly,and earthly sunne.

Art thou obdurate, flintie, hard as steele ?
Nay more then flint, for stone at raine relenteth :

Art thou a womans sonne and canst not feele
VVhat tis to loue, how want of loue tormenteth?
  O had thy mother borne so hard a minde,
  She had not brought forth thee, but died vnkind.

VVhat am I that thou shouldst contemne me this ?
Or what great danger, dwels vpon my sute ?
VVhat were thy lips the worse for one poore kis ?
Speake faire,but speake faire words,or else be mute:
  Giue me one kisse, Ile giue it thee againe,
  And one for intrest, if thou wilt haue twaine.