Come, Madame, come, all rest my powers defie, Until I labour, I in labour lye. The foe oft-times, having the foe in sight, Is tir'd with standing, though he never fight. Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glittering, But a farre fairer world encompassing. Unpin that spangled brest-plate, which you weare That th'eyes of busy fooles may be stopt there. Unlace your selfe, for that harmonious chyme Tells me from you that now 'tis bed time. Off with that happy buske, which I envye That still can... read more
