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| Thy Gyant-wit'orethrows me, I am gone; |
| And, rather than read all, I would read none. |
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| Sonnet. The Token. |
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| Send me some Tokens, that my hope may live, |
| Or that my easeless thoughts may sleep and rest; |
| Send me some honey to make sweet my hive, |
| That in my passions I may hope the best. |
| I beg nor ribbond wrought with thine own hands, |
| To knit our loves in the fantastick strain |
| Of new-touch't youth; nor Ring to shew the stands |
| Of our affection, that as that's round and plain, |
| So should our loves meet in simplicity. |
| No, nor the Corals which thy wrist infold, |
| Lac'd up together in congruity, |
| To shew our thoughts should rest in the same hold. |
| No, nor thy picture, though most gracious, |
| And most desired, 'cause 'tis like the best; |
| Nor witty Lines, which are most copious, |
| Within the Writings which thou hast addrest. |
| Send men or this, nor that, t'increase my score, |
| But swear thou thinkst I love thee, and no more. |