All ye purple pride yt laces
Ye crimson curtains of thy bed
Gildes thee not with soe sweet graces
Nor sets thee in soe rich a Red.

Of all ye faire cheekt flowrs yt fill thee
None soe faire thy bosome st[rowes]
As yt modest maiden Lillye
Our syns have sham’d into a Rose

Bid thy golden god ye sun
Burnisht in h[is] best beames Rise
put all his Red Ey’d Rubies on;
these Rubies shall put out their Eies

Let them make poore ye purple East
Search what ye worlds Close Cabinets Keepe
Rob ye Rich birth of each Bright nest
yt flaming in their faire beds sleepe.

Let him Imbrace his owne bright tresses
Wth a new morning made [of gems]
And weare in those his wealthy dresses
Another day of diadems

When hee hath done all hee may
To make him selfe Rich in his Rise,
All will bee darknesse to yt day
yt breaks from on of these bright Eies

And soone and soone this sweet truth shall appeare
Deare babe ere manye days bee done
ye moon shall come, and meet thee Heer
And leave Her owne Her owne neglected Sun

Heare are beauties shall bereave him
Of all his Easterne paramours
His Persian Lovers all shall leave him
And swear faith to thy Sweeter powrs;

Nor while they leave him shall they loose ye Sun
But in thy fairest Eies [,] but in thy fairest Eies fynd two for one