All the purple pride of Laces,
The crimson curtaines of thy bed;
Guild thee not with so sweet graces;
Nor sets thee in so rich a red.

Of all the faire cheekt flowers that fill thee,
None so faire thy bosome strowes;
As this modest Maiden Lilly,
Our sinnes have sham’d into a Rose.

Bid the golden god the Sunne,
Burnisht in his glorious beames:
Put all his red eyed rubies on,
These Rubies shall put out his eyes.

Let him make poore the purple East,
Rob the rich store her Cabinets keep,
The pure birth of each sparkling nest,
That flaming in their faire bed sleep.

Let him embrace his owne bright tresses,
With a new morning made of gems;
And weare in them his wealthy dresses,
Another day of Diadems.

When he hath done all he may,
To make himselfe rich in his rise,
All will be darknesse, to the day
That breakes from one of these faire eyes.

And soone the sweet truth shall appeare,
Deare Babe e’re many dayes be done:
The Moone shall come to meet thee here,
And leave the long adored Sunne.

Thy nobler beauty shall bereave him,
Of all his Easterne Paramours:
His Persian Lovers all shall leave him,
And sweare faith to thy sweeter powers.

Nor while they leave him shall they loose the Sunne,
But in thy fairest eyes find two for one.