IF, LAURA, thou dost turn 'gainst me in hate;
Then me, such busses sweet why dost thou give?
Why check'st thou not the Cheeks which give the mate?
The vital cause whereby I breathe and live?
Perhaps it is, because through too much joy.
As in sweet swound [_swoon_], I might away depart:
If so thou do, and think me so to 'noy;
Kiss hardly! and with kissing, breed my smart!
Content am I to lose this life of mine;
Whilst I do kiss that lovely lip of thine.