MY Mistress writing, as her hand did shake,
The pen did dash, which on her gown did spurt:
One drop, more higher than the rest did take;
And to presume to touch her breast it durst.
Upon her dainty bosom it did light:
Wherewith she blushed, in show like damask rose.
Presumptuous black! how dar'dst thou touch that white,
Wherein a World of gladsome pleasure grows?
Yet, spite of envy, happed it for the best:
To the white, more grace; more beauty, 'twas to th' breast.