Licence my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
Love's mysteries in souls do grow,
But yet the body is his book.
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.
No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face."
[The Autumnal]
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.