My love and I for kisses play'd, Shee would keepe stake, I was content, But when I wonne shee would be paid; This made mee aske her what she meant. P… - William Strode

What thing is that, nor felt nor seene
Till it bee given? a present for a Queene:
A fine conceite to give and take the like:
The giver yet is farther for to seeke;
The taker doth possesse nothing the more,
The giver hee hath nothing lesse in store:
And given once that nature hath it still,
You cannot keepe or leave it if you will:
The workmanshippe is counted very small,
The labour is esteemèd naught at all:
But to conclude, this gift is such indeede,
That, if some see’t twill make theyr hearts to bleede.

Returne my joyes, and hither bring
A tongue not made to speake but sing,
A jolly spleene, an inward feast,
A causelesse laugh without a jest,
A face which gladnesse doth anoynt,
An arm that springs out of his joynt,
A sprightfull gate that leaves no print, And makes a feather of a flint,
A heart that’s lighter than the ayre,
An eye still dancing in his spheare,
Strong mirth which nothing can controule, A body nimbler than the soule,
Free wandring thoughts not tyde to muse Which thinke on all things, nothing choose, Which ere we see them come are gone;
These life itselfe doth feede upon.

Whene’er the wast makes too much hast,
That hast againe makes too much wast.