If thou a reason dost desire to know,
My dearest Cynthia, why I love thee so,
As when I do enjoy all thy love's store,
I am not yet content, but seek for more;
When we do kiss so often as the tale
Of kisses doth out vie the winter's hail:
When I do print them on more close and sweet
Than shells of scallops, cockles when they meet,
Yet am not satisfied: when I do close
Thee nearer to me than the ivy grows
unto the oak: when those white arms of thine
Clip me more close than doth the elm the vine:
When naked both, thou seemest not to be
Contiguous, but continuous parts of me:
And we in bodies are together brought
So near, so near, our souls may know each
other's thought without a whisper: yet I do aspire
To come more close to thee, and to be nigher,
Know, 'twas well said, that spirits are too high
For bodies, when they meet, to satisfy.