My soul I'll pour into thee.
Roses at first were white, Till thy co'd not agree, Whether my Sapho's breast, Or they more white sho'd be.
I do love I know not what; Sometimes this, and sometimes that.
He loves his bonds who, when the first are broke, Submits his neck into a second yoke.
Fain would I kiss my Julia's dainty leg, Which is as white and hairless as an egg.
In vain our labours are, whatsoe'er they be, unless God gives the Benediction.