Love is a spirit all . . . of fire, not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire. Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie: These forceless flowers . . . support me two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky. Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be that thou should think it heavy unto thee? Is thine own heart to thine own face affected? Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left? Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected. Were I hard-favoured, foul, or wrinkled-old, then mightst thou pause . . . . . but having no defects, why dost abhor me? Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine the kiss shall be thine own as well as mine."