Love suffers no Parasol

THose Eyes, deare Eyes, be Spheares
Where two bright Suns are roll'd,
That faire Hand to behold
Of whitest Snow appeares:
Then while ye coyly stand
To hide from me those Eyes,
Sweet I would you advise
To chuse some other fanne than that white Hand:
For if ye do, for truth most true this know,
Those Suns ere long must needs consume warme Snow.