Sonnet XVI: Graunt fayrest kind, a kisse unto thy

Graunt fayrest kind, a kisse unto thy friend,
A blush replyde, and yet a kisse I had:
It is not heaven, that can such nectar send,
Whereat my senses, all amaz'd, were glad.
This done, she fled, as one that was afrayde,
And I desyr'd to kisse, by kissing more,
My love she frown'd, and I my kissing stayde,
Yet wisht to kisse her, as I did before:
Then as the vine, the propping elme doeth claspe,
Lothe to depart, till both together dye:
So folde me (sweete) untill my latest gaspe,
That in my armes, to death, I kist, may lye.
Thus whilest I live, for kisses I must call,
Still kisse me, (sweete) or kisse me not at all.