Book II, 89: On bosome sinnes

How loath is Flesh, to yield! the Spirit, to win
The glorious Conquest of a Bosome sin!
O, how th'ingenious Flesh will pleade! abuse
The height of Wit, to argue, or excuse:
At length, it yeelds: O, give it leave to stay
A yeare, a moneth; a weeke; at least, a day;
And if not so, yet let my breaking heart
But hugge it once or twice, before we part;
Let me but take my leave, my thoughts shal bind me
From the least touch; let me but looke behind me:
Nay sin, Gehezilike, will have a blow
At cleansed Naamans bounty, ere she goe.