To His Mistress Confined

Think not, my Phebe, 'cause a cloud
Doth now thy heavenly beauty shroud,
My wandering eye
Can stoop to common beauties of the sky;
Be thou but kind, and this eclipse
Shall neither hinder eyes, nor lips,
For we will meet
Within our hearts, and kiss, when none shall see't.

Nor canst thou in thy prison be,
Without some loving signs of me;
When thou dost spy
A sun-beam peep into thy room, 'tis I,
For I am hid within that flame,
And thus unto thy chamber came,
To let thee see,
In what a martyrdom I burn for thee.

When thou dost touch thy lute, thou may'st
Think on my heart, on which thou play'st;
When each sad tone
Upon the strings doth shew my deeper groan:
When thou dost please, they shall rebound
With nimble airs, struck to the sound
Of thy own voice:
Oh, think how much I tremble, and rejoice!