Sonnet 81

NYmph of the garden where all beauties be,
Beauties which doe in excellence surpasse,
His whose till death lockt in a watry glasse,
Or hir whom nak'd the Troian boy did see.
Sweete garden Nymph which keepes the Cherry tree,
Whose fruit doth far the Hesperian tast surpasse,
Most sweete faire, most faire sweete, doe not alasse
From comming neere these Cherries banish mee,
For though full of desire, emptie of wit,
Admitted late by your best graced grace,
I caught at one of them a hungry bit,
Pardon that fault, once more graunt me the place,
And so I sweare by the selfe same delite,
I will but kisse, I neuer more will bite,