To Mistress Amy Potter.

Ay me! I love; give him your hand to kiss Who both your wooer and your poet is. Nature has precompos'd us both to love: Your part's to grant; my scene must be to move. Dear, can you like, and liking love your poet? If you say "Aye," blush-guiltiness will show it. Mine eyes must woo you, though I sigh the while: True love is tongueless as a crocodile. And you may find in love these different parts— Wooers have tongues of ice, but burning hearts.