O she doth teach the torches to burn bright.
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
As a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear (1.5.)

I will withdraw, but this intrusion shall,
Now seeming sweet, convert to bitt’rest gall (1.5.)

My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss (1.5.)

You kiss by th’book (1.5.)

Prodigious birth of love is it to me
That I must love a loathed enemy (1.5.)