To have anew that judgment, through the skies, I deem there is no need for me to fly To the moon's circle, or to Paradise;
For, I believe, mine is not lodged so high.
On your bright visage, on your beauteous eyes, Alabastrine neck, and paps of ivory, Wander my wits, and I with busy lip, If I may have them back, these fain would sip.