Sonnet. The Token
Send me some token, that my hope may live,
Or that my easelesse thoughts may sleep and rest;
Send me some hony, to make sweet my hive,
That in my passion I may hope the best.
I beg noe ribbond wrought with thine owne hands,
To knit our loves in the fantastick straine
Of new-touch'd youth; nor Ring to show the stands
Of our affection, that, as that's round and plain,
So should our loves meet in simplicity;
No, nor the Coralls which thy wrist infold,
Lac'd up together in congruity,
To show our thoughts should rest in the same hold;
No, nor thy picture, though most gracious,
And most desired, because best like the best;
Nor witty lines, which are most copious,
Within the Writings which thou hast addrest.
Send me nor this, nor that, t' increase my store;
But swear thou think'st I love thee, and no more.
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