Her Father Lov'd Me; Oft Invited Me;

Their Savage Eyes Turned To A Modest Gaze By The Sweet Power Of Music.

The Rose Looks Fair, But Fairer We It Deem For That Sweet Odour Which Doth In It Live.

My Hands Are Of Your Color, But I Shame To Wear A Heart So White.

They May Seize On The White Wonder Of Dear Juliet's Hand And Steal Immortal Blessing From Her Lips, Who, Even In Pure And Vestal Modesty, Still Blush, As Thinking Their Own Kisses Sin.

If It Be You That Stirs These Daughters' Hearts Against Their Father, Fool Me Not So Much To Bear It Tamely; Touch Me With Noble Anger, And Let Not Women's Weapons, Water Drops, Stain My Man's Cheeks.