Phoebus

Mor. Miſlike me not for my complexion,

The ſhadowed liuerie of the burniſht ſunne,

To whom I am a neighbour, and neere bred.

Bring me the faireſt creature North-ward borne,

Where Phœbus fire ſcarce thawes the yſicles,

And let vs make inciſion for your loue,

To proue whoſe blood is reddeſt, his or mine.

By Phœbus, here's a moſt neate fine ſtreete; is't not? I proteſt to thee, I am enamord of this ſtreete now, more then of halfe the ſtreetes of Rome, againe; tis ſo polite, and terſe; […]