And as a Pible caſt into a Spring, / Wee ſee a ſort of trembling cirkles riſe, / One forming other in theyr iſſuing / Till ouer all the Fount they circulize, / So this perpetuall-motion-making kiſſe, / Is propagate through all my faculties, / And makes my breaſt an endleſſe Fount of bliſſe, / Of which, if Gods could drink, theyr matchleſſe fare / Would make them much more bleſſed then they are.