Lately at afternoon, the sun hot-shining,
Flush'd with the grape, and in poetics deep;
On a soft sopha carelessly reclining,
Tuning new sonnets, lo! I dropp'd asleep
Through the vine-bower'd windows then inclining,
My mistress from the garden chanc'd to peep;
And left her lilies with the heat repining,
On tip-toe to my cool recess to creep
She read the verse for her sweet self intended:
We must indeed, she said, those lips salute,
Which blushingly do use such modest suit,
That maiden meekness cannot be offended;
She kiss'd, I wak'd—how eloquently mute
Her eyes, her blushes, the sweet fault defended.