XXVIII. My Mistress writing, as her hand did shake

Robert Tofte (1561–1620)

MY Mistress writing, as her hand did shake,

The pen did dash, which on her gown did spurt:

One drop, more higher than the rest did take;

And to presume to touch her breast it durst.

Upon her dainty bosom it did light:

Wherewith she blushed, in show like damask rose.

Presumptuous black! how dar’dst thou touch that white,

Wherein a World of gladsome pleasure grows?

Yet, spite of envy, happed it for the best:

To the white, more grace; more beauty, ’twas to th’ breast.