Christopher Marlowe

“ Who loves for that?—nor for thy sprightly wit;
I love thee not for thy sweet modesty,
Which makes thee in perfection's throne to sit;
I love thee not for thy enchanting eye,
Thy beauty [s] ravishing perfection ”

“ I cannot buss [4] thy fill, play with thy hair,
Swearing by Jove, "thou art most debonair!"
Not I, by cock! [5] but [I] shall tell thee roundly,—
Hark in thine ear,—zounds, I can (⁠) thee soundly.
Sweet wench, I love thee: yet I will not sue,
Or shew my love as musky courtiers do;
I'll not carouse a health to honour thee,
In this same bezzling [6] drunken courtesy,
And, when all's quaffd, eat up my bousing-glass, [7]
In glory that I am thy servile ass ”