Sonnet. The Token

Send me some token, that my hope may live,

Or that my easelesse thoughts may sleep and rest;

Send me some hony, to make sweet my hive,

That in my passion I may hope the best.

I beg noe ribbond wrought with thine owne hands,　

To knit our loves in the fantastick straine

Of new-touch'd youth; nor Ring to show the stands

Of our affection, that, as that's round and plain,

So should our loves meet in simplicity;

No, nor the Coralls which thy wrist infold,　

Lac'd up together in congruity,

To show our thoughts should rest in the same hold;

No, nor thy picture, though most gracious,

And most desired, because best like the best;

Nor witty lines, which are most copious,　

Within the Writings which thou hast addrest.

Send me nor this, nor that, t' increase my store;

But swear thou think'st I love thee, and no more.