Ye blushing virgins happy are
         In the chaste nunnery of her breasts--
For he'd profane so chaste a fair,
         Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.

Transplanted thus how bright ye grow!
         How rich a perfume do ye yield!
In some close garden cowslips so
         Are sweeter than i' th' open field.

In those white cloisters live secure
         From the rude blasts of wanton breath!--
Each hour more innocent and pure,
         Till you shall wither into death.

Then that which living gave you room,
         Your glorious sepulchre shall be.
There wants no marble for a tomb
         Whose breast hath marble been to me.
YE blushing virgins happy are
         In the chaste nunnery of her breasts--
For he'd profane so chaste a fair,
         Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.

Transplanted thus how bright ye grow!
         How rich a perfume do ye yield!
In some close garden cowslips so
         Are sweeter than i' th' open field.

In those white cloisters live secure
         From the rude blasts of wanton breath!--
Each hour more innocent and pure,
         Till you shall wither into death.

Then that which living gave you room,
         Your glorious sepulchre shall be.
There wants no marble for a tomb
         Whose breast hath marble been to me.