Those envied places which do know her well, 
   And are so scornful of this lonely place, 
   Even now for once are emptied of her grace: 
Nowhere but here she is: and while Love's spell 
From his predominant presence doth compel 
   All alien hours, an outworn populace, 
   The hours of Love fill full the echoing space 
With sweet confederate music favourable. 

Now many memories make solicitous 
   The delicate love-lines of her mouth, till, lit 
   With quivering fire, the words take wing from it; 
As here between our kisses we sit thus 
   Speaking of things remembered, and so sit 
Speechless while things forgotten call to us.