Robert Tofte (1561–1620)

ON quicksedge, wrought with lovely eglantine,

My Laura laid her handkercher to dry;

Which had before snow-white ywashed been.

But, after, when she called to memory,

That long ’twould be before, and very late,

Ere sun could do, as would her glist’ring eyes:

She cast from them such sparkling glances straight,

And with such force, in such a strangy guise,

As suddenly, and in one selfsame time,

She dried her cloth: but burnt this heart of mine!