Julia, I bring 
To thee this Ring. 
Made for thy finger fit; 
To shew by this, 
That our love is 
(Or sho'd be) like to it. 

Close though it be, 
The joynt is free: 
So when Love's yoke is on, 
It must not gall, 
Or fret at all 
With hard oppression. 

But it must play 
Still either way; 
And be, too, such a yoke, 
As not too wide, 
To over-slide; 
Or be so strait to choak. 

So we, who beare, 
The beame, must reare 
Our selves to such a height: 
As that the stay 
Of either may 
Create the burden light. 

And as this round 
Is no where found 
To flaw, or else to sever: 
So let our love 
As endless prove; 
And pure as Gold for ever.