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.