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Beauty, since you so much desire,

to know the place of Cupid's fire:

About you somewhere doth it rest,

Yet never harboured in your breast:

Nor gout-like in your heel or toe;

What fool would seek Love's flame so low?

But a little higher:

There, o there lies Cupid's fire.

Think not, when Cupid most you scorn,

Men judge that you of ice were born.

For though you cast Love at your Heel,

His fury yet sometime you feel.

And whereabouts if you would know,

I tell you still, not in your toe.

But a little higher:

There, o there lies Cupid's fire.