Sonnet Ccxciii:

As from his wrist the eager falconer Tosses his hawk upon the windy sky, So from my lips this kiss I toss on high, Through leagues of weary air to follow her. Mount to the zenith, instinct with the spur Of what I feel; and by thy love-led eye, Discern thy gentle quarry; hover nigh; Yet with no fears her virgin bosom stir. When sleep enfolds her, then thou too mayst lay Thy touch upon her. Let me tell thee where; Thou canst not err to kiss from foot to hair. But O, thou tender messenger, I pray, So wake her fancy that a dream may play About her heart to tell who sent thee there.