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There is no Rose, nor Lillie after raine,
Nor flowre in wonth of May,
Nor pleasant meade, nor greene in sommer sent,
That seeing them, my minde deliteth soe,
As that faire flowre, which all the heauens admire,
Spending my thoughts on her, in whom abide
All grace and giftes on hie.
Me thinkes my heauenly Nymph I see againe
Her necke and breast display,
Seeing the whitest Ermine to frequent
Some plaine, or flowers that make the fairest showe,
O Gods, I neuer yet beheld her nier,
Or far, in shade, or sunne, that satisfied
I was in passing by.
The meade, the mount, the riuer, wood, and plaine,
With all their braue array,
Yeeld not such sweete, as that faire face, thats bent
Sorrowes, and ioy in each soule to bestowe
In equall partes, procur’d by amorous fire:
Beautie and loue in her their force haue tried,
To blinde each humane eie.
Each minde and will, which wicked vice doth staine
Her vertues breake, and stay:
All aires infect by fire are purg’d and spent,
Though of a great foundation they did growe.
O body, that so braue a soule dost hire,
And blessed soule, whose vertues euer pried
Aboue the starrie skie.
Onely for her my life in ioies I traine,
My soule sings many a lay:
Musing on her, new seas I doe inuent
Of soueraine ioy, wherein with pride I rowe:
The deserts for her sake I doe require,
For without her, the springs of ioy are dried,
And that I doe defie.
Sweete fate, that to a noble deede dost straine,
And lift my hart to day,
Sealing her there with glorius ornament:
Sweete seale sweete greefe, and sweetest ouerthrowe,
Sweete miracle, whose fame cannot expire:
Sweete wound, and golden shaft, that so espied
Such heauenly companie
Of beauties graces in sweete vertues died,
As like were neuer in such yeeres descried.
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