_Shee_ comes, and straight therewith her shining twins do move Their raies to me: who in her tedious absence lay Benighted in cold woe; but now appeares my shining day, The only light of joy, the only warmth of Love, _Shee_ comes with light and warmth, which like _Aurora_ prove; Of gentle force, so that my eyes dare gladly play With such a rosy Morne: whose beames most freshly gay Scorch not; but onely doe darke chilling spirits remove. But loe, while I do speake it groweth noone with mee, Her flamy glittering lights increase with time and place: My heart cryes ah it burnes, mine eyes now dazled be: No winde, no shade can coole: what helpe then in my case? But with short breath, long lookes, staide feete, and walking hed, Pray that my Sunne goe downe with me her beames to bed. Those lookes, whose beames be joy, whose motion is delight, That face whose lecture shewes what perfect Beautie is: That presence which doth give darke hearts a living light, That grace, which _Venus_ weepes that shee her selfe doth misse. That hand, which without touch, holdes more than _Atlas_ might, Those lips, which makes deathes pay a meane prise for a kisse: That skin, whose past-praise hue scornes this poore tearme of whit, Those words which doe sublime the quintessence of blisse. That voice which makes the soule plant himselfe in the eares, That conversation sweet, where such high comforts be: As constru’d in true speech; the name of heaven it beares: Makes me in my best thoughts and quiet judgements see, That in no more but these I might be fully blest: Yet ah, my maiden Muse doth blush to tell the best. Oh how the pleasant ayres of true love bee Inflicted by those vapours, which arise From out that noysome gulfe: which gaping lies Betweene the jawes of hellish Jelousey. A Monster, others harmes, selfe misery. Beauties plague, Vertues scurge, succour of lyes: Who his owne joy to his owne heart applyes, And onely cherish doth with injuries: Who since he hath by natures speciall grace, So pearsing pawes as spoyle when they embrace, So nimble feete as stirre though still on thornes, So manie eyes aye seeking their owne woe. So ample eares, that never good newes knowe, Is it not ill that such a divell wants hornes?