When farre spent night perswades each mortall eie To whome nor Art nor Nature granted light: To lay his then marke wanting shaftes of sight; Clos’d whith their quivers in Sleeps armorie; With windowes ope then most my heart doth lye Viewing the shape of darknes and delight, And takes that sad hue, with which inward might Of his mazde powres he keeps just harmony: But when birds chirpe aire, and sweet aire which is Mornes messenger with rose enameld skyes Calls each wight to salute the heaven of blisse; Intombd of lids then buried are mine eyes, Forst by their Lord who is ashamd to find Such light in sence with such a darkned mind. Oh teares, no teares, but shoures from beauties skyes, Making those Lilies and those Roses growe, Which aie most faire now fairer needs must show, While grateful pitty Beauty beautifies, Oh minded sighs that from that brest doe rise, Whose pants doe make unspilling Creame to flow, Winged with woes breath so doth _Zephire_ blow As might refresh the hel where my soule fries, Oh plaints conserv’d in such a surgred phrase, That eloquence envies, and yet doth prayse, While sightd out words a perfect musicke gives Such teares, sighs, plaints, no sorrow is, but joy: Or if such heavenly sighs must prove annoy, All mirth farewel, let me in sorrow live. _Stella_ is sicke, and in that sick-bed lyes Sweetenes, that breathes and pants as oft as shee: And Grace sicke too, such fine conclusions tries, That sicknes brings it selfe best grac’d to bee. Beautie is sicke, but sicke in such faire guise, That in that palenes Beauties white we see, And Joy which is unsever’d from those eyes. _Stella_ now learnes, (strange case) to weepe with me, Love moves thy paine and like a faithful page, As thy looks sturre, runs up and downe to make All folkes prest at thy wil thy paine to swage, Nature with care seeks for his darlings sake, Knowing worlds passe, ere she enough can finde Of such heaven stuffe to cloath so heavenly minde. Where be those Roses, which so sweetned earst our eyes? Where be those red cheekes, which fair increase did frame No hight of honor in the kindly badge of shame, Who hath the crimson weeds stoln from the morning skies? How doth the coullor fade of those vermillion eyes, Which Nature selfe did make and selfe engrave the same? I would know by what right this palenes overcame That hue, whose force my heart in so great thraldom ties? _Gallens_ adopted sonnes, who by a beaten way Their judgements hackney on, the fault of sicknes lay: But feeling proofe makes me say, they mistake it sure, It is but love that makes this paper perfect white, To write therein more fresh the storie of _Delight_, Whiles Beauties reddest incke _Venus_ for him doth stir.