O happie _Thames_ that didst my _Stella_ beare, I saw thee with full many a smiling line Upon thy cheereful face loves Livery weare: While those faire Plannets on thy streames did shine, The boat for joy could not to dance forbeare, While wanton winds with beautie so divine Ravisht, staid not, til in her golden haire They did themselves (ô sweetest prison) twine. But faine those friendly winds there would their stay Have made, but forst by Nature still to flie, First did with puffing kisse those Lockes display: She so discovered, blusht. From window I With sight thereof cride out; Ah faire disgrace, Let honours selfe to thee graunt highest place. Envious wits what hath beene mine offence, That with such poisoned eare my wits you marke, That to each word, nay sigh of mine you harke, As grudging me my sorrows eloquence? Ah, is it not enough, that I am thence: Thence, so farre thence, that scantly anie sparke Of comfort dare come to this dungeon darke Where rigorous exile lockes up al my sense: But if I by a happie window passe, If I but Starres uppon mine Armour beare, Sicke, thirstie, glad (though but of empty glasse) Your morals note straight my hid meaning there, From out my ribs a whirlewind proves that I Doe _Stella_ love. Fooles, who doth it denie? Unhappie sight and hath shee vanisht by, So neere, in so good time so free a place, Dead glasse dost thou thine object so imbrase, As what my hart still sees thou canst not spie, I sweare by hir Love and my lacke, that I Was not in fault that bent my dazling race Onely unto the heaven of _Stella’s_ face, Counting but dust that in her way did lie: But cease mine eyes, your teares doe witnes well, That you guiltles therefore your necklace mist, Curst be the Page from whome the bad torch fell, Curst be the night which did your will resist, Curst be the Cochman that did drive so fast, With no lesse curse then absence makes me tast. O absent presence _Stella_ is not here, False flattering hope that with so faire a face, Bare me in hand that in this Orphane place, _Stella_ I saw, my _Stella_ should appeare, What saist thou now, where is that dainty cleare Thou wouldst mine eyes should helpe their famisht case: But how art thou? now that selfe felt disgrace Doth make me most to wish thy comfort neere, But heere I doe shore of faire Ladies meete, Who may with charme of conversation sweete Make in my heavie mould new thoughts to grow: Sure they prevaile as much with me, as he That bad his frind but then new maimde to be Merrie with him, and so forget his woe.