But then, alas, my heart ! oh how shall I
Cure thee of thy delightfull tympanie?
I cannot hold ; such a spring-tide of joy
Must haue a passage, or 'twill force a way.
Yet shall my loyall tongue keepe this comand :
But giue me leaue to ease it with my
And though these humble lines soare not soe high,
As is thy birth; yet from thy flaming eye
Drop downe one sparke of glory, & they'l prouo
A præsent worthy of Apollo's loue.
My quill to thee may not præsume to sing :
Lett th' hallowed plume of a seraphick wing
Bee consecrated to this worke, while I
Chant to my selfe with rustick melodie.
Rich, liberall heauen, what hath yo' treasure store
Of such bright angells, that you giue vs more ?
Had you, like our great sunne, stamped but one
For earth, t' had beene an ample portion.
Had you but drawne one lively coppy forth,
That might interpret our faire Cynthia's worth,
Y' had done enough to make the lazy ground
Dance, like the nimble spheres, a joyfull round.
But such is the celestiall excellence,
That in the princely patterne shines, from whence
The rest pourtraicted are, that 'tis noe paine
To ravish heauen to limbe them o're againe.
Wittnesse this mapp of beauty; euery part
Of wch doth show the quintessence of art.