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.