Soules joy, bend not those morning starres from me,
Where vertue is made strong by beauties might,
Where love is chastnes, paine doth learne delight,
And humblenes growes on with majestie;
What ever may ensue, O let me be
Copartner of the ritches of that sight:
Let not mine eyes be driven from that light;
ô looke, ô shine, ô let me die and see,
For though I oft my selfe of them bemone,
That through my hart their beamie darts be gone,
Whose curelesse wounds even nowe most freshly bleede;
Yet since my deaths wound is already got,
Deere killer, spare not thy sweete cruell shot,
A kinde of grace it is to slaye with speede.