My spotles loue hoouers with white wings,
About the temple of the proudest frame:
Where blaze those lights fayrest of earthly things,
Which cleere our clouded world with brightest flame.
M’ambitious thoughts confined in her face,
Affect no honour, but what she can giue mee:
My hopes doe rest in limits of her grace,
I weygh no comfort vnlesse she releeue mee.
For she that can my hart imparadize,
Holdes in her fairest hand what deerest is:
My fortunes wheele, the circle of her eyes,
Whose rowling grace deigne once a turne of blis.
All my liues sweete consists in her alone,
So much I loue the most vnlouing one.