I must not grieue my Loue, whose eyes would reede,
Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smyle:
Flowers haue a tyme before they come to seede,
And she is young and now must sport the while.
Ah sport sweet Mayde in season of these yeeres,
And learne to gather flowers before they wither:
And where the sweetest blossoms first appeares,
Let loue and youth conduct thy pleasures thither.
Lighten forth smyles to cleere the clowded ayre,
And calme the tempest which my sighes doe rayse:
Pittie and smyles doe best become the fayre,
Pittie and smyles shall yeeld thee lasting prayse.
I hope to say when all my griefes are gone,
Happy the hart that sigh’d for such a one.