Madonna, when the springs of passion rise,
And through thy fair sweet bosom surge and swell;
And in those lucent sacred eyes,
Which tell me I may live, and eke my death may tell;
From those gracious looks and kind,
A gracious hope my longings find.
Now calm, and now spurred on by rage,
With hope and fear a fight I wage;
Eftsoons my hope the vantage gains,
And I am rid of all my pains,