And hiding sibyls stir sweet prophecies.
Hen. The only springs I seek are in your eyes
That nourish all the desert of myself.
Drop here, O, Glaia, thy transforming dews,
And start fair summer in this waste of me!
Gla. Poor Henry! What dost know of me to love?
Hen. See yon light cloud half-kirtled with faint rose?
What do I know of it but that 'tis fair?
And yet I dream 'twas born of flower dews
And goes to some sweet country of the sky.