With doing all leave nothing done but paine,
But give apt servants their due place; let eye
See beauties totall summe summ’d in their face,
Let eares heare speach which will to wonder tye,
Let breath suck up those sweetes, let armes imbrace
The Globe of weale, lipps Lov’s Indentures make.
Thou but of all the kingly tribute take.
Alas whence comes this change of lookes? If I
have chang’d desert, let mine owne conscience be
A still felt plague to selfe condemning mee: