With choise delight and rarest company,
Would faine drive clouds from out my heavie cheere:
But woe is me, though joy her selfe were shee,
Shee could not shewe my blind braine waies of joy
While I dispaire my Sunnes light to enjoy.
Ah bed the feeld where joyes peace some do see:
The feeld where al my thoughts to war be traind,
How is thy grace by my strange fortune staind?
How thy low shrowdes by my sighs stormed be?
With sweet soft shades thou oft invitest mee