Intombd of lids then buried are mine eyes,
Forst by their Lord who is ashamd to find
Such light in sence with such a darkned mind.
Oh teares, no teares, but shoures from beauties skyes,
Making those Lilies and those Roses growe,
Which aie most faire now fairer needs must show,
While grateful pitty Beauty beautifies,
Oh minded sighs that from that brest doe rise,
Whose pants doe make unspilling Creame to flow,
Winged with woes breath so doth Zephire blow