As might refresh the hel where my soule fries,
Oh plaints conserv’d in such a surgred phrase,
That eloquence envies, and yet doth prayse,
While sightd out words a perfect musicke gives
Such teares, sighs, plaints, no sorrow is, but joy:
Or if such heavenly sighs must prove annoy,
All mirth farewel, let me in sorrow live.
Stella is sicke, and in that sick-bed lyes
Sweetenes, that breathes and pants as oft as shee:
And Grace sicke too, such fine conclusions tries,