If now the May of my yeeres much decline,
What can be hop’d my harvest time will be,
Sure you say well, your wisedomes golden myne
Digs deepe with learnings spade: now tell me this,
Hath this world ought so faire as Stella is?
In highest way of heaven the Sunne did ride,
Progressing then from fayre Twynns golden place,
Having no maske of Clowdes before his face,
But shining forth of heat in his chiefe pride,
When some faire Ladies by hard promise tyde,