In sweetest strength, so sweetly skild withall,
In all sweet stratagems sweet Art can shew:
That not my soule which at thy foot did fall
Long since forst by thy beames; but stone nor tree
By sences priviledge can scape from thee.
This night while sleepe begins, with heavie wings
To close mine eyes, and the unbitted thought
Doth fall to stray, and my chiefe powers are brought
To leave the scepter of all subject things,
The first that straight my fancies errour brings