As of a freend that meant not much amisse:
But now alas, that I doe want her sight,
What doost thou thinke that I can ever take,
In thy colde stuffe, a phlegmatick delight?
No Patience, if thou wilt my good, then make
Her come, and heare with patience my desires
And then with patience bid me beare my fire.
Muses, I oft invoked your whole ayde,
With choisest flowres, my speech t’engarland so,
That it disguisde, in true (but naked) show,