They fled with blush, which guiltie seem’d of love:
Hope art thou true or doost thou flatter me?
Doth Stella now beginne, with pitteous eye
The raigne of this her conquest to espie?
Will shee take time before all wracked be?
Her eye speech is translated thus by thee.
But failste thou not in phrase so heavenly hye?
Looke on againe, the faire text better prie;
What blushing notes dost thou in Margent see?
What sighes stolne out, or kild before full borne