With voice more fit to wed Amphyons Lyre?
Seeking to quench in me the noble fyre,
Fed by thy worth and kindled by thy sight.
And all in vaine, for while thy breath most sweete
With choisest words, thy words with reasons rare:
Thy reasons firmely set, are vertues feete,
Labor to kill in me this killing care
Oh thinke I then, what Paradise of joy
It is, so faire a vertue to enjoye.
Oh joy, too high for my Love still to showe,