And though she give but thus condicionally,
This Realme of blisse, while vertues course I take,
No Kings be Crownd, but they some covenant make.
My Muse may well grudge at my heavenly joy,
Yf still I force her in sad rymes to creepe:
She oft hath drunke my teares, now hopes t’enjoy
Nectar of mirth, since I loves Cup do keepe.
Sonnets be not bound Prentice to annoy,
Trebbles sing high, so well as bases deepe:
Griefe but Loves winter liverie is, the boy