And hideous palenes on thy face hath seaz’d.
Thy eies, two Sunnes, the lodging place of loue,
Which yet for tents to warlike Mars did serue,
Lock’d vp in lidds (as faire daies cherefull light
Which darknesse flies) do winking hide in night.
Antonie by our true loues I thee beseche,
And by our hearts swete sparks haue sett on fire,
Our holy mariage, and the tender ruthe
Of our deare babes, knot of our amitie:
My dolefull voice thy eare let entertaine,