And flies too low to reach the double mountaine.
Then do not sparkes with your bright Suns compare,
Perfection in a Womans work is rare;
From an untroubled mind should verses flow;
My discontents make mine too muddy show;
And hoarse encumbrances of houshold care;
Where these remaine, the Muses ne’er repaire.
If thou dost extoll her haire,
Or her ivory forehead faire,
Or those Stars whose bright reflection