FRom milk of Juno, as the Poets feign, The Lily had its whiteness, passing white: And from Adonis' blood, that lovely Swain, The Rose his colour red, which doth delight. Thou, pretty Soul, hast both the colours rare Of these sweet flowers; which others all exceed. Thy breast's a bed of beauteous Lilies fair; Thy dainty cheeks, pure damask Rose breed. O fruitful garden flow'ring; where appear The Rose and Lily at all times of year!
XVII.
OF constant love, I am the wasted fire; The furious wind's my Lady's angry eye: Who whilst She kindles both, through wrathful ire, The flame increaseth, mounting to the sky. In midst is Love, half dead of grievous pain; And, doubtful, winds about like sparkling flame. He fears the heat: and trembles, being turned Unto this blast; which still more sharp doth rise. Nor is his fear in vain, when so he is burned: For one of these must hap, in sudden wise, Either the fire must spoil him as his prey; Or whirling wind else blow him quite away.
XVIII.