But O the place co’d I but finde!
The Ox hath hushed his voyce and bent
Trewe eyes of Pitty ore the Mow,
And on his lovelie Neck, forspent,
The Blessed layes her Browe.
Around her feet,
Full Warme and Sweete,
His bowerie Breath doth meeklie dwell:
Amen, Amen:
But sore am I with Vaine Travel!