Even Natures law thereat repineth;
My love in conquests palme-wreths shineth,
Thine feasts deforms, mine fight refineth."
Flora hir modest face enrosed,
Whose second smile more fayre disclosed,
At length with mooving voyce she losed
What art in her storde brest reposed.
"Phillis, thy fill of speech thou hast,
Thy witt with pointed wings is grast,
Yet urdgest not a trueth so vast,