And where love slides, it leaves no signe nor showe,
Where it hath gon the way so shuts againe:
It is a sport to heare the fine night crow
Chaunt in the queere upon a pricke-song plaine:
No musicke more may please a prince’s vaine
Than descant strange, and voice of faurets breest,
In quiet bower when birds be all at rest.
31.*
No such consort as plaine two parts in one,
Whose rare reports doth carry cunning clean,