That now behold me with their beauties baning:
Though Ianuarie will neuer come againe,
Yet Aprill yeres will come in showers of raine.
When will my May come, that I may embrace thee?
When will the hower be of my soules ioying?
Why dost thou seeke in mirthe still to disgrace mee?
Whose mirth's my health, whose griefe's my harts annoying.
Thy bane my bale, thy blisse my blessednes,
Thy ill my hell, thy weale my welfare is.
Thus doo I honour thee that loue thee so,