The more to burne I feele my selfe content:
And though ech day a thousande times I fleete
Twixt hope and dreade, all dolour yet and smart
My glorious proofe of enterprise makes sweete.
The fire so high which kindled hath myne hart,
As by loue’s flames none euer had (I know)
So lofty source of heate in any part,
Sweete then my torments are, sweete is my woe,
Sweete eke of loue the light, sweete the conceyte
From so high beames, fallen in my breast, groe.