My swift desires runnes, fleeting so.
As sweete Zephyrus breath, in spring time feedes the floures,
My mistresse voice would ioye my wits, by hir most heauenly powers,
And would exchaunge my state I say,
As Sommer chaungeth Winter’s day.
She is the Artique starre, the gratious Goddesse to,
She hath the might to make and marre, to helpe or els vndo,
Both death and life she hath at call,
My warre, my peace, my ruine and all.
She makes me liue in woe, and guides my sighs and lookes,