Like as a Mayde, wandring in Floraes Boures
Confind to small time, of few flitting houres,
Rapt with delight, of her eye-pleasing treasure,
Now culling this, now that Flower, takes such pleasure;
That the strict time, whereto she was confin’d
Is all expir’d: whiles she thought halfe behind,
Or more remayn’d: So each attracting line
Makes them forget the time, they doe not tyne:
But since sweet future travell, is cut short,
Yet loose no time, now with the Muses sport;