Sickness, how dar'st thou one so fair invade?
Too base Infirmity to work her Bale.
Heaven be distempered since she grieved pines,
Never be dry these my sad plantive Lines.
Pearch thou my Spirit on her Silver Breasts,
And with their pains redoubled Musick beatings,
Let them toss thee to world where all toil rests,
Where Bliss is subject to no Fear's defeatings;
Her Praise I tune whose Tongue doth tune the Sphears,
And gets new Muses in her Hearers Ears.