(10e chanson.)
O joy, too high for my low style to show:
O blisse fit for a nobler state than me:
Envy, put out their eyes, least thou do see
What oceans of delight in me do flow.
My friend, who oft saw through all maskes my woe,
Come, come, and let me pour myself on thee;
Gone is the winter of my misery,
My spring appeares, O see what here doth grow.
For Stella hath in words where faith doth shine
Of her high heart given me the monarchie.
I, I, o I may say, that she is mine.
Where be those Roses gone, which sweetned so our eyes?
Where those red cheeks, which oft with faire encrease did frame
The height of honor in the kingly badge of shame?
Who hath the crimson weeds stolne from my morning skies?
(102e sonnet.)
My life melts with too much thinking.
(10e chanson.)
Prometheus when first from heaven hye
He brought downe fire, ere then on earth not seene,
Fond of delight, a satyre standing by
Gave it a kisse, as it like sweete hat beene.
Feeling forthwith the other burning power,
Wood with the smart, with shouts and shrieking shrill,
He sought ease in river, field, and bower,
But for the time, his grief went with him still.