Sweet smile, the daughter of the Queene of Love,
Expressing all thy mother's powrefull art: 
With which she wonts to temper angry Jove, 
When all the gods he threats with thundring dart.
Sweet is thy vertue as thy selfe sweet art, 
For when on me thou shinedst late in sadnesse:
A melting pleasance ran through every part,
And me revived with hart robbing gladnesse. 
Whilst rapt with joy, resembling heavenly madnesse,
My soul was ravisht quite as in a traunce: 
And feeling thence no more her sorrowes sadnesse,
Fed on the fulnesse of that chearfull glaunce.
More sweet than Nectar, or Ambrosiall meat,
Seemd every bit, which thenceforth I did eate. 

Sweet smile, the daughter of the Queene of Love.
Expressing all thy mother's powrefull art.
Sweet is thy vertue as thy selfe sweet art.