In a grove most rich of shade 
where birds wanton music made, 
May, then young, his pied weeds showing,
new perfum'd with flow'rs fresh growing. 

Astrophel with Stella sweet
did for mutual comfort meet 
both within themselves oppressed,
but each in the other blessed. 

Stella, whose voice when it speaks
senses all as under breaks; 
Stella, whose voice when it singeth
angels to acquaintance bringeth. 

Never season was more fit,
never room more apt for it; 
smiling air allows my reason; 
these birds sing, now use the season.

Astrophel, said she, my love, 
cease in these effects to prove.
Now be still, yet still believe me, 
thy grief more than death doth grieve me. 

If those eyes you praised be
half so dear as you to me, 
let me home return stark blinded 
of those eyes, and blinder minded.