Where shee her sacred bowre adornes,
      The Riuers clearely flow ;
The groues and medowes swell with flowres,
      The windes all gently blow.
Her Sunne-like beauty shines so fayre,
      Her Spring can neuer fade :
Who then can blame the life that striues
      To harbour in her shade ?

Her grace I sought, her loue I wooed ;
      Her loue though I obtaine,
No time, no toyle, no vow, no faith,
      Her wished grace can gaine.
Yet truth can tell my heart is hers,
      And her will I adore ;
And from that loue when I depart,
      Let heau'n view me no more.

Her roses with my prayers shall spring ;
      And when her trees I praise,
Their boughs shall blossome, mellow fruit
      Shall straw her pleasant wayes.
The words of harty zeale haue powre
      High wonders to effect ;
O why should then her Princely eare
      My words, or zeale neglect ?

If shee my faith misdeemes, or worth,
      Woe-worth my haplesse fate :
For though time can my truth reueale,
      That time will come too late.
And who can glory in the worth,
      That cannot yeeld him grace ?
Content in eu'rything is not,
      Nor ioy in eu'ry place.

But from her bowre of Ioy since I
      Must now excluded be,
And shee will not relieue my cares,
      Which none can helpe but shee ;
My comfort in her loue shall dwell,
      Her loue lodge in my brest,
And though not in her bowre, yet I
      Shall in her temple rest.