In a grove most rich of shade

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.