To a Lady, more affable since the war began

Cloris, since first our calme of peace

Was frighted hence, this good wee finde,

Your favours with your fears increase,

And growing mischiefe makes you kinde;

So the fayre tree (which still preserves

Her fruit and state when no winde blow's)

In stormes, from that uprightnesse swerv's,

And the glad Earth about her strowes

With treasure from her yeelding boughs.