Where shee her sacred bowre adornes

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.