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BEing my
selfe captyued here in care,
My hart, whom none with
seruile bands can tye:
but the fayre tresses of your
golden hayre,
breaking his prison forth to you doth
fly.
Lyke as a byrd that in ones hand doth spy
desired food, to it doth make his flight:
euen so my
hart, that wont on your fayre eye
to feed his fill,
flyes backe vnto your sight.
Doe you him take, and
in your bosome bright,
gently encage, that he may be
your thrall:
perhaps he there may learne with rare
delight,
to sing your name and prayses ouer all.
That it hereafter may you not repent,
him lodging in
your bosome to haue lent.
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