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FAyre bosome
fraught with vertues richest tresure,
The neast of
loue, the lodging of delight:
the bowre of blisse,
the paradice of pleasure,
the sacred harbour of that
heuenly spright.
How was I rauisht with your louely
sight,
and my frayle thoughts too rashly led astray?
whiles diuing deepe through amorous insight,
on
the sweet spoyle of beautie they did pray.
And twixt
her paps like early fruit in May,
whose haruest
seemd to hasten now apace:
they loosely did theyr
wanton winges display,
and there to rest themselues
did boldly place.
Sweet thoughts I enuy your so
happy rest,
which oft I wisht, yet neuer was so
blest.
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