Oft when my spirit doth spred her bolder winges,
    In mind to mount up to the purest sky:
    it down is weighd with thoght of earthly things
    and clogd with burden of mortality,
Where when that soverayne beauty it doth spy,
    resembling heavens glory in her light:
    drawne with sweet pleasures bayt, it back doth fly,
    and unto heaven forgets her former flight.
There my fraile fancy fed with full delight,
    doth bath in blisse and mantleth most at ease:
    ne thinks of other heaven, but how it might
    her harts desire with most contentment please,
Hart need not with none other happinesse,
    but here on earth to have such hevens blisse.