Fayre bosome fraught with vertues richest tresure,
    The neast of love, the lodging of delight:
    the bowre of blisse, the paradice of pleasure,
    the sacred harbour of that hevenly spright.
How was I ravisht with your lovely sight,
    and my frayle thoughts too rashly led astray?
    Whiles diving deepe through amorous insight,
    on the sweet spoyle of beautie they did pray.
And twixt her paps like early fruit in May,
    whose harvest seemd to hasten now apace:
    they loosely did theyr wanton winges display,
    and there to rest themselves did boldly place.
Sweet thoughts I envy your so happy rest,
    which oft I wisht, yet never was so blest.