Sweet smile, the daughter of the Queene of love,
    Expressing all thy mothers powrefull art:
    with which she wonts to temper angry Jove,
    when all the gods he threats with thundring dart,
Sweet is thy vertue as thy selfe sweet art,
    for when on me thou shinedst late in sadnesse:
    a melting pleasance ran through every part,
    and me revived with hart robbing gladnesse.
Whylest rapt with joy resembling heavenly madnes,
    my soule was ravisht quite as in a traunce:
    feeling thence no more her sorowes sadnesse,
    fed on the fulnesse of that chearefull glaunce.
More sweet than Nectar or Ambrosiall meat
    seemd every bit, which thenceforth I did eat.