daynes once to look on me?
It is thy heauen within her face to dwell,
And in thy heauen, there onely, is my hell.

Amour 24

Our floods-Queene, _Thames_, for shyps and Swans is crowned,
And stately _Seuerne_ for her shores is praised,
The christall _Trent_ for Foords and fishe renowned,
And _Auons_ fame to _Albyons_ Cliues is raysed.
_Carlegion Chester_ vaunts her holy _Dee_,
_Yorke_ many wonders of her _Ouse_ can tell,
The _Peake_ her _Doue_, whose bancks so fertill bee,
And _Kent_ will say her _Medway_ doth excell.
Cotswoold commends her _Isis_ and her _Tame_,
Our Northern borders boast of _Tweeds_ faire flood;
Our Westerne parts extoll theyr Wilys fame,
And old _Legea_ brags of _Danish_ blood:
_Ardens_ sweet _Ankor_, let thy glory be
That fayre _Idea_ shee doth liue by thee.

Amour 25

The glorious sunne went blushing to his bed,
When my soules sunne, from her fayre Cabynet,
Her golden beames had now discouered,
Lightning the world, eclipsed by his set.
Some muz'd to see the earth enuy the ayre,
Which from her lyps exhald refined sweet,
A world to see, yet how he ioyd to heare
The dainty grasse make musicke with her feete.
But my most meruaile was when from the skyes,
So Comet-like, each starre aduanc'd her lyght,
As though the heauen had now awak'd her eyes,
And summond Angels to this blessed sight.
No clowde was seene, but christalline the ayre,
Laughing for ioy upon my louely fayre.

Amour 26

Cupid, dumbe-Idoll, peeuish Saint of loue,
No more shalt thou nor Saint nor Idoll be;
No God art thou, a Goddesse shee doth proue,
Of all thine honour shee hath robbed thee.
Thy Bowe, halfe broke, is peec'd with old desire;
Her Bowe is beauty with ten thousand strings
Of purest gold, tempred with vertues fire,
The least able to kyll an hoste of Kings.
Thy shafts be spent, and shee (to warre appointed)
Hydes in those christall quiuers of her eyes
More Arrowes, with hart-piercing mettel poynted,
Then there be starres at midnight in the skyes.
With these she steales mens harts for her reliefe,
Yet happy he thats robd of such a thiefe!

Amour 27

My Loue makes hote the fire whose heat is spent,
The water moisture from my teares deriueth,
And my strong sighes the ayres weake force reuiueth:
Thus