1 Lighten heauy heart thy spright,
The ioyes recall that thence are fled :
Yeeld the brest some liuing light,
The man that nothing doth is dead.
Tune thy temper to these sounds,
And quicken so thy ioylesse minde ;
Sloth the worst and best confounds,
It is the ruine of mankinde.
2 From her caue rise all distasts,
Which vnresolu'd Despaire pursues ;
Whom soone after Violence hasts
Her selfe vngratefull to abuse.
Skies are clear'd with stirring windes,
Th'vnmoued water moorish growes;
Eu'ry eye much pleasure findes
To view a streame that brightly flowes.
Online text copyright ©, Harald Lillmeyer