1 Fire that must flame is with apt fuell fed, Flowers that wil thriue in sunny soyle are bred; How can a hart feele heate that no hope findes ? Or can hee loue on whom no comfort shines ? 2 Fayre, I confesse there's pleasure in your sight : Sweet, you haue powre I grant of all delight. But what is all to mee if I haue none ? Churle that you are t'inioy such wealth alone. 3 Prayres moue the heau'ns, but finde no grace with you ; Yet in your lookes a heauenly forme I view : Then will I pray againe, hoping to finde As well as in your lookes, heau'n in your minde. 4 Saint of my heart, Queene of my life, and loue, O let my vowes thy louing spirit moue : Let me no longer mourne through thy disdaine, But with one touch of grace cure all my paine.
Online text copyright ©, Harald Lillmeyer