Fain would I change that note
to wich fond love hath charmd me,
long, long to sing by roate,
fancying that that harmde me
yet when this thought doth come
Love is the perfect summe of all delight
I have no other choice
either for pen or voyce,
to sing or write:
O Love they wrong thee much,
That say thy sweete is bitter.
When thy ripe fruit is such,
As nothing can be sweeter,
Faire house of ioy and blisse,
Where truest pleasure is,
I doe adore thee:
I know thee what thou art,
I serve thee with my hart,
And fall before thee.