W Hat else is hell, but losse of blisfull heauen? +What darknes else, but lacke of lightsome day? What else is death, but things of life bereauen? What winter else, but pleasant springs decay?
(5) Vnrest what else, but fancies hot desire, Fed with delay, and followed with dispaire? What else mishap, but longing to aspire, To striue against, earth, water, fire and aire?
Heauen were my state, and happie Sunneshine day, (10) And life most blest, to ioy one howres desire, Hap, blisse, and rest, and sweete springtime of May, Were to behold my faire consuming fire.
W Ould I were chaung’d into that golden showre, +That so diuinely streamed from the skies, To fall in drops vpon the daintie floore, Where in hir bed, she solitarie lies, +(5) Then would I hope such showres as richly shine, Would pearce more deepe than these wast teares of mine.
Or would I were that plumed Swan, snowe white, Vnder whose forme, was hidden heauenly power, +Then in that riuer would I most delite, (10) Whose waues doe beate, against hir stately bower, And in those banks, so tune my dying song, That hir deafe ears, would think my plaint too long.