Love a childe is ever crying,
Please him, and he strait is flying;
Give him, he the more is craving,
Never satisfi'd with having.
When night's blacke Mantle could most darknesse prove,
And sleepe (deaths Image) did my senses hyre,
Am I thus conquer'd? hame I lost the powers,
That to withstand, which joyes to ruine me?
Must I bee still, while it my strength devoures,
The spring now come at last
To Trees, Fields, to Flowres,
And meadowes makes to taste
His pride, while sad showres
My paine still smother'd in my grieved brest,
Seekes for some ease, yet cannot passage finde,
To be discharg'd of this unwellcome guest,