Lxxvi

Fayre bosome! fraught with vertues richest tresure, The neast of love, the lodging of delight, The bowre of blisse, the paradice of pleasure, The sacred harbour of that hevenly spright, How was I ravisht with your lovely sight, And my frayle thoughts too rashly led astray, Whiles diving deepe through amorous insight, On the sweet spoyle of beautie they did pray, And twixt her paps, like early fruit in May, Whose harvest seemd to hasten now apace, They loosely did theyr wanton winges display, And there to rest themselves did boldly place. Sweet thoughts! I envy your so happy rest, Which oft I wisht, yet never was so blest.

LXXVII.

Was it a dreame, or did I see it playne? A goodly table of pure yvory, All spred with juncats fit to entertayne The greatest prince with pompous roialty: Mongst which, there in a silver dish did ly Two golden apples of unvalewd* price, Far passing those which Hercules came by, Or those which Atalanta did entice; Exceeding sweet, yet voyd of sinfull vice; That many sought, yet none could ever taste; Sweet fruit of pleasure, brought from Paradice By Love himselfe, and in his garden plaste. Her brest that table was, so richly spredd; My thoughts the guests, which would thereon have fedd. [* Unvalewd, invaluable]