In a grove most rich of shade

In a grove most rich of shade; Where birds wanton Musicke made: Maie then yong his pide weeds shewing, New perfumes with flowrs fresh growing.

Astrophel with Stella sweet Did for mutual comfort meete Both within themselves oppressed, But either in each other blessed.

Him great harmes had taught much care, Her faire necke a foule yoke bare: But hir sight his cares did banish, In his sight hir yoke did vanish.

Wept they had, alas the while: But now teares themselves did smile, While their eyes by Love directed, Interchangeably reflected.

Sighd they had: but now betwixt Sighs of woe were glad sighs mixt: With armes crost, yet testifying Restles rest, and living dying.

Their eares hungrie of each word Which the deare tongue would afford, But their tongues restrained from walking, Till their harts had ended talking.

But when their tongues could not speake, Love it selfe did silence breake: Love did set his lips asunder Thus to speake in love and wonder.

Stella, Sovereigne of my joy, Faire Triumphres in annoy: Stella, Starre of heavenly fire, Stella, loadstarre of desire.

Stella, in whose shining eyes Are the lights of Cupids skyes, Whose beames where they are once darted Love there with is straight imparted.

Stella, whose voyce when it speakes, Sences all asunder breakes: Stella, whose voyce when it singeth Angles to acquaintance bringeth.

Stella, in whose bodie is Writ the carecters of blis: Whose sweete face all beautie passeth, Save the minde which it surpasseth.

Graunt, ô graunt, but speach (alas) Failes me, fearing on to passe: Graunt to me, what am I saying? But no sinne there is in praying.

Graunt (ô Deare) on knees I pray (Knees on ground he then did stay) That not I, but since I prove you, Time and place from me nere move you.

Never season was more fit, Never roome more apt for it: Smiling aire allowes my reason: These birds sing; now use the season.

This small winde which so sweete is, See how it the leaves doth kis: Each tree in his best attyring, Sense of Love to Love inspiring.

Love makes earth the water drinke, Love to earth makes water sinke: And if dumb things be so wittie, Shall a heavenly Grace want pittie?

There his hands (in their speach) faine Would have made tongues language plaine: But her hands his hands compelling, Gave repulse, all grace expelling.

Therewithall, away she went, Leaving him with passion rent, With what she had done and spoken, That therewith my song is broken.