Aurelian Townshend

The sunn must lend his goulden beames, Soft windes their breath, green trees their shade, Sweete fields their flowers, cleare springs their streams, Ere such another smyle bee made.

'Tis not how witty, nor how free, Nor yet how beautifull she be, But how much kinde and true to me.

There is no up-hill in the skyes; Clouds stay not feathered feete.