LXII.

The weary yeare his race now having run,
The new begins his compast course anew: 
With shew of morning mylde he bath begun,
Betokening peace and plenty to ensew. 
So let us, which this chaunge of weather vew,
Chaunge eke our mynds, and former lives amend;
The old yeares sinnes forepast let us eschew,
And fly the faults with which we did offend. 
Then shall the new yeares ioy forth freshly send
Into the glooming world his gladsome ray,
And all these stormes, which now his beauty blend*,
Shall turne to calmes, and tymely cleare away. 
  So, likewise, Love! cheare you your heavy spright,
  And chaunge old yeares annoy to new delight.

[* Blend, blemish.]

LXIII.

After long stormes and tempests sad assay,
Which hardly I endured heretofore,
In dread of death, and daungerous dismay,
With which my silly bark was tossed sore,
I doe at length descry the happy shore,
In which I hope ere long for to arryve: 
Fayre soyle it seemes from far, and fraught with store
Of all that deare and daynty is alyve. 
Most happy he that can at last atchyve
The ioyous safety of so sweet a rest;
Whose least delight sufficeth to deprive
Remembrance of all paines which him opprest. 
  All paines are nothing in respect of this;
  All sorrowes short that gaine eternall blisse.

LXIV.

Comming to kisse her lyps, (such grace I found,)
Me seemd I smelt a gardin of sweet flowres,
That dainty odours from them threw around,
For damzels fit to decke their lovers bowres. 
Her lips did smell lyke unto gillyflowers;
Her ruddy cheekes lyke unto roses red;
Her snowy browes lyke budded bellamoures;
Her lovely eyes lyke pincks but newly spred;
Her goodly bosome lyke a strawberry bed;
Her neck lyke to a bounch of cullambynes;
Her brest lyke lillyes, ere their leaves be shed;
Her nipples lyke young blossomd jessemynes. 
  Such fragrant flowres doe give most odorous smell;
  But her sweet odour did them all excell.

[Footnote:  LXIV. 7.—­Bellamoures.  I have not discovered what flower is here meant.  C.]

LXV.

The doubt which ye misdeeme, fayre Love, is vaine,
That fondly feare to lose your liberty,
When, losing one, two liberties ye gayne,
And make him bond that bondage earst did fly. 
Sweet be the bands the which true love doth tye,
Without constraynt or dread of any ill: 
The gentle birde feeles no captivity
Within her cage, but sings, and feeds her fill. 
There pride dare not approch, nor discord spill
The league twixt them that loyal love hath bound,
But simple Truth and mutual Good-will
Seeks with sweet peace to salve each others wound: 
  There Fayth doth fearless dwell in brasen towre,
  And spotlesse Pleasure builds her sacred bowre.