Fresh Spring, the herald of loves mighty king,
In whose cote-armour richly are displayd
All sorts of flowres the which on earth do spring,
In goodly colours gloriously arrayd,
Goe to my Love, where she is carelesse layd,
Yet in her winters bowre not well awake: 
Tell her the ioyous time wil not be staid,
Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take;
Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make,
To wayt on Love amongst his lovely crew,
Where every one that misseth then her make*
Shall be by him amearst with penance dew. 
  Make haste therefore, sweet Love, while it is prime**;
  For none can call againe the passed time.
[* Make, mate.]
[** Prime, spring.]

LXXI.

I ioy to see how, in your drawen work,
Your selfe unto the Bee ye doe compare,
And me unto the Spyder, that doth lurke
In close awayt, to catch her unaware. 
Right so your selfe were caught in cunning snare
Of a deare foe, and thralled to his love;
In whose streight bands ye now captived are
So firmely, that ye never may remove. 
But as your worke is woven all about
With woodbynd flowers and fragrant eglantine,
So sweet your prison you in time shall prove,
With many deare delights bedecked fyne: 
  And all thensforth eternall peace shall see
  Betweene the Spyder and the gentle Bee.

LXXII.

Oft when my spirit doth spred her bolder winges,
In mind to mount up to the purest sky,
It down is weighd with thought of earthly things,
And clogd with burden of mortality: 
Where, when that soverayne beauty it doth spy,
Resembling heavens glory in her light,
Drawn with sweet pleasures bayt it back doth fly,
And unto heaven forgets her former flight. 
There my fraile fancy, fed with full delight,
Doth bathe in blisse, and mantlcth most at ease;
Ne thinks of other heaven, but how it might
Her harts desire with most contentment please. 
  Hart need not wish none other happinesse,
  But here on earth to have such hevens blisse.

LXXIII

Being my self captyved here in care,
My hart, (whom none with servile bands can tye,
But the fayre tresses of your golden hayre,)
Breaking his prison, forth to you doth fly. 
Like as a byrd, that in ones hand doth spy
Desired food, to it doth make his flight,
Even so my hart, that wont on your fayre eye
To feed his fill, flyes backe unto your sight. 
Doe you him take, and in your bosome bright
Gently encage, that he may be your thrall: 
Perhaps he there may learne, with rare delight,
To sing your name and prayses over all: 
  That it hereafter may you not repent,
  Him lodging in your bosome to have lent.

LXXIV