Like to the mountaines are mine high desiers
Leuell to thy loues highest point,
Grounded on faith which thy sweet grace requiers,
For springs, teares rise in endlesse sourse:
For sommers flowers, loues fancies I appoint.
The trees with stormes tost out of course
Figure my thoughtes still blasted with dispaire:
Thunder, lightning, and hayle,
Make his trees mourne, thy frownes make me bewayle,
This onely diffrence here fier there snowes are.