The Tyrant loue, that martyrs stil the Mind,
We make a God, to which our Pens & Tongues
Do sacrifice their Labours, il assign'd;
And so ore-right the Author of our Wrongs:
Then, this Affections floud we ought to turne
Into the Channel of Celestial Loue;
Sith Angels swim stil in that blessed Boorn
( Leander -like) to Grace by whom they moue!
Where Light of truth (the Land mark) nere goes out,
And stil the Current runs as calm, as cleare:
Where no misfortunes Flawes, Feare needs to doubt:
Sith holy Loues smooth Floud, excludeth Feare:
This Loue alone, (did our Muse rightly sing)
Should be the Plaine-song of hir descanting.