Of a noble personage.

THe Sonne that shrouds, in lowryng cloudie Skies,
Shines clere and faire, when foggie Mists are gon:
The mornyng Starre, that slepes long ere it rise,
Awakes them all, that listes to looke thereon.
The hidden gold, in treasure house that lies,
By showe of foile, setts forthe a precious stone:
The graines of Corne, that deepe in yearth remaines,
Sprouts vp at length, and quitts the Plowmans paines.
So hartes opprest, that heauie are a while.
Laughes greef to scorne, when Fortune makes them smile:
The Birde in cage, must suffer for a space,
Till freedome comes, and makes her proue her wings,
The prisners poore, maie purchace Princes grace:
And quenche their thirst, where pleasant fountaine springs.
The mournyng minde, maie shewe a cherefull face,
When merrie cause, a present comfort bryngs:
No happe so harde, no greef so greate I trowe,
But maie through tyme, conuert to ioye from woe.
Then sigh no more, O pensiue troubled breste,
Who sowes in care, is sure to reape in reste.