(untitled)

But now, to Thee, faire Bride, it is some wrong,
To thinke thou wert in Bed so long,
Since Soone thou lyest downe first, tis fit
Thou in first rising should'st allow for it,
Pouder thy Radiant haire,
Which if without such ashes thou would'st weare,
Thou, which, to all which come to looke upon,
Are meant for, Phoebus, would'st be Phaëton,
For our ease, give thine eyes, th'unusuall part
Of joy, a Teare; so quencht, thou maist impart,
To us that come, thy inflaming eyes, to him, thy loving heart.