MADRIGALL

WHen as She smiles I find
More light before mine Eyes,
Than when the Sun from Inde
Brings to our World a flowry Paradise:
But when She gently weeps,
And poures forth pearly showers,
On cheeks faire blushing flowers,
A sweet melancholy my senses keeps.
Both feed so my disease,
So much both do me please,
That oft I doubt, which more my heart doth burne,
Love to behold her smile, or Pitty mourne.