All changeth

THe angry Winds not aye
Do cuff the roaring Deep;
And though heavens often weep,
Yet do they smile for joy when comes dismay;
Frosts do not ever kill the pleasant flow'rs,
And Love hath sweets when gone are all the soures.
This said, a shepheard closing in his armes
His deare; who blusht to feele Loves new alarmes.