187
When her sweet Grace this word of comfort gave
To her sad Servant, now so nigh Despair,
She, modest, blusht, he smil'd, and seem'd to have
New sp'rit infus'd to him by her kind air.
Resolv'd at last his doubtfull prize to try,
And by her favour live, or frowning die.
188
She his approaches met as the coole stream
Doth bathing Virgins, when they first uncase
And come nigh, the coy Nymph to stop them seem,
But enter'd, she their limbs kisse and embrace.
Now nothings wanting but the Churches rites
To fill with joy their daies, with sport their nights.
189
Th'Youth to the foresaid Bower would oft resort
To kisse the leaves his Mistris sate among.
There one day musing of his future sport
He in an extasie this Rapture sung.
Think not this Humors madnesse, wise men say
All great wits have of Madnesse some allay.
