XVI.
[My gentle birde, which sung so sweete of late]
In this passion the Authour vpon the late sweete
song of his Mistres, maketh her his birde; & therwithall
partlie describeth her worthines, & partlie
his owne estate. The one parte he sheweth, by
the coulour of her feathers, by her statelie minde,
and by that souereintie which she hath ouer him:
the other, by description of his delight in her
companie, and her strangenes, & drawing backe
from a dewe acceptance of his seruice.
My
gentle birde, which sung so sweete of late,
Is not like those, that flie about by kind,
Her feathers are of golde, shee wantes a mate,
And knowing wel her worth, is proud of mind:
And wheras som do keepe their birds in cage,
My bird keepes mee, & rules me as hir page.
She feedes mine eare with tunes of rare delight,
Mine eye with louing lookes, my heart with ioy,
Wherhence I thinke my seruitude but light,
Although in deede I suffer great annoye:
And (sure) it is but reason, I suppose,
He feele the pricke, that seekes to pluck the Rose.
And who so mad, as woulde not with his will
Leese libertie and life to heare her sing,
Whose voice excels those harmonies that fill
Elisian fieldes, where growes eternall spring?
If mightie Ioue should heare what I haue hard,
She (sure) were his, and all my market marde.
