Yow goodly Pynes whiche still with brave assent,
In Natures pryde youre heades to heaven warde heave,
Thoughe yo w besydes suche graces Earthe hathe lent,
Of some late grace, a greater grace Receyue?
By her, who was (O blessed yow) content,
With her fayre hande youre tender Barckes to cleave,
And so by yow (O blessed yow) hathe sent,
Suche persing woordes, as no thing else Conceyve,
Yet, yeelde youre graunte, a Baser hande may Leave,
His Thoughtes in yo w where so sweete thoughtes were spent,
For how woulde yo w the Mistris thoughtes bereave,
Of wayting thoughtes all to her service ment.
Nay, higher thoughtes thoughe Thralled thoughtes I calle
My Thoughtes then hers, who first youre Rhyne did Rent,
Then hers to whome my thoughtes a Lovely thralle
Rysing from Love are to the highest bent,
Where hers whome worthe makes highest over all,
Coming from her can not but Downeward falle.