THE SONG

  And if not I, what Lady else can sing,

  Of those delights, which kind contentment bring?

  Come, come, sweet Love, the cause of my chiefe good,

  Of all my hopes, the firme and full effect;

  Sing wee together, but in no sad mood,

  Of sighes or teares, which joy doth countercheck:

  Stolne pleasures are delightfull in the taste,

  But yet Loves fire is oftentimes too fierce;

  Consuming comfort with ore-speedy haste,

  Which into gentle hearts too far doth pierce.

    And if not I, etc.

  The first day that I felt this fiery heate,

  So sweete a passion did possesse my soule,

  That though I found the torment sharp, and great;

  Yet still me thought t'was but a sweete controule.

  Nor could I count it rude, or rigorous,

  Taking my wound from such a piercing eye:

  As made the paine most pleasing, gracious,

  That I desire in such assaults to die.

    And if not I, etc.

  Grant then great God of Love, that I may still

  Enjoy the benefit of my desire;

  And honour her with all my deepest skill,

  That first enflam'd my heart with holy fire.

  To her my bondage is free liberty,

  My sicknesse health, my tortures sweet repose;

  Say shee the word, in full felicity

  All my extreames joyne in an happy close.

    Then if not I, what Lover else can sing,

    Of those delights which kind contentment bring?

  After this Song was ended, they sung divers other beside, and having

great variety of instruments' they played to them as many pleasing

dances. But the Queene considering that the meete houre for rest was

come, with their lighted Torches before them, they all repaired to

their Chambers; sparing the other dayes next succeeding, for those

reasons by the Queene alledged, and spending the Sunday in solemne

devotion.