How soone these faire and forward springs
Are nip't by some unruly blast!
Whose beuty whilst the poet sings,
This sadly sighes the blessing past.
Not th' earely violet was more sweet,
Or new-blowne rose apear'd more faire;
All that is wish'd our sences meet,
But the quick losse augments our care.
So we reioyce in some kind dreame,
That makes a good as much our owne;
But waking, ebs the flowing streame,
Sorrow contracts us to her stone.