"In the window of a Graunge, Whence mens prospects cannot range Over groves, and flowers growing, Natures wealth, and pleasure showing; But on graves where shepheards lye, That by love or sicknesse die; In that window saw I sit, Caelica adorning it, Sadly clad for sorrowes glory, Making joy, glad to be sorie: Shewing Sorrow in such fashion, As Truth seem'd in love with Passion, Such a sweet enamell giveth Love restrain'd, that constant liveth. Absence, that bred all this paine, Presence heal'd not straight againe; Eyes from darke to suddaine light, See not straight, nor can delight. Where the heart revives from death, Grones doe first send forth a breath: So, first looks did looks beget, One sigh did another fet, Hearts within their breast did quake, While thoughts to each other spake. Philocell entrauncèd stood, Rackt, and joyèd with his good, His eyes on her eyes were fixed, Where both true Love and Shame were mixed: In her eyes he pittie saw, His Love did to Pittie draw: But Love found when it came there, Pitty was transform'd to Feare: Then he thought that in her face, He saw Love, and promis'd Grace. Love calls his Love to appeare, But as soone as it came neere, Her Love to her bosome fled, Under Honours burthens dead. Honour in Loves stead tooke place, To grace Shame, with Loves disgrace; But like drops throwne on the fire, Shames restraints, enflam'd Desire: Desire looks, and in her eyes, The image of it selfe espies, Whence he takes selfe-pitties motions To be Cynthia's owne devotions, And resolves Feare is a lyar, Thinking she bids speake Desire, But true love that feares, and dare Offend it selfe with pleasing Care, So divers wayes his heart doth move, That his tongue cannot speake of love. Onely in himselfe he sayes, How fatall are blind Cupids wayes?"