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Than the sweet-voiced Philomel;
Though all these pleasures past
Nothing now remains at last
But remembrance, poor relief
That more makes than mends my grief;
She's my minds companion still
Maugre envy's evil will,
Whence she should be driven too
Wer't in mortals power to do.20
She doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow,
Makest the desolatest place
To her presence be a grace,
And the blackest discontents
To be pleasing ornaments.
In my former days of bliss
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw
I could some invention draw,30
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