O tears, no tears, but rain from beauty's skies,
Making those lilies and those roses grow
Which ay most fair, now more than most fair show,
While graceful pity beauty beautifies;
O honeyed sighs, which from that breast do rise,
Whose pants do make unspilling cream to flow,
Winged with whose breath so pleasing zephyrs blow
As can refresh the hell where my soul fries;
O plaints conserved in such a sugared phrase
That eloquence itself envies your praise,
While sobbed-out words a perfect music give;
Such tears, sighs, plaints, no sorrow is, but joy:
Or if such heav'nly signs must prove annoy,
All mirth farewell, let me in sorrow live.