FAIN would I change that note 
To which fond Love hath charm'd me 
Long, long to sing by rote, 
Fancying that that harm'd me: 
Yet when this thought doth come, 
'Love is the perfect sum 
   Of all delight,' 
I have no other choice 
Either for pen or voice 
   To sing or write. 

O Love! they wrong thee much 
That say thy sweet is bitter, 
When thy rich fruit is such 
As nothing can be sweeter. 
Fair house of joy and bliss, 
Where truest pleasure is, 
   I do adore thee: 
I know thee what thou art, 
I serve thee with my heart, 
   And fall before thee.