I live, sweet love, whereas the gentle wind 
Murmurs with sport in midst of thickest boughs, 
Where loving woodbine doth the harbor bind, 
And chirping birds do echo forth my vows; 
Where strongest elm can scarce support the vine, 
And sweetest flowers enameled have the ground; 
Where Muses dwell; and yet hereat repine 
That on the earth so rare a place was found. 
But winds delight, I wish to be content; 
I praise the woodbine, but I take no joy; 
I moan the birds that music thus have spent; 
As for the rest, they breed but mine annoy. 
Live then, fair Licia, in this place alone; 
Then shall I joy though all of these were gone.