This keepes my hands From Cupid’s bands. - William Strode

Be silent you still musique of the Sphears,
And every sense make haste to be all ears,
And give devout attention to her aires,
To which the Gods doe listen as to prayers
Of pious votaries; the which to heare
Tumult would be attentive, and would swear
To keep lesse noise at Nile, if there she sing,
Or with a happy touch grace but the string.
Among so many auditors, so many throng
Of Gods and men that presse to hear her songs,
O let me have an unespied room,
And die with such an anthem ore my tomb.

I saw faire Cloris walke alone
Where feather’d rayne came softly downe,
And Jove descended from his tower
To court her in a silver shower;
The wanton snowe flewe to her breast
Like little birds into their nest,
And overcome with whiteness there
For griefe it thaw’d into a teare,
Thence falling on her garment’s hemme
For greife it freez’d into a gemme.

Whene’er the wast makes too much hast,
That hast againe makes too much wast.