XXIII.
TO FLORA.
What though faire Flora frownes on mee,
Tis but a chance of destinie;
The wisest I have heard to say,
Tis duske before the breake of day.
Why should I curse that houre of night,
That brings the day to light?
Tis but a chance of destinie;
The wisest I have heard to say,
Tis duske before the breake of day.
Why should I curse that houre of night,
That brings the day to light?
Each angry looke appeares to me,
As witne» of her modesty;
And blustering stormes doe but forerun
The luster of a brighter sun;
Which, when appeared, I'm full posest
Her frownes are but in iest.
As witne» of her modesty;
And blustering stormes doe but forerun
The luster of a brighter sun;
Which, when appeared, I'm full posest
Her frownes are but in iest.
I know, faire Flora, in thy breast
A killing anger cannot rest;
Yet, for my humour I will love,
Though thou to me a fury prove:
I know thy soule is soe refind,
Thou wilt at last prove kind.
A killing anger cannot rest;
Yet, for my humour I will love,
Though thou to me a fury prove:
I know thy soule is soe refind,
Thou wilt at last prove kind.