To M[r]. I. P.

BLEST are your north parts, for all this long time

My sun is with you; cold and dark ’s our clime;

Heaven’s sun, which stay’d so long from us this year,

Stay’d in your north, I think, for she was there;

And hither by kind nature drawn from thence,

Here rages, chafes, and threatens pestilence.

Yet I, as long as she from hence doth stay,

Think this no south, no summer, nor no day.

With thee my kind and unkind heart is run;

There sacrifice it to that beauteous sun.

So may thy pastures with their flowery feasts,

As suddenly as lard, fat thy lean beasts;

So may thy woods oft poll’d, yet ever wear

A green, and—when thee list—a golden hair;

So may all thy sheep bring forth twins; and so

In chase and race may thy horse all out-go;

So may thy love and courage ne’er be cold;

Thy son ne’er ward; thy loved wife ne’er seem old.

But mayst thou wish great things, and them attain,

As thou tell’st her, and none but her, my pain.