The Winter of my infancy being over-past

Then supposed, suddenly the Spring would hast

Which useth every thing to cheare

With invitation to recreacion

This time of yeare.

The Sun sends forth his radient beames to warm the ground

The drops distil, between the gleams delights abound,

Vèr brings her utf mate the flowery Queen,

The Groves shee dresses, her Art expresses

On every Green.

But in my Spring it was not so, but contrary,

For no delightfull flowers grew to please the eye,

No hopefull bud, nor fruitfull bough,

No moderat showers which causeth flowers

To spring and grow.

My Aprill was exceeding dry, therfore unkind;

Whence tis that small utility I look to find,

For when that Aprill is so dry,

(As hath been spoken) it doth betoken

Much scarcity.

Thus is my Spring now almost past in heavinesse

The Sky of pleasure’s over-cast with sad distresse

For by a comfortlesse Eclips,

Disconsolacion and sore vexacion,

My blossom nips.

Yet as a garden is my mind enclosed fast

Being to safety so confind from storm and blast

Apt to produce a fruit most rare,

That is not common with every woman

That fruitfull are.

A Love of goodnesse is the cheifest plant therin

The second is, (for to be briefe) Dislike to sin.

These grow in spight of misery,

Which Grace doth nourish and cause to flourish

Continually.

But evill mocions, currupt seeds, fall here also

whenc springs prophanesse as do weeds where flowers grow

VVhich must supplanted be with speed

These weeds of Error, Distrust and Terror,

Lest woe succeed

So shall they not molest, the plants before exprest

Which countervails these outward wants, & purchase rest

Which more commodious is for me

Then outward pleasures or earthly treasures

Enjoyd would be.

My little Hopes of worldly Gain I fret not at,

As yet I do this Hope retain; though Spring be lat

Perhaps my Sommer-age may be,

Not prejudiciall, but benificiall

Enough for me.

Admit the worst it be not so, but stormy too,

He learn my selfe to undergo more then I doe

And still content my self with this

Sweet Meditacion and Contemplacion

Of heavenly blis,

VVhich for the Saints reserved is, who persevere

In Piety and Holynesse, and godly Feare,

The pleasures of which blis divine

Neither Logician nor Rhetorician