Al those that write of heauen and heauenly ioyes,
Describe the way with narrow crooked bedings,
Beset with griefe, paine, horror and annoyes,
That till all end haue neuer perfect endings.
The heauen wherein my thoughts are resident,
The paradice wherein my heart is fainted,
Through street-like straight hie-waies I did attempt,
Nor with rough care nor rigorous crosse attainted,
I must confesse faith was the only meane,
For that with some for want thereof did misse,
Only thereby at length I did obtaine,
And by that faith am now instal'd in blisse:
There sleepe my thoughts, my heart there set thy rest,
Both heart & thoughts thinke that her heauen is best.