I chanc'd my deare to come vpon a day,
Whil'st thou wast but arising from thy bed,
And the warme snowes with comely garments cled;
More rich then glorious, and more fine then gay:
Then blushing to be seene in such a case,
O how thy curled lockes mine eyes did please,
And well become those waues, thy beauties seas,
Which by thy haires were fram'd vpon thy face:
Such was Diana once when, being spide
By rash Acteon, she was much commou'd:
Yet more discreet then th'angrie goddesse prou'd,
Thou knew'st I came through error, not of pride:
And thought the wounds I got by thy sweet sight,
Were too great scourges for a fault so light.