Ah my dread Lord, if any little sparke Of melting pittie doth remaine alive, And not extinguisht by my impious deedes, Oh kindle it unto a happie flame, To light Allenso from this miserie Which through dim death he's like to fall into.

Your Monsieurs gallant sparkes.

Nay, then I may beleive you flatter me, But say thou dost and seeme to love me dearelye, For I confess, as freelye as I love, One littell sparke of thee outbuys my kyngdome; And when my kyngdomes gone pray what am I?

whose sight cannot sustaine 120 The suns bright beames when he on us doth shyne, But* that their points rebutted** backe againe Are duld, how can we see with feeble eyne The glorie of that Maiestie Divine, In sight of whom both sun and moone are darke, 125 Compared to his least resplendent sparke?