So you be thankt it skils not who prevaile, Galba or Nero,traitor to them both.

The glorious pourtraict of that angels face, Made to amaze weake mens confused skil, And this worlds worthlesse glory to embase, What pen, what pencil!, can expresse her fill?

280 Then shall thy ravisht soul inspired bee With heavenly thoughts, farre above humane skil, And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainely see Th'idee of his pure glorie present still Before thy face, that all thy spirits shall fill 285 With sweete enragement of celestiall love, Kindled through sight of those faire things above.

I have a concupiscent forme of trust in your skil, it will malladise.