Astrophel and Stella: 69

O joy, too high for my low stile to show:O blisse, fit for a nobler state then me.Enuie, put out thine eyes, least thou do seeWhat Oceans of delight in me do flow.My friend, that oft saw through all maskes my wo,Come, come, and let me powre my selfe on thee;Gone is the winter of my miserie,My spring appeares, O see what here doth grow,For Stella hath with words where faith doth shine,Of her high heart giu'n me the Monarchie:I, I, O I may say, that she is mine.And though she giue but thus conditionlyThis realme of blisse, while vertuous course I take,No kings be crown'd, but they some couenants make.