poemimage

For she, whose parts maintainde a perfect musique,

Whose beautie shin’de more then the blushing morning,

Who much did passe in state the stately mountaines,

in straightnes past the Cedars of the forrests,

Hath cast me wretch into eternall evening,

By taking her two Sunnes from these dark vallies.

Or to approach this romantic doldrum from another angle:

Hath cast me into a perfect musique…