Brave Prince of Troy, thou onely art our God,
That by thy vertues freest us from annoy,
And makes our hopes survive to coming joyes:
Doe thou but smile, and clowdie heaven will deare,
Whose night and day descendeth from thy browes:
Though we be now in extreame miserie,
And rest the map of weatherbeaten woe:
Yet shall the aged Sunne shed forth his haire,
To make us live unto our former heate,
And every beast the forrest doth send forth,
Bequeath her young ones to our scanted foode.
