To Lucasta

I.
  I laugh and sing, but cannot tell
  Whether the folly on't sounds well;
               But then I groan,
               Methinks, in tune;
Whilst grief, despair and fear dance to the air
          Of my despised prayer.

                      II.
  A pretty antick love does this,
  Then strikes a galliard with a kiss;
               As in the end
               The chords they rend;
So you but with a touch from your fair hand
          Turn all to saraband.