My muse in meads has spent her many hours, Sitting, and sorting several sorts of flowers To make for others garlands, and to set On many a head here many a coronet; But, amongst all encircled here, not one Gave her a day of coronation, Till you, sweet mistress, came and interwove A laurel for her, ever young as love — You first of all crown’d her: she must of due Render for that a crown of life to you.