I live, sweet love, whereas the gentle wind br Murmurs with sport in midst of thickest boughs, br Where loving woodbine doth the harbor bind, br And chirping birds do echo forth my vows; br Where strongest elm can scarce support the vine, br And sweetest flowers enameled have the ground; br Where Muses dwell; and yet hereat repine br That on the earth so rare a place was found. br But winds delight, I wish to be content; br I praise the woodbine, but I take no joy; br I moan the birds that music thus have spent; br As for the rest, they breed but mine annoy. br Live then, fair Licia, in this place alone; br Then shall I joy though all of these were gone.