XXV.

How long shall this lyke dying lyfe endure,

And know no end of her owne mysery:

but wast and weare away in termes vnsure,

twixt feare and hope depending doubtfully?

Yet better were attonce to let me die,

and shew the last ensample of your pride:

then to torment me thus with cruelty,

to proue your powre, which I too wel haue tride.

But yet if in your hardned brest ye hide

a close intent at last to shew me grace:

then all the woes and wrecks which I abide,

as meanes of blisse I gladly wil embrace;

And wish that more and greater they might be,

that greater meede at last may turne to mee.

 

Sonnet. XXVI.

Sweet is the Rose, but growes vpon a brere;

Sweet is the Iunipere, but sharpe his bough;

sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere;

sweet is the firbloome, but his braunches rough.

Sweet is the Cypresse, but his rynd is tough,

sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill;

sweet is the broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough;

and sweet is Moly, but his root is ill.

So euery sweet with soure is tempred still,

that maketh it be coueted the more:

for easie things that may be got at will,

most sorts of men doe set but little store.

Why then should I accoumpt of little paine,

that endlesse pleasure shall vnto me gaine?

 

Sonnet. XXVII.

Faire proud now tell me why should faire be proud,

Sith all worlds glorie is but drosse vncleane:

and in the shade of death it selfe shall shroud,

how euer now thereof ye little weene.

That goodly Idoll now so gay beseene,

shall done her fleshes borowd fayre attyre:

and be forgot as it had neuer beene,

that many now much worship and admire.

Ne any then shall after it inquire,

ne any mention shall thereof remaine:

but what this verse, that neuer shall expyre,

shall to you purchas with her thankles paine.

Faire be no lenger proud of that shall perish,

but that which shal you make immortall, cherish.

 

Sonnet. XXVIII.

The laurell leafe, which you this day doe weare,

giues me great hope of your relenting mynd:

for since it is the badg which I doe beare,

ye bearing it doe seeme to me inclind:

The powre thereof, which ofte in me I find,

let it lykewise your gentle brest inspire

with sweet infusion, and put you in mind

of that proud mayd, whom now those leaues attyre:

Proud Daphne scorning Phæbus louely fyre,

on the Thessalian shore from him did flee:

for which the gods in theyr reuengefull yre

did her transforme into a laurell tree.

Then fly no more fayre loue from Phebus chace,

but in your brest his leafe and loue embrace.

 

Sonnet. XXIX.

See how the stubborne damzell doth depraue

my simple meaning with disdaynfull scorne:

and by the bay which I vnto her gaue,

accoumpts my selfe her captiue quite forlorne.

The bay (quoth she) is of the victours borne,

yielded them by the vanquisht as theyr meeds,

and they therewith doe poetes heads adorne,

to sing the glory of their famous deedes.

But sith she will the conquest challeng needs,

let her accept me as her faithfull thrall,

that her great triumph which my skill exceeds,

I may in trump of fame blaze ouer all.

Then would I decke her head with glorious bayes,

and fill the world with her victorious prayse.

 

Sonnet. XXX.

My loue is lyke to yse, and I to fyre;

how comes it then that this her cold so great

is not dissolu'd through my so hot desyre,

but harder growes the more I her intreat?

Or how comes it that my exceeding heat

is not delayd by her hart frosen cold:

but that I burne much more in boyling sweat,

and feele my flames augmented manifold?

What more miraculous thing may be told

that fire which all thing melts, should harden yse:

and yse which is congeald with sencelesse cold,

should kindle fyre by wonderfull deuyse?

Such is the powre of loue in gentle mind,

that it can alter all the course of kynd.

 

Sonnet. XXXI.

Ah why hath nature to so hard a hart,

giuen so goodly giftes of beauties grace?

whose pryde depraues each other better part,

and all those pretious ornaments deface.

Sith to all other beastes of bloody race,

a dreadfull countenaunce she giuen hath:

that with theyr terrour al the rest may chace,

and warne to shun the daunger of theyr wrath.

But my proud one doth worke the greater scath,

through sweet allurement of her louely hew:

that she the better may in bloody bath

of such poore thralls her cruell hands embrew.

But did she know how ill these two accord,

such cruelty she would haue soone abhord.

 

Sonnet. XXXII.

The paynefull smith with force of feruent heat,

the hardest yron soone doth mollify:

that with his heauy sledge he can it beat,

and fashion to what he it list apply.

Yet cannot all these flames in which I fry,

her hart more harde then yron soft awhit:

ne all the playnts and prayers with which I

doe beat on th'anduyle of her stubberne wit:

But still the more she feruent sees my fit,

the more she frieseth in her wilfull pryde:

and harder growes the harder she is smit,

with all the playnts which to her be applyde.

What then remaines but I to ashes burne,

and she to stones at length all frosen turne?

 

Sonnet. XXXIII.

Great wrong I doe, I can it not deny,

to that most sacred Empresse my dear dred,

not finishing her Queene of faery,

that mote enlarge her liuing prayses dead:

But lodwick, this of grace to me aread:

doe ye not thinck th'accomplishment of it,

sufficient worke for one mans simple head,

all were it as the rest but rudely writ.

How then should I without another wit,

thinck euer to endure so tædious toyle?

sins that this one is tost with troublous fit,

of a proud loue, that doth my spirite spoyle.

Ceasse then, till she vouchsafe to grawnt me rest,

or lend you me another liuing brest.

 

Sonnet. XXXIIII.

Lyke as a ship that through the Ocean wyde,

by conduct of some star doth make her way,

whenas a storme hath dimd her trusty guyde,

out of her course doth wander far astray.

So I whose star, that wont with her bright ray

me to direct, with cloudes is ouercast,

doe wander-now in darknesse and dismay,

through hidden perils round about me plast.

Yet hope I well, that when this storme is past

my Helice the lodestar of my lyfe

will shine again, and looke on me at last,

with louely light to cleare my cloudy grief.

Till then I wander carefull comfortlesse,

in secret sorow and sad pensiuenesse.

 

Sonnet. XXXV.

My hungry eyes through greedy couetize,

still to behold the obiect of their paine:

with no contentment can themselues suffize,

but hauing pine and hauing not complaine.

For lacking it they cannot lyfe sustayne,

and hauing it they gaze on it the more:

in their amazement lyke Narcissus vaine

whose eyes him staru'd: so plenty makes me poore.

Yet are mine eyes so filled with the store

of that faire sight, that nothing else they brooke,

but lothe the things which they did like before,

and can no more endure on them to looke.

All this worlds glory seemeth vayne to me,

and all their showes but shadowes sauing she.

 

Sonnet. XXXVI.

Tell me when shall these wearie woes haue end,

Or shall their ruthlesse torment neuer cease:

but al my dayes in pining languor spend,

without hope of aswagement or release?

Is there no meanes for me to purchace peace,

or make agreement with her thrilling eyes:

but that their cruelty doth still increace,

and dayly more augment my miseryes?

But when ye haue shewed all extremityes,

then thinke how litle glory ye haue gayned,

by slaying him, whose lyfe though ye despyse,

mote haue your life in honour long maintayned.

But by his death which some perhaps will mone,

ye shall condemned be of many a one.

 

Sonnet. XXXVII.

What guyle is this, that those her golden tresses,

She doth attyre vnder a net of gold:

and with sly skill so cunningly them dresses,

that which is gold or heare, may scarse be told?

Is it that mens frayle eyes, which gaze too bold,

she may entangle in that golden snare:

and being caught may craftily enfold

theyr weaker harts, which are not wel aware?

Take heed therefore, myne eyes, how ye doe stare

henceforth too rashly on that guilefull net,

in which if euer ye entrapped are,

out of her bands ye by no meanes shall get.

Fondnesse it were for any being free,

to couet fetters, though they golden bee.

 

Sonnet. XXXVIII.

Arion, when through tempests cruel wracke,

He forth was thrown into the greedy seas:

through the sweet musick which his harp did make

allur'd a Dolphin him from death to ease.

But my rude musick, which was wont to please

some dainty eares, cannot with any skill,

the dreadfull tempest of her wrath appease,

nor moue the Dolphin from her stubborne will,

But in her pride she dooth perseuer still,

all carelesse how my life for her decayse:

yet with one word she can it saue or spill,

to spill were pitty, but to saue were prayse.

Chose rather to be praysd for dooing good,

then to be blam'd for spilling guiltlesse blood.

 

Sonnet. XXXIX.

Sweet smile, the daughter of the Queene of loue,

Expressing all thy mothers powrefull art:

with which she wonts to temper angry loue,

when all the gods he threats with thundring dart.

Sweet is thy vertue as thy selfe sweet art,

for when on me thou shinedst late in sadnesse,

a melting pleasance ran through euery part,

and me reuiued with hart robbing gladnesse.

Whylest rapt with ioy resembling heauenly madnes,

my soule was rauisht quite as in a traunce:

and feeling thence no more her sorowes sadnesse,

fed on the fulnesse of that chearefull glaunce.

More sweet than Nectar or Ambrosiall meat,

seemd euery bit, which thenceforth I did eat.

 

Sonnet. XL.

Mark when she smiles with amiable cheare,

And tell me whereto can ye lyken it:

when on each eyelid sweetly doe appeare

an hundred Graces as in shade to sit.

Lykest it seemeth in my simple wit

vnto the fayre sunshine in somers day:

that when a dreadfull storme away is flit,

thrugh the broad world doth spred his goodly ray:

At sight whereof each bird that sits on spray,

and euery beast that to his den was fled,

comes forth afresh out of their late dismay,

and to the light lift vp theyr drouping hed.

So my storme beaten hart likewise is cheared,

with that sunshine when cloudy looks are cleared.

 

Sonnet. XLI.

Is it her nature or is it her will,

to be so cruell to an humbled foe?

if nature, then she may it mend with skill,

if will, then she at will may will forgoe.

But if her nature and her wil be so,

that she will plague the man that loues her most:

and take delight t'encrease a wretches woe,

then all her natures goodly guifts are lost.

And that same glorious beauties ydle boast,

is but a bayt such wretches to beguile,

as being long in her loues tempest tost,

she meanes at last to make her piteous spoyle.

O fayrest fayre let neuer it be named,

that so fayre beauty was so fowly shamed.

 

Sonnet. XLII.

The loue which me so cruelly tormenteth,

So pleasing is in my extreamest paine:

that all the more my sorrow it augmenteth,

the more I loue and doe embrace my bane.

Ne doe I wish (for wishing were but vaine)

to be acquit fro my continuall smart:

but ioy her thrall for euer to remayne,

and yield for pledge my poore captyued hart;

The which that it from her may neuer start,

let her, yf please her, bynd with adamant chayne:

and from all wandring loues which mote peruart

his safe assurance, strongly it restrayne.

Onely let her abstaine from cruelty,

and doe me not before my time to dy.

 

Sonnet. XLIII.

Shall I then silent be or shall I speake?

And if I speake, her wrath renew I shall:

and if I silent be, my hart will breake,

or choked be with ouerflowing gall.

What tyranny is this both my hart to thrall,

and eke my toung with proud restraint to tie?

that nether I may speake nor thinke at all,

but like a stupid stock in silence die.

Yet I my hart with silence secretly

will teach to speak, and my iust cause to plead:

and eke mine eies with meeke humility,

loue learned letters to her eyes to read.

Which her deep wit, that true harts thought can spel,

wil soone conceiue, and learne to construe well.

 

Sonnet. XLIIII.

When those renoumed noble Peres of Greece,

thrugh stubborn pride amongst themselues did iar

forgetfull of the famous golden fleece,

then Orpheus with his harp theyr strife did bar.

But this continuall cruell ciuill warre,

the which my selfe against my selfe doe make:

whilest my weak powres of passions warreid arre,

no skill can stint nor reason can aslake.

But when in hand my tunelesse harp I take,

then doe I more augment my foes despight:

and griefe renew, and passions doe awake

to battaile fresh against my selfe to fight.

Mongst whome the more I seeke to settle peace,

the more I fynd their malice to increace.

 

Sonnet. XLV.

Leaue lady in your glasse of christall clene,

Your goodly selfe for euermore to vew:

and in my selfe, my inward selfe I meane,

most liuely lyke behold your semblant trew.

Within my hart, though hardly it can shew

thing so diuine to vew of earthly eye:

the fayre Idea of your celestiall hew,

and euery part remaines immortally:

And were it not that through your cruelty,

with sorrow dimmed and deformd it were:

the goodly ymage of your visnomy,

clearer then christall would therein appere.

But if your selfe in me ye playne will see,

remoue the cause by which your fayre beames darkned be.

 

Sonnet. XLVI.

When my abodes prefixed time is spent,

My cruell fayre streight bids me wend my way:

but then from heauen most hideous stormes are sent

as willing me against her will to stay.

Whom then shall I or heauen or her obay?

the heauens know best what is the best for me:

but as she will, whose will my life doth sway,

my lower heauen, so it perforce must bee.

But ye high heuens, that all this sorowe see,

sith all your tempests cannot hold me backe:

aswage your stormes, or else both you and she

will both together me too sorely wrack.

Enough it is for one man to sustaine the stormes,

which she alone on me doth raine.

 

Sonnet. XLVII.

Trust not the treason of those smyling lookes,

vntill ye haue theyr guylefull traynes well tryde:

for they are lyke but vnto golden hookes,

that from the foolish fish theyr bayts doe hyde:

So she with flattring smyles weake harts doth guyde

vnto her loue, and tempte to theyr decay,

whome being caught she kills with cruell pryde,

and feeds at pleasure on the wretched pray:

Yet euen whylst her bloody hands them slay,

her eyes looke louely and vpon them smyle:

that they take pleasure in her cruell play,

and dying doe them selues of payne beguyle.

O mighty charm which makes men loue theyr bane,

and thinck they dy with pleasure, liue with payne.

 

Sonnet. XLVIII.

Innocent paper whom too cruell hand

Did make the matter to auenge her yre:

and ere she could thy cause wel vnderstand,

did sacrifize vnto the greedy fyre.

Well worthy thou to haue found better hyre,

then so bad end for hereticks ordayned:

yet heresy nor treason didst conspire,

but plead thy maisters cause vniustly payned.

Whom she all carelesse of his griefe constrayned

to vtter forth the anguish of his hart:

and would not heare, when he to her complayned

the piteous passion of his dying smart.

Yet liue for euer, though against her will,

and speake her good, though she requite it ill.

 

Sonnet. XLIX.

Fayre cruell, why are ye so fierce and cruell?

Is it because your eyes haue powre to kill?

then know, that mercy is the mighties iewell,

and greater glory thinke to saue, then spill.

But if it be your pleasure and proud will,

to shew the powre of your imperious eyes:

then not on him that neuer thought you ill,

but bend your force against your enemyes.

Let them feele th'utmost of your crueltyes,

and kill with looks, as Cockatrices doo:

but him that at your footstoole humbled lies,

with mercifull regard, giue mercy too.

Such mercy shal you make admyred to be,

so shall you liue by giuing life to me.

 

Sonnet. L.

Long languishing in double malady,

of my harts wound and of my bodies griefe:

there came to me a leach that would apply

fit medicines for my bodies best reliefe.

Vayne man (quod I) that hast but little priefe,

in deep discouery of the mynds disease,

is not the hart of all the body chiefe?

and rules the members as it selfe doth please?

Then with some cordialls seeke first to appease

the inward languour of my wounded hart,

and then my body shall haue shortly ease:

but such sweet cordialls passe Physitions art.

Then my lyfes Leach doe you your skill reueale,

and with one salue both hart and body heale.

 

Sonnet. LI.

Doe I not see that fayrest ymages

Of hardest Marble are of purpose made?

for that they should endure through many ages,

ne let theyr famous moniments to fade.

Why then doe I, vntrainde in louers trade,

her hardnes blame which I should more commend?

sith neuer ought was excellent assayde,

which was not hard t'atchiue and bring to end.

Ne ought so hard, but he that would attend,

mote soften it and to his will allure:

so doe I hope her stubborne hart to bend,

and that it then more stedfast will endure.

Onely my paines wil be the more to get her,

but hauing her, my toy wil be the greater.

 

Sonnet. LII.

So oft as homeward I from her depart,

I goe lyke one that hauing lost the field,

is prisoner led away with heauy hart,

despoyld of warlike armes and knowen shield.

So doe I now my selfe a prisoner yeeld,

to sorrow and to solitary paine:

from presence of my dearest deare exylde,

longwhile alone in languor to remaine.

There let no thought of ioy or pleasure vaine,

dare to approch, that may my solace breed:

but sudden dumps and drery sad disdayne

of all worlds gladnesse more my torment feed.

So I her absens will my penaunce make,

that of her presens I my meed may take.

 

Sonnet. LIII.

The Panther knowing that his spotted hyde

Doth please all beasts but that his looks them fray:

within a bush his dreadfull head doth hide,

to let them gaze whylest he on them may pray.

Right so my cruell fayre with me doth play:

for with the goodly semblant of her hew,

she doth allure me to mine owne decay,

and then no mercy will vnto me shew.

Great shame it is, thing so diuine in view,

made for to be the worlds most ornament:

to make the bayte her gazers to embrew,

good shames to be to ill an instrument.

But mercy doth with beautie best agree,

as in theyr maker ye them best may see.

 

Sonnet. LIIII.

Of this worlds Theatre in which we stay,

My loue lyke the Spectator ydly sits

beholding me that all the pageants play,

disguysing diuersly my troubled wits.

Sometimes I ioy when glad occasion fits,

and mask in myrth lyke to a Comedy:

soone after when my ioy to sorrow flits,

I waile and make my woes a Tragedy.

Yet she beholding me with constant eye,

delights not in my merth nor rues my smart:

but when I laugh she mocks, and when I cry

she laughes, and hardens euermore her hart.

What then can moue her? if nor merth nor mone,

she is no woman, but a sencelesse stone.

 

Sonnet.