English

If that a loyall hart and fayth unfained,
If a sweete languish with a chast desire,
If hunger-starven thoughts so long retained,
Fed but with smoake, and cherisht but with fire,
And if a brow with cares' characters painted,
Bewraies my love, with broken words halfe spoken,
To her that sits in my thought's Temple sainted,
And layes to view my Vultur-gnawne hart open:
If I have done due homage to her eyes,
And had my sighes styll tending on her name,
If on her love my life and honour lyes,

Those snary locks are those same nets (my Deere)
Where-with my libertie thou didst surprize:
Love was the flame that fired me so neere;
The Dart transpearsing were those Christall eyes.
Strong is the net and fervent is the flame;
Deepe is the wounde, my sighes doe well report:
Yet doe I love, adore, and praise the same
That holds, that burnes, that wounds me in this sort.

Behold what hap Pigmalion had to frame
And carve his propper griefe upon a stone:
My heavie fortune is much like the same;
I worke on Flint, and that's the cause I mone.
For haplesse loe, even with mine owne desires,
I figured on the Table of mine hart
The fairest forme that all the world admires,
And so did perrish by my proper arte
And still I toyle to change the Marble breast

My spotlesse love hoovers with purest wings
About the temple of the proudest frame,
Where blaze those lights, fayrest of earthly things,
Which cleer our clowded world with brightest flame.
M'ambitious thoughts, confined in her face,
Affect no honour but what she can give:
My hopes doe rest in limits of her grace;
I weigh no comfort unlesse she relieve
For she that can my hart imparadize,
Holds in her fairest hand what deerest is:
My fortune's wheele's the circle of her eyes,

Teares, vowes, and prayers winne the hardest hart;
Teares, vowes, and prayers have I spent in vaine:
Teares cannot soften Flint, nor vowes convart;
Prayers prevaile not with a quaint disdaine.
I lose my teares, where I have lost my love;
I vowe my faith, where faith is not regarded;
I pray in vaine, a merciles to move:
So rare a faith ought better be rewarded.
Yet though I cannot win her will with teares,
Though my soule's Idoll scorneth all my vowes,
Though all my prayers be to so deafe eares,

O then love I, and draw this weary breath
For her, the cruell Fayre, within whose brow
I written finde the sentence of my death,
In unkinde letters, wrought she cares not how
O thou that rul'st the confines of the night,
Laughter-loving goddesse, worldly plesures' Queen,
Intenerat that hart that sets so light
The truest love that ever yet was seene;
And cause her leave to tryumph in this wise
Uppon the prostrate spoyle of that poore hart
That serves a Trophey to her conquering eyes,

If thys be love, to draw a weary breath,
Paint on floods, till the shore, cry to th'ayre;
With downward lookes still reading on the earth
The sad memorials of my love's despayre:
If this be love, to warre against my soule,
Lye downe to waile, rise up to sigh and grieve;
The never-resting stone of care to roule,
Still to complaine my griefes, whilst none relieve:
If this be love, to cloathe me with darke thoughts,
Haunting untroden pathes to waile apart;
My pleasures, horror; Musique, tragick notes;

Thou poore hart, sacrifiz'd unto the fairest,
Hast sent the incens of thy sighes to heaven;
And still against her frownes fresh vowes repayrest,
And made thy passions with her beauty even
And you, mine eyes, the agents of my hart,
Told the dumbe message of my hidden griefe;
And oft with carefull turnes, with silent Arte,
Did treate the cruell Fayre to yeeld reliefe
And you, my verse, the Advocates of love,
Have followed hard the processe of my case,
And urg'd that tytle which doth plainly prove

O had shee not beene faire and thus unkind,
Then had no finger pointed at my lightnes:
The world had never knowne what I doe finde,
And clowdes obscure had shaded stil her brightnes.
Then had no Censor's eye these lynes survaide,
Nor graver browes have judg'd my Muse so vaine;
No sunne my blush and errour had bewraid,
Nor yet the world had heard of such disdaine
Then had I walkt with bold erected face;
No down-cast looke had signified my misse:
But my degraded hopes, with such disgrace

Fayre is my love, and cruell as sh'is fayre;
Her brow shades frowns, althogh her eyes are sunny;
Her smyles are lightning, though her pride, dispaire;
And her disdaines are gall, her favours hunny.
A modest mayde, deckt with a blush of honour,
Whose feete do tread greene pathes of youth and love;
The wonder of all eyes that looke upon her:
Sacred on earth, design'd a Saint above.
Chastity and Beauty, which were deadly foes,
Live reconciled friends within her brow:
And had she pitty to conjoyne with those,