English

And yet I cannot reprehend the flight,
Or blame th'attempt presuming so to sore;
The mounting venter for a high delight,
Did make the honour of the fall the more.
For who gets wealth that puts not from the shore?
Danger hath honor, great designes their fame,
Glory doth follow, courage goes before.
And though th'euent oft answers not the same,
Suffice that high attempts haue neuer shame.
The meane obseruer (whom base safety keeps)
Liues without honour, dies without a name,
And in eternall darknesse euer sleeps.

Oft do I maruell, whether D ELIAS eies,
Are eyes, or els two radiant starres that shine
For how could Nature euer thus deuise,
Of earth on earth a substance so diuine.
Starres sure they are, whose motions rule desires,
And calme and tempest follow their aspects:
Their sweet appearing still such power inspires,
That makes the world admire so strange effects,
Yet whether fixt or wandring starres are they,
Whose influence rule the Orbe of my poore hart?
Fixt sure they are, but wandring make me stray,

Still in the trace of one perplexed thought,
My ceasles cares continually run on:
Seeking in vaine what I haue euer sought,
One in my loue, and her hard hart still one
I who did neuer ioy in other Sun,
And haue no stars but those, that must fulfill
The worke of rigor, fatally begun
Vpon this heart, whom cruelty will kill.
Iniurious D ELIA yet I loue thee still,
And will whilst I shall draw this breath of mine,
Ile tell the world that I deseru'd but ill,
And blame my selfe t'excuse that heart of thine.

The Starre of my mishap impos'd this paine
To spend the Aprill of my yeares in griefe:
Finding my fortune euer in the waine
With still fresh cares, supplide with no reliefe.
Yet thee I blame not, though for thee tis done,
But these weake whings presuming to aspire,
Which now are melted by thine eyes bright sun,
That makes me fall from off my hie desire.
And in my fall I crye for helpe with speede,
No pittying eye lookes backe vpon my feares:
No succour finde I now when most I neede,

Alluding to the Sparrow pursued by a Hawke, that flew into the bosome of Zenocrates.

VVhilst by thy eies pursu'd, my poore heart flew
Into the sacred Refuge of thy brest:
Thy rigor in that Sanctuary slew
That which thy succring mercy should haue blest.
No priuiledge of faith could it protect,
Faith being with blood, and fiue yeares witnes sign'd,
Wherein no shew gaue cause of least suspect,

My cares draw on mine euerlasting night,
In horrors sable clowdes sets my liues sunne:
My liues sweet sunne, my dearest comforts light,
Will rise no more to me, whose day is dunne.
I goe before vnto the Mirtle shades.
To attend the presence of my worlds Deere;
And there prepare her flowres that neuer fades,
And all things fit against her comming there.
If any aske me why so soone I came,

To M. P.

Like as the spotlesse Ermelin distrest,
Circumpast'd round with filth and lothsome mud:
Pines in her griefe, imprisoned in her nest,
And cannot issue forth to seeke her good.
So I inuiron'd with a hatefull want,
Looke to the heauens; the heauens yeelde forth no grace:
I search the earth, the earth I finde as skant,
I view my selfe, my selfe in wofull case.

Raigne in my thoughts faire hand, sweete eye, rare voice,
Possesse me whole, my hearts triumvirate:
Yet heauy heart to make so hard a choise,
Of such as spoile thy poore afflicted state.
For whilst they striue which shall be Lord of all,
All my poore life by them is troden downe;
They all erect their Trophies on my fall,
And yeeld me nought that giues them their renowne.
When backe I looke, I sigh my freedome past,
And waile the state wherein I present stand:
And see my fortune euer like to last,

Oft and in vaine my rebel thoughts haue ventred,
To stop the passage of my vanquisht hart:
And shut those waies my friendly foe first entred,
Hoping thereby to free my better part.
And whilst I garde these windowes of this forte,
Where my harts theefe to vexe me made her choice:
And thether all my forces doe transporte,
An other passage opens at her voice.
Her voyce betraies me to her hand and eye:
My freedomes tyrants conquering all by arte
But ah, what glorie can she get thereby,

Looke in my griefes, and blame me not to mourne,
From care to care that leades a life so bad;
Th'Orphan of Fortune, borne to be her scorne,
Whose clouded brow doth make my daies so sad.
Long are their nights whose cares do neuer sleepe,
Lothsome their daies, whom no sun euer ioyd,
Th'impression of her eyes do pearce so deepe,
That thus I liue both day and night annoyd.
But since the sweetest roote yeelds fruite so sowre,
Her praise from my complaint I may not part:
I loue th'effect the cause being of this powre,