English

If that a loyall hart and faith vnfained,
If a sweet languish with a chast desire,
If hunger-staruen thoughts so long retained,
Fed but with smoke, and cherisht but with fire:
And if a brow with cares characters painted,
Bewraies my loue, with broken words halfe spoken
To her that sits in my thoughts Temple sainted,
And laies to view my Vultur-gnawne hart open:
If I haue done due homage to her eyes,
And had my sighes still tending on her name;
If on her loue my life and honour lyes,

Those snary locks, are those same nets (my Deere)
Wherewith my liberty thou didst surprize;
Loue was the flame that fired me so neere,
The Dart transpearsing, were those Christall eies.
Strong is the net, and feruent is the flame;
Deepe is the wound my sighes can well report:
Yet do I loue, adore, and prayse the same,
That holds, that burnes, that wounds me in this sort.
And list not seeke to breake, to quench, to heale,
The bond, the flame, the wound that festreth so,
By knife, by liquor, or by salue to deale:

Behold what hap Pigmalion had to frame
And carue his proper griefe vpon a stone;
My heauy fortune is much like the same,
I worke on flint, and thats the cause I mone.
For haplesse loe euen with mine owne desires,
I figurde on the table of mine hart,
The fairest forme, that all the world admires,
And so did perish by my proper art.
And still I toyle, to change the Marble brest

My spotlesse loue houers with purest wings,
About the Temple of the proudest frame:
Where blaze those lights fairest of earthly things,
Which cleere our clouded world with brightest flame.
M'ambitious thoughts confined in her face,
Affect no honor but what she can giue:
My hopes doe rest in limits of her grace,
I weigh no comfort vnlesse she relieue.
For she that can my heart imparadize,
Holdes in her fairest hand what dearest is,
My fortunes wheeles the circle of her eies,

Teares, vowes, and prayers, winne the hardest hart,
Teares, vowes, and prayers haue I spent in vaine;
Teares cannot soften flint, nor vowes conuart,
Prayers preuaile not with a quaint disdaine.
I lose my teares where I haue lost my loue,
I vow my faith, where faith is not regarded;
I pray in vaine, a mercilesse to moue:
So rare a faith ought better be rewarded.
Yet, though I cannot winne her will with teares,
Though my soules Idoll scorneth all my vowes;
Though all my prayers be to so deafe eares,

Then doe I loue, and draw this wearie breath,
For her the cruell Faire, within whose brow
I written finde the sentence of my death,
In vnkinde Letters; wrote she cares not how.
Thou powre that rul'st the confines of the night,
Laughter louing Goddesse, worldly pleasures Queene,
Intenerat that heart that sets so light,
The truest loue that euer yet was seene.
And cause her leaue to triumph in this wise,
Vpon the prostrate spoyle of that poore hart
That serues a Trophey to her conquering eies,

If this be loue, to draw a wearie breath,
To paint on floods, till the shore crie to th'aire:
With downeward lookes, still reading on the earth,
These sad memorials of my loues dispaire:
If this be loue, to warre against my soule,
Lie downe to waile, rise vp to sigh and grieue,
The neuer-resting stone of Care to roule,
Still to complaine my griefes, whilst none relieue.
If this be loue, to cloathe me with darke thoughts,
Haunting vntrodden paths to waile apart;
My pleasures horror, Musicke tragicke notes,

Thou poore heart sacrifiz'd vnto the fairest,
Hast sent the incense of thy sighs to heauen:
And still against her frownes fresh vowes repairest,
And made thy passions with her beautie euen.
And you mine eyes, the agents of my hart
Tolde the dumbe message of my hidden griefe:
And oft with carefull turnes, with silent Art,
Did treate the cruell faire to yeeld reliefe.
And you my Verse, the Aduocates of Loue,
Haue followed hard the Processe of my case:
And vrg'd that title which doth plainely proue,

For had she not beene faire and thus vnkinde,
Then had no finger pointed at my lightnesse:
The world had neuer knowne what I doe finde,
And cloudes obscure had shaded still her brightnesse.
Then had no Censors eye these lines suruaid,
Nor grauer browes haue iudg'd my Muse so vaine
No Sunne my blush and error had bewraid,
Nor yet the world haue heard of such disdaine.
Then had I walkt with bold erected face,
No downe-cast looke had signified my misse:
But my degraded hopes, with such disgrace

Faire is my Loue, and cruell as she's faire;
Her brow shades frownes, although her eyes are sunny,
Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despaire;
And her disdaines are Gall, her fauours Hunny.
A modest Maide, deckt with a blush of honor,
Whose feete doe tread greene paths of youth and loue,
The wonder of all eyes that looke vpon her:
Sacred on earth, design'd a Saint aboue.
Chastitie and Beautie, which were deadly foes,
Liue reconciled friends within her brow:
And had she pitty to conioyne with those,