English

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 unto me shew.
Great shame it is, thing so divine 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.

So oft as homeward I from her depart,
I goe lyke one that having lost the field:
Is prisoner led away with heavy 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 joy 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.

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, untrainde in lovers trade,
Her hardnes blame which I should more comend?
Sith never ought was excellent assayde,
Which was not hard t'atchive 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.

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 discovery 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 have shortly ease:
But such sweet cordialls passe Physitions art.

Fayre cruell, why are ye so fierce and cruell?
Is it because your eyes have powre to kill?
Then know, that mercy is the mighties jewell,
And greater glory thinke to save, then spill.
But if it be your pleasure and proud will,
To shew the powre of your imperious eyes:
Then not on him that never 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, give mercy too.

Trust not the treason of those smyling lookes,
Untill ye have theyr guylefull traynes well tryde:
For they are lyke but unto golden hookes,
That from the foolish fish theyr bayts doe hyde:
So she with flattring smyles weake harts doth guyde
Unto her love and tempte to theyr decay,
Whome being caught she kills with cruell pryde,
And feeds at pleasure on the wretched pray:
Yet even whylst her bloody hands them slay,
Her eyes looke lovely and upon them smyle:
That they take pleasure in her cruell play,

When my abodes prefixed time is spent,
My cruell fayre streight bids me wend my way:
But then from heaven most hideous stormes are sent
As willing me against her will to stay.
Whom then shall I or heaven or her obay,
The heavens know best what is the best for me:
But as she will, whose will my life doth sway,
My lower heaven, so it perforce must bee.
But ye high hevens, that all this sorowe see,
Sith all your tempests cannot hold me backe:
Aswage your stormes, or else both you and she,
With both together me too sorely wrack.

Leave lady in your glasse of christall clene,
Your goodly selfe for evermore to vew:
And in my selfe, my inward selfe I meane,
Most lively lyke behold your semblant trew.
Within my hart, though hardly it can shew,
Thing so divine to vew of earthly eye:
The fayre Idea of your celestiall hew,
And every 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.

When those renoumed noble Peres of Greece,
Thrugh stubborn pride amongst themselves did jar
Forgetfull of the famous golden fleece,
Then Orpheus with his harp theyr strife did bar.
But this continuall cruell civill 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.

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 overflowing gall.
What tyranny is this, both my hart to thrall
And eke my toung with proud restraint to tie;
That neither I may speake nor thinke at all,
But like a stupid stock in the silence die!
Yet I may hart with silence secretly
Will teach to speak, and my just cause to plead,
And eke mine eies, with meek humility,
Love-learned letters to her eyes to read: