English

I ever love, where never hope appeares,
Yet hope drawes on my never-hoping care,
And my lives hope would die but for dyspaire,
My never certaine joy, breeds ever-certaine feares.

Uncertaine-dread, gyves wings unto my hope,
Yet my hopes wings are loden so with feare,
As they cannot ascend to my hopes spheare,
Yet feare gyves them more then a heavenly scope:

Yet thys large roome is bounded with dyspaire,
So my love is styll fettered with vaine hope,
And lyberty deprives hym of hys scope,

Sweete sleepe so arm'd with Beauties arrowes darting,
Sleepe in thy Beauty, Beauty in sleepe appeareth,
Sleepe lightning Beauty, Beauty sleepes darknes cleereth,
Sleepes wonder Beauty, wonders to worlds imparting.

Sleep watching Beauty, Beauty waking, sleepe guarding,
Beauty in sleepe, sleepe in Beauty charmed,
Sleepes aged coldnes, with Beauties fire warmed,
Sleepe with delight, Beauty with love rewarding.

Sleepe and Beauty, with equall forces stryving,
Beauty her strength unto sleepes weaknes lending,

See chaste Diana , where my harmles hart,
Rouz'd from my breast, his sure and safest layre,
Nor chaste by hound, nor forc'd by Hunters arte,
Yet see how right he comes unto my fayre.

See how my Deere comes to thy Beauties stand,
And there stands gazing on those darting eyes,
Whilst from theyr rayes by Cupids skilfull hand,
Into his hart the piercing Arrow flyes.

My fayre, looke from those turrets of thine eyes,
Into the Ocean of a troubled minde,
Where my poore soule, the Barke of sorrow lyes,
Left to the mercy of the waves and winde.

See where shee flotes, laden with purest love,
Which those fayre Ilands of thy lookes affoord,
Desiring yet a thousand deaths to prove,
Then so to cast her Ballast over boord.

See how her sayles be rent, her tacklings worne,
Her Cable broke, her surest Anchor lost,
Her Marryners doe leave her all forlorne,

Whilst thus mine eyes doe surfet with delight,
My wofull hart imprisond in my breast,
Wishing to be trans-formd into my sight,
To looke on her by whom mine eyes are blest.

But whilst mine eyes thus greedily doe gaze,
Behold, their objects over-soone depart,
And treading in thys never-ending maze,
Wish now to be trans-formd into my hart.

My hart surcharg'd with thoughts, sighes in abundance raise,
My eyes made dim with lookes, poure down a flood of tears,
And whilst my hart and eye, envy each others praise,

Those teares which quench my hope, still kindle my desire,
Those sighes which coole my hart, are coles unto my love,
Disdayne Ice to my life, is to my soule a fire,
With teares, sighes, & disdaine, thys contrary I prove.

Quenchles desire, makes hope burne, dryes my teares,
Love heats my hart, my hart-heat my sighes warmeth,
With my soules fire, my life disdaine out-weares,
Desire, my love, my soule, my hope, hart, & life charmeth.

My hope becomes a friend to my desire,

Sitting alone, love bids me goe and write,
Reason plucks backe, commaunding me to stay,
Boasting that shee doth still direct the way,
Els senceles love could never once endite.

Love growing angry, vexed at the spleene,
And scorning Reasons maymed Argument,
Straight taxeth Reason, wanting to invent,
Where shee with Love conversing hath not beene.

Reason reproched with this coy disdaine,
Dispighteth Love, and laugheth at her folly,
And Love contemning Reasons reason wholy,

Three sorts of Serpents doe resemble thee,
That daungerous eye-killing Cockatrice,
Th'inchaunting Syren, which doth so entice,
The weeping Crocodile: these vile pernicious three.

The Basiliske his nature takes from thee,
Who for my life in secrete waite do'st lye,
And to my hart send'st poyson from thine eye,
Thus do I feele the paine, the cause, yet cannot see.

Faire-mayd no more, but Mayr-maid be thy name,
Who with thy sweet aluring harmony
Hast playd the thiefe, and stolne my hart from me,

O eyes, behold your happy Hesperus ,
That luckie Load-starre of eternall light,
Left as that sunne alone to comfort us,
When our worlds sunne is vanisht out of sight.

O starre of starres, fayre Planet mildly mooving,
O Lampe of vertue, sun-bright, ever shyning,
O mine eyes Comet, so admyr'd by loving,
O cleerest day-starre, never more declyning.

Some wits there be, which lyke my method well,
And say my verse runnes in a lofty vayne,
Some say I have a passing pleasing straine,
Some say that in my humor I excell.

Some, who reach not the height of my conceite,
They say, (as Poets doe) I use to fayne,
And in bare words paynt out my passions payne.
Thus sundry men, their sundry minds repeate.

I passe not I how men affected be,
Nor who commend or discommend my verse,
It pleaseth me if I my plaints rehearse,
And in my lynes if shee my love may see.