English

My love makes hote the fire whose heat is spent,
The water, moysture from my teares deriveth:
And my strong sighes, the ayres weake force reviveth.
This love, tears, sighes, maintaine each one his element.

The fire, unto my love, compare a painted fire,
The water, to my teares, as drops to Oceans be,
The ayre, unto my sighes, as Eagle to the flie,
The passions of dispaire, but joyes to my desire.

Onely my love is in the fire ingraved,
Onely my teares by Oceans may be gessed,

Cupid, dumbe Idoll, peevish Saint of love,
No more shalt thou nor Saint nor Idoll be,
No God art thou, a Goddesse shee doth prove,
Of all thine honour shee hath robbed thee.

Thy Bowe halfe broke, is peec'd with olde desire,
Her Bowe is beauty, with ten thousand strings,
Of purest gold, tempred with vertues fire:
The least able to kyll an hoste of Kings.

Thy shafts be spent, and shee (to warre appointed)
Hydes in those christall quivers of her eyes,
More Arrowes with hart-piercing mettel poynted,

The glorious sunne went blushing to his bed,
When my soules sunne from her fayre Cabynet,
Her golden beames had now discovered,
Lightning the world, eclipsed by his set.

Some muz'd to see the earth envy the ayre,
Which from her lyps exhald refined sweet,
A world to see, yet how he joyd to heare
The dainty grasse make musicke with her feete.

But my most mervaile was when from the skyes,
So Comet-like each starre advaunc'd her lyght,
As though the heaven had now awak'd her eyes,

Our floods-Queene Thames , for shyps & Swans is crowned,
And stately Severne , for her shores is praised,
The christall Trent , for Foords & fishe renowned,
And Avons fame, to Albyons Clives is raysed.

Carlegion Chester , vaunts her holy Dee ,
Yorke , many wonders of her Ouse can tell,
The Peake her Dove , whose bancks so fertill bee,
And Kent will say, her Medway doth excell.

Wonder of Heaven, glasse of divinitie,
Rare beauty, Natures joy, perfections Mother,
The worke of that united Trinitie,
Wherein each fayrest part excelleth other.

Loves Methridate, the purest of perfection,
Celestiall Image, Load-stone of desire,
The soules delight, the sences true direction,
Sunne of the world, thou hart revyving fire.

Why should'st thou place thy Trophies in those eyes,
Which scorne the honor that is done to thee,
Or make my pen her name imortalize,

My hart imprisoned in a hopeles Ile,
Peopled with Armies of pale jealous eyes,
The shores beset with thousand secret spyes,
Must passe by ayre, or else dye in exile.

He framd him wings with feathers of his thought,
Which by theyr nature learn'd to mount the skye,
And with the same he practised to flye,
Till he himselfe thys Eagles art had taught.

Thus soring still, not looking once below,
So neere thyne eyes celestiall sunne aspyred,
That with the rayes his wafting pyneons fired.

Letters and lynes we see are soone defaced,
Mettles doe waste, and fret with cankers rust,
The Diamond shall once consume to dust,
And freshest colours with foule staines disgraced.

Paper and yncke, can paynt but naked words,
To write with blood, of force offends the sight,
And if with teares, I find them all too light:
And sighes and signes a silly hope affoords.

O sweetest shadow, how thou serv'st my turne,
Which still shalt be as long as there is Sunne,
Nor whilst the world is, never shall be done,

Reading sometyme, my sorrowes to beguile,
I find old Poets hylls and floods admire.
One, he doth wonder monster-breeding Nyle ,
Another, mervailes Sulphure Aetnas fire.

Now broad-brymd Indus , then of Pindus height,
Pelion and Ossa , frosty Caucase old,
The Delian Cynthus , then Olympus weight,
Slow Arrer , frantick Gallus, Cydnus cold.

Some Ganges, Ister , and of Tagus tell,

If those ten Regions registred by Fame,
By theyr ten Sibils have the world controld,
Who prophecied of Christ or ere he came,
And of hys blessed birth before fore-told.

That man-god now of whom they dyd divine,
This earth of those sweet Prophets hath bereft,
And since the world to judgement doth declyne,
In steed of ten, one Sibil to us left.

Thys, pure Idea , vertues right Idea ,

Some when in ryme they of their Loves doe tell,
With flames and lightning their exordiums paynt,
Some invocate the Gods, some spirits of Hell,
And heaven, and earth, doe with their woes acquaint.

Elizia is too hie a seate for mee,
I wyll not come in Stixe nor Phlegiton ,
The Muses nice, the Furies cruell be,
I lyke not Limbo , nor blacke Acheron ,