Pray thee Diana tell mee, is it ill,
As some doe say, thou think'st it is, to love?
Me thinks thou pleased art with what I prove,
Since joyfull light thy dwelling still doth fill.

Thou seemst not angry, but with cheerefull smiles
Beholdst my Passions; chaste indeed thy face
Doth seeme, and so doth shine, with glorious grace;
For other loves, the trust of Love beguiles.

Be bright then still, most chast and cleerest Queene,
Shine on my torments with a pittying eye:
Thy coldnesse can but my despaires discry,
And my Faith by thy clearenesse better seeme.

Let those have heat, that dally in the Sunne,
I scarse have knowne a warmer state then shade;
Yet hottest beames of zeale have purely made
My selfe an offring burnt, as I was wonne.

Once sacrific'd, but ashes can remaine,
Which in an Ivory box of truth inclose
The Innocency whence my ruines flowes,
Accept them as thine, 'tis a chast Loves gaine.