The glorious image of the makers beautie,
My soverayne saynt, the Idoll of my thought,
Dare not henceforth above the bounds of dewtie,
T'accuse of pride, or rashly blame for ought.
For being as she is divinely wrought,
And of the brood of Angels hevenly borne:
And with the crew of blessed Saynts upbrought,
Each of which did her with theyr guifts adorne:
The bud of joy, the blossome of the morne,
The beame of light, whom mortal eyes admyre:
What reason is it then but she should scorne
Base things, that to her love too bold aspire?

They that in course of heavenly spheares are skild,
To every planet point his sundry yeare:
In which her circles voyage is fulfild,
As Mars in three score yeares doth run his spheare.
So since the winged God his planet cleare,
Began in me to move, one yeare is spent:
The which doth longer unto me appeare,
Then al those fourty which my life outwent.
Then by that count, which lovers books invent,
The spheare of Cupid fourty yeares containes:
Which I have wasted in long languishment,
That seemd the longer for my greater paines.

Thrise happie she, that is so well assured
Unto her selfe and setled so in hart:
That nether will for better be allured,
Ne feard with worse to any chaunce to start,
But like a steddy ship doth strongly part
The raging waves and keepes her course aright:
Ne ought for tempest doth from it depart,
Ne ought for fayrer weathers false delight.
Such selfe assurance need not feare the spight,
Of grudging foes, ne favour seek of friends:
But in the stay of her owne stedfast might,
Nether to one her selfe nor other bends.

Weake is th'assurance that weake flesh reposeth,
In her owne powre, and scorneth others ayde:
That soonest fals when as she most supposeth
Her selfe assurd, and is of nought affrayd.
All flesh is frayle, and all her strength unstayd,
Like a vaine bubble blowen up with ayre:
Devouring tyme and changeful chance have prayd
Her glories pride that none may it repayre.
Ne none so rich or wise, so strong or fayre,
But fayleth trusting on his owne assurance:
And he that standeth on the hyghest stayre
Fals lowest: for on earth nought hath enduraunce.

Sweet warriour when shall I have peace with you?
High time it is, this warre now ended were:
Which I no lenger can endure to sue,
Ne your incessant battry more to beare:
So weake my powres, so sore my wounds appeare,
That wonder is how I should live a jot,
Seeing my hart through launched every where
With thousand arrowes, which your eies have shot:
Yet shoot ye sharpely still, and spare me not,
But glory thinke to make these cruel stoures.
Ye cruell one, what glory can be got,
In slaying him that would live gladly yours?

Fayre ye be sure, but cruell and unkind,
As is a Tygre that with greedinesse
Hunts after bloud, when he by chauce doth find
A feeble beast, doth felly him oppresse.
Fayre be ye but proud and pittilesse,
As is a storme, that all things doth prostrate:
Finding a tree alone all comfortlesse,
Beats on it strongly it to ruinate.
Fayre be ye sure, but hard and obstinate,
As is a rocke amidst the raging floods:
Gaynst which a ship of succour desolate,
Doth suffer wreck both of her selfe and goods.
That ship, that tree, and that same beast am I,

So oft as I her beauty do behold,
And therewith do her cruelty compare,
I marvel of what substance was the mould
The which her made at once so cruel-fair.
Not earth; for her high thoughts more heavenly are:
Not water; for her love doth burn like fire:
Not air; for she is not so light or rare:
Not fire; for she doth freeze with faint desire.
Then needs another element inquire
Whereof she might be made; that is, the sky.
For to the heaven her haughty looks aspire,
And eke her love is pure immortal high.

Of this worlds Theatre in which we stay,
My love lyke the Spectator ydly sits
beholding me that all the pageants play,
disguysing diversly my troubled wits.
Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits,
and mask in myrth lyke to a Comedy:
soone after when my joy to sorrow flits,
I waile and make my woes a Tragedy.
Yet she beholding me with constant eye,
delights not in my merth nor rues my smart:
but when I laugh she mocks, and when I cry
she laughs, and hardens evermore her hart.
What then can move her? if nor merth nor mone,

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.
So I her absens will my penaunce make,