Mark when she smiles with amiable cheare,
And tell me whereto can ye lyken it:
When on each eyelid sweetly doe appeare
An hundred Graces as in shade to sit.
Lykest it seemeth in my simple wit
Unto the fayre sunshine in somers day:
That when a dreadfull storme away is flit,
Thrugh the broad world doth spred his goodly ray
At sight whereof each bird that sits on spray,
And every beast that to his den was fled:
Comes forth afresh out of their late dismay,
And to the light lift up theyr drouping hed.
So my storme beaten hart likewise is cheared,

Sweet smile, the daughter of the Queene of love,
Expressing all thy mothers powrefull art:
With which she wonts to temper angry Jove,
When all the gods he threats with thundring dart.
Sweet is thy vertue as thy selfe sweet art,
For when on me thou shinedst late in sadnesse:
A melting pleasance ran through every part,
And me revived with hart robbing gladnesse.
Whylest rapt with joy resembling heavenly madnes,
My soule was ravisht quite as in a traunce:
And feeling thence no more her sorowes sadnesse,

Arion , when through tempests cruel wracke,
He forth was thrown into the greedy seas:
Through the sweet musick which his harp did make
Allu'rd a Dolphin him from death to ease.
But my rude musick, which was wont to please
Some dainty eares, cannot with any skill,
The dreadfull tempest of her wrath appease,
Nor move the Dolphin from her stubborne will.
But in her pride she dooth persever still,
All carelesse how my life for her decayse:
Yet with one word she can it save or spill,
To spill were pitty, but to save were prayse.

What guyle is this, that those her golden tresses,
She doth attyre under a net of gold:
And with sly skill so cunningly them dresses,
That which is gold or heare, may scarse be told?

Is it that mens frayle eyes, which gaze too bold,
She may entangle in that golden snare:
And being caught may craftily enfold,
Theyr weaker harts, which are not wel aware?
Take heed therefore, myne eyes, how ye doe stare
Henceforth too rashly on that guilefull net,
In which if ever ye entrapped are,
Out of her bands ye by no means shall get.

Tell me when shall these wearie woes have end,
Or shall their ruthlesse torment never cease:
But al my dayes in pining languor spend,
Without hope of aswagement or release.
Is there no meanes for me to purchace peace,
Or make agreement with her thrilling eyes:
But that their cruelty doth still increace,
And dayly more augment my miseryes.
But when ye have shewed all extremityes,
Then thinke how litle glory ye have gayned:
By slaying him, whose lyfe though ye despyse,
Mote have your life in honour long maintayned.

My hungry eyes, through greedy covetize,
Still to behold the object of theyr payne:
With no contentment can themselves suffize,
But having pine, and having not complayne.
For lacking it, they cannot lyfe sustayne,
And seeing it, they gaze on it the more:
In theyr amazement lyke Narcissus vayne
Whose eyes him starv'd: so plenty makes me pore.
Yet are myne eyes so filled with the store
Of that fayre sight, that nothing else they brooke:
But loath the things which they did like before,
And can no more endure on them to looke.

Like as a ship, that through the ocean wide,
By conduct of some star, doth make her way,
Whenas a storm hath dimmed her trusty guide,
Out of her course doth wander far astray:
So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray
Me to direct, with clouds is overcast,
Do wander now, in darkness and dismay,
Through hidden perils round about me placed;
Yet hope I well that, when this storm is past,
My Helice, the loadstar of my life,
Will shine again, and look on me at last,
With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief.

Great wrong I doe, I can it not deny,
To that most sacred Empresse my dear dred,
Not finishing her Queene of faery,
That mote enlarge her living prayses dead:
But lodwick, this of grace to me aread:
Doe ye not thinck th'accomplishment of it,
Sufficient worke for one mans simple head,

All were it as the rest but rudely writ.
How then should I without another wit:
Thinck ever to endure so taedious toyle,
Sins that this one is tost with troublous fit,
Of a proud love, that doth my spirite spoyle.

The paynefull smith with force of fervent heat,
The hardest yron soone doth mollify:
That with his heavy sledge he can it beat,
And fashion to what he it list apply.
Yet cannot all these flames in which I fry,
Her hart more harde then yron soft awhit:
Ne all the playnts and prayers with which I
Doe beat on th'andvyle of her stubberne wit:
But still the more she fervent sees my fit:
The more she frieseth in her wilfull pryde:
And harder growes the harder she is smit,
With all the playnts which to her be applyde.

Ah why hath nature to so hard a hart
Given so goodly giftes of beauties grace?
Whose pryde depraves each other better part,
And all those pretious ornaments deface.
Sith to all other beastes of bloody race,
A dreadfull countenaunce she given hath:
That with theyr terrour al the rest may chace,
And warne to shun the daunger of theyr wrath.
But my proud one doth worke the greater scath,
Through sweet allurement of her lovely hew:
That she the better may in bloody bath,
Of such poore thralls her cruell hands embrew.