My love is lyke to yse, and I to fyre;
How comes it then that this her cold so great
Is not dissolv'd through my so hot desyre,
But harder growes the more I her intreat?
Or how comes it that my exceeding heat
Is not delayd by her hart frosen cold:
But that I burne much more in boyling sweat,
And feele my flames augmented manifold?
What more miraculous thing may be told
That fire which all thing melts, should harden yse:
And yse which is congeald with sencelesse cold,
Should kindle fyre by wonderfull devyse.

See how the stubborne damzell doth deprave
My simple meaning with disdaynfull scorne:
And by the bay which I unto her gave,
Accoumpts my selfe her captive quite forlorne.
The bay (quoth she) is of the victours borne,
Yielded them by the vanquisht as theyr meeds,
And they therewith doe poetes heads adorne,
To sing the glory of their famous deedes.
But sith she will the conquest challeng needs,
Let her accept me as her faithfull thrall,
That her great triumph which my skill exceeds,
I may in trump of fame blaze over all.

The laurel leafe which you this day doe weare
Gives me great hope of your relenting mynd:
For since it is the badg which I doe beare,
Ye, bearing it, doe, seeme, to me inclind
The powre thereof, which ofte in me I find,
Let it lykewise your gentle breat inspire
With sweet infusion and put you in mind
Of that proud may'd whom now those leaves attyre.
Proud Daphne, scorning Phaebus lovely fyre,
On the Thessalian shore from him did flie:
For which the gods, in theyr revengefull yre,
Did her transforme into a laurell tree.

Faire proud now tell me why should faire be proud,
Sith all worlds glorie is but drosse uncleane:
And in the shade of death it selfe shall shroud,
How ever now thereof ye little weene.
That goodly Idoll now so gay beseene,
Shall doffe her fleshes borowd fayre attyre:
And be forgot as it had never beene,
That many now much worship and admire.
Ne any then shall after it inquire,
Ne any mention shall thereof remaine:
But what this verse, that never shall expyre,
Shall to you purchas with her thankles paine.

Sweet is the Rose, but growes upon a brere;
Sweet is the Junipere, but sharpe his bough;
Sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere;
Sweet is the firbloome, but his braunches rough.
Sweet is the Cypresse, but his rynd is tough,
Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill;
Sweet is the broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough;
And sweet is Moly, but his root is ill.
So every sweet with soure is tempred still,
That maketh it be coveted the more:
For easie things that may be got at will,
Most sorts of men doe set but little store.

How long shall this lyke dying lyfe endure,
And know no end of her owne mysery:
But wast and weare away in termes unsure,
Twixt feare and hope depending doubtfully.
Yet better were attonce to let me die,
And shew the last ensample of your pride:
Then to torment me thus with cruelty,
To prove your powre, which I too wel have tride.
But yet if in your hardned brest ye hide,
A close intent at last to shew me grace:
Then all the woes and wrecks which I abide,
As meanes of blisse I gladly wil embrace.
And wish that more and greater they might be,

When I behold that beauties wonderment,
And rare perfection of each goodly part:
Of natures skill the onely complement,
I honor and admire the makers art.
But when I feele the bitter balefull smart,
Which her fayre eyes unwares doe worke in mee:
That death out of theyr shiny beames doe dart,
I thinke that I a new Pandora see.
Whom all the Gods in councell did agree,
Into this sinfull world from heaven to send:
That she to wicked men a scourge should bee,
For all their faults with which they did offend.

Penelope for her Ulisses sake,
Deviz'd a Web her wooers to deceave:
In which the worke that she all day did make
The same at night she did againe unreave,
Such subtile craft my Damzell doth conceave,
Th'importune suit of my desire to shonne:
For all that I in many dayes doo weave,
In one short houre I find by her undonne.
So when I thinke to end that I begonne,
I must begin and never bring to end:
For with one looke she spils that long I sponne,
And with one word my whole years work doth rend.
Such labour like the Spyders web I fynd,

This holy season fit to fast and pray,
Men to devotion ought to be inclynd:
Therefore, I lykewise on so holy day,
For my sweet Saynt some service fit will find.
Her temple fayre is built within my mind,
In which her glorious ymage placed is,
On which my thoughts doo day and night attend
Lyke sacred priests that never thinke amisse.
There I to her as th'author of my blisse,
Will builde an altar to appease her yre:
And on the same my hart will sacrifise,
Burning in flames of pure and chast desyre:
The which vouchsafe O goddesse to accept,

Was it the worke of nature or of Art?
Which tempred so the feature of her face:
That pride and meeknesse mixt by equall part,
Doe both appeare t'adorne her beauties grace.
For with mild pleasance, which doth pride displace,
She to her loves doth lookers eyes allure:
And with sterne countenance back again doth chace
Their looser lookes that stir up lustes impure.
With such strange termes her eyes she doth inure,
That with one looke she doth my life dismay:
And with another doth it streight recure,
Her smile me drawes, her frowne me drives away.