Unrighteous Lord of love what law is this,
That me thou makest thus tormented be:
The whiles she lordeth in licentious blisse
Of her freewill, scorning both thee and me.
See how the Tyrannesse doth joy to see
The huge massacres which her eyes do make:
And humbled harts brings captives unto thee,
That thou of them mayst mightie vengeance take.
But her proud hart doe thou a little shake
And that high look, with which she doth comptroll
All this worlds pride bow to a baser make,
And al her faults in thy black booke enroll.

Long-while I sought to what I might compare
Those powrefull eies, which lighten my dark spright,
Yet find I nought on earth to which I dare
Resemble th'ymage of their goodly light.
Not to the Sun: for they doo shine by night;
Nor to the Moone: for they are changed never;
Nor to the Starres: for they have purer sight;
Nor to the fire: for they consume not ever;
Nor to the lightning: for they still persever;
Nor to the Diamond: for they are more tender;
Nor unto Christall: for nought may them sever;

More than most fair, full of the living fire,
Kindled above unto the Maker near;
No eyes but joys, in which all powers conspire,
That to the world nought else be counted dear;
Through your bright beams doth not the blinded guest
Shoot our his darts to base affections wound;

But angels come to lead frail minds to rest
In chaste desires, on heavenly beauty bound.
You frame my thoughts, and fashion me within;
You stop my tongue, and teach my heart to speak;
You calm the storm that passion did begin,

Fayre eyes, the myrrour of my mazed hart,
What wondrous vertue is contaynd in you
The which both lyfe and death forth from you dart
Into the object of your mighty view?
For when ye mildly looke with lovely hew,
Then is my soule with life and love inspired:
But when ye lowre, or looke on me askew
Then doe I die, as one with lightning fyred.
But since that lyfe is more then death desyred,
Looke ever lovely, as becomes you best,
That your bright beams of my weak eies admyred,
May kindle living fire within my brest.

Be nought dismayd that her unmoved mind,
Doth still persist in her rebellious pride:
Such love not lyke to lusts of baser kynd,
The harder wonne, the firmer will abide.
The durefull Oake, whose sap is not yet dride,
Is long ere it conceive the kindling fyre:
But when it once doth burne, it doth divide
Great heat, and makes his flames to heaven aspire.
So hard it is to kindle new desire,
In gentle brest that shall endure for ever:
Deepe is the wound, that dints the parts entire
With chast affects, that naught but death can sever.

Rudely thou wrongest my deare harts desire,
In finding fault with her too portly pride:
The thing which I doo most in her admire
Is of the world unworthy most envide.
For in those lofty lookes is close implide
Scorn of base things, and sdeigne of foule dishonor;
Thretning rash eies which gaze on her so wide,
That loosely they ne dare to looke upon her.
Such pride is praise, such portlinesse is honor,
That boldned innocence beares in hir eies,
And her faire countenance, like a goodly banner,
Spreds in defiaunce of all enemies.

New yeare forth looking out of Janus gate,
Doth seeme to promise hope of new delight:
And bidding th'old Adieu, his passed date
Bids all old thoughts to die in dumpish spright.
And calling forth out of sad Winters night,
Fresh love, that long hath slept in cheerlesse bower:
Wils him awake, and soone about him dight
His wanton wings and darts of deadly power.
For lusty spring now in his timely howre,
Is ready to come forth him to receive:
And warnes the Earth with divers colord flowre,
To decke hir selfe, and her faire mantle weave.

The soverayne beauty which I doo admyre,
Witnesse the world how worthy to be prayzed:
The light wherof hath kindled heavenly fyre,
In my fraile spirit by her from basenesse raysed.
That being now with her huge brightnesse dazed,
Base thing I can no more endure to view:
But looking still on her I stand amazed,
At wondrous sight of so celestiall hew.
So when my toung would speak her praises dew,
It stopped is with thoughts astonishment:
And when my pen would write her titles true,
It ravisht is with fancies wonderment:

Unquiet thought, whom at the first I bred,
Of th' inward bale of my love pined hart:
And sithens have with sighes and sorrowes fed,
Till greater then my wombe thou woxen art.
Breake forth at length out of the inner part,
In which thou lurkest lyke to vipers brood:
And seeke some succour both to ease my smart
And also to sustayne thy selfe with food.
But if in presence of that fayrest proud
Thou chance to come, fall lowly at her feet:
And with meeke humblesse and afflicted mood,
Pardon for thee, and grace for me intreat.

Happy ye leaves! whenas those lily hands,
Which hold my life in their dead-doing might,
Shall handle you, and hold in love's soft bands,
Like captives trembling at the victor's sight.

And happy lines! on which, with starry light,
Those lamping eyes will deign sometimes to look,
And read the sorrows of my dying sprite,
Written with tears in heart's close-bleeding book.
And happy rhymes! bathed in the sacred brook
Of Helicon, whence she derived is;
When ye behold that angel's blessed look,
My soul's long-lacked food, heaven's bliss;