See chaste Diana , where my harmles hart,
Rouz'd from my breast, his sure and safest layre,
Nor chaste by hound, nor forc'd by Hunters arte,
Yet see how right he comes unto my fayre.

See how my Deere comes to thy Beauties stand,
And there stands gazing on those darting eyes,
Whilst from theyr rayes by Cupids skilfull hand,
Into his hart the piercing Arrow flyes.

My fayre, looke from those turrets of thine eyes,
Into the Ocean of a troubled minde,
Where my poore soule, the Barke of sorrow lyes,
Left to the mercy of the waves and winde.

See where shee flotes, laden with purest love,
Which those fayre Ilands of thy lookes affoord,
Desiring yet a thousand deaths to prove,
Then so to cast her Ballast over boord.

See how her sayles be rent, her tacklings worne,
Her Cable broke, her surest Anchor lost,
Her Marryners doe leave her all forlorne,
Yet how shee bends towards that blessed Coast.

Whilst thus mine eyes doe surfet with delight,
My wofull hart imprisond in my breast,
Wishing to be trans-formd into my sight,
To looke on her by whom mine eyes are blest.

But whilst mine eyes thus greedily doe gaze,
Behold, their objects over-soone depart,
And treading in thys never-ending maze,
Wish now to be trans-formd into my hart.

My hart surcharg'd with thoughts, sighes in abundance raise,
My eyes made dim with lookes, poure down a flood of tears,
And whilst my hart and eye, envy each others praise,

Those teares which quench my hope, still kindle my desire,
Those sighes which coole my hart, are coles unto my love,
Disdayne Ice to my life, is to my soule a fire,
With teares, sighes, & disdaine, thys contrary I prove.

Quenchles desire, makes hope burne, dryes my teares,
Love heats my hart, my hart-heat my sighes warmeth,
With my soules fire, my life disdaine out-weares,
Desire, my love, my soule, my hope, hart, & life charmeth.

My hope becomes a friend to my desire,
My hart imbraceth Love, Love doth imbrace my hart,

Sitting alone, love bids me goe and write,
Reason plucks backe, commaunding me to stay,
Boasting that shee doth still direct the way,
Els senceles love could never once endite.

Love growing angry, vexed at the spleene,
And scorning Reasons maymed Argument,
Straight taxeth Reason, wanting to invent,
Where shee with Love conversing hath not beene.

Reason reproched with this coy disdaine,
Dispighteth Love, and laugheth at her folly,
And Love contemning Reasons reason wholy,
Thought her in weight too light by many a graine.

Three sorts of Serpents doe resemble thee,
That daungerous eye-killing Cockatrice,
Th'inchaunting Syren, which doth so entice,
The weeping Crocodile: these vile pernicious three.

The Basiliske his nature takes from thee,
Who for my life in secrete waite do'st lye,
And to my hart send'st poyson from thine eye,
Thus do I feele the paine, the cause, yet cannot see.

Faire-mayd no more, but Mayr-maid be thy name,
Who with thy sweet aluring harmony
Hast playd the thiefe, and stolne my hart from me,

O eyes, behold your happy Hesperus ,
That luckie Load-starre of eternall light,
Left as that sunne alone to comfort us,
When our worlds sunne is vanisht out of sight.

O starre of starres, fayre Planet mildly mooving,
O Lampe of vertue, sun-bright, ever shyning,
O mine eyes Comet, so admyr'd by loving,
O cleerest day-starre, never more declyning.

O our worlds wonder, crowne of heaven above,

Some wits there be, which lyke my method well,
And say my verse runnes in a lofty vayne,
Some say I have a passing pleasing straine,
Some say that in my humor I excell.

Some, who reach not the height of my conceite,
They say, (as Poets doe) I use to fayne,
And in bare words paynt out my passions payne.
Thus sundry men, their sundry minds repeate.

I passe not I how men affected be,
Nor who commend or discommend my verse,
It pleaseth me if I my plaints rehearse,
And in my lynes if shee my love may see.

My love makes hote the fire whose heat is spent,
The water, moysture from my teares deriveth:
And my strong sighes, the ayres weake force reviveth.
This love, tears, sighes, maintaine each one his element.

The fire, unto my love, compare a painted fire,
The water, to my teares, as drops to Oceans be,
The ayre, unto my sighes, as Eagle to the flie,
The passions of dispaire, but joyes to my desire.

Onely my love is in the fire ingraved,
Onely my teares by Oceans may be gessed,
Onely my sighes are by the ayre expressed,

Cupid, dumbe Idoll, peevish Saint of love,
No more shalt thou nor Saint nor Idoll be,
No God art thou, a Goddesse shee doth prove,
Of all thine honour shee hath robbed thee.

Thy Bowe halfe broke, is peec'd with olde desire,
Her Bowe is beauty, with ten thousand strings,
Of purest gold, tempred with vertues fire:
The least able to kyll an hoste of Kings.

Thy shafts be spent, and shee (to warre appointed)
Hydes in those christall quivers of her eyes,
More Arrowes with hart-piercing mettel poynted,