You goodly pines, which still with braue ascent
In Nature's pride your heads to heav'nward heaue; —
Though you, besides such graces earth hath lent,
Of some late grace a greater grace receiue,
By her who was (O blessed you!) content
With her faire hand your tender barkes to cleaue,
And so by you (O blessed you!) hath sent
Such piercing words as no thoughts else conceiue; —
Yet yeeld your grant; a baser hand may leaue
His thoughts in you, where so sweet thoughts were spent:
For how would you the mistresse' thoughts bereaue

Sweete roote, say thou the roote of my desire
Was Vertue cladde in constant Loue's attire.

Doe not disdaine, O streight vp-raised pine,
That, wounding thee, my thoughts in thee I graue,
Since that my thoughts, as streight as streightnesse thine,
No smaller wound — alas, far deeper — haue:
Deeper engrau'd, which salue nor time can saue,
Giu'n to my heart by my sore-wounded eyne:
Thus cruell to my selfe, how canst thou craue
My inward hurt should spare thy outward rine?
Yet still, faire tree, lift vp thy stately line,
Liue long, and long witnesse my chosen smart,
Which barr'd desires (barr'd by my selfe) impart,

This caue is darke, but it had neuer light;
This waxe doth waste it selfe, yet painelesse dies;
These words are full of woes, yet feele they none
I darkned am, who once had clearest sight;
I waste my heart, which still new torments tries;
I plaine with cause, my woes are all mine owne.
No caue, no wasting waxe, no words of griefe,
Can hold, shew, tell my paines without reliefe.

An Octave by Gynecia

Like those sicke folkes in whom strange humours flow,
Can taste no sweets, the sowre onely please;
So to my mind, while passions daily grow,
Whose fierie chaines vpon his freedome seaze,
Ioyes strangers seeme, I cannot bide their show,
Nor brooke ought else but well-acquainted woe;
Bitter griefe tastes me best, paine is my ease;
Sicke to the death, still louing my disease.

Since that the stormie rage of passions darke, —
Of passions darke, made darke by beauties' light, —
With rebell force hath clos'de in dungeon darke
My minde, ere now led forth by reason's light: —
Since all the things which giue my eyes their light
Doe foster still the fruites of fancies darke,
So that the windowes of my inward light
Doe serue to make my inward powers darke: —
Since, as I say, both mind and senses darke
Are hurt, not helpt, with piercing of the light;
While that the light may shew the horrors darke,

Phaebus, farewell; a sweeter saint I serue;
The high conceits thy heav'nly wisedomes breed
My thoughts forget; my thoughts, which never swerue
From her in whom is sowne thir freedome's seed,
And in whose eyes my daily doome I reede.

Phaebus, farewell; a sweeter saint I serue;
Thou art farre off, thy kingdome is aboue;
She heau'n on earth with beauties doth preserue:
Thy beames I like, but her clear rayes I loue;
Thy force I feare, her force I still doe proue.
Phaebus, yeeld vp thy title in my minde

The fire to see my wrongs for anger burneth,
The Ayre in raine for my affliction weepeth,
The Sea to ebbe for griefe his flowing turneth,
The Earth with pittie dull his center keepeth;
Fame is with wonder blased,
Time runnes away for sorrow,
Place standeth still amazed
To see my night of euils, which hath no morrow:
Alas, alonely she no pitie taketh
To know my miseries, but, chaste and cruell,
My fall her glory maketh;
Yet still her eyes giue to my flames their fuell.
Fire, burne me quite, till sense of burning leaue me;

With two strange fires of equall heat possest,
The one of Loue, the' other of Iealousie,
Both still do worke, in neither I find rest;
For both, alas, their strengths together tie,
The one aloft doth hold, the other hie.
Loue wakes the iealous eye least thence it moues;
The iealous eye the more it lookes, it loues.
These fires increase: in these I dayly burne;
They feed on me, and with my wings do flie;
My louely ioyes to dolefull ashes turne,
Their flames mount vp, my powers prostrate lie;
They liue in force, I quite consumed die.

In vaine, mine eyes, you labour to amend
With flowing teares your fault of hastie sight,
Since to my hart her shape you so did send,
That her I see, though you did lose your light.
In vaine, my heart, now you with sight are burn'd,
With sighes you seeke to coole your hot desire,
Since sighes (into mine inward furnace turn'd)
For bellowes serue to kindle more the fire.
Reason, in vaine, now you haue lost my heart,
My head you seeke, as to your strongest fort,
Since there mine eyes haue plaid so false a part,