Of sweet on your fair face,

Whilst therewith I am fed,

Rest careless (bear of love) of hellish smart,
And how those eyes afflict and wound my heart.

FIVE SONNETS FOR GALATEA.

CXXXVI.

STREPHON, in vain thou bring'st thy rhimes and songs,
Deck'd with grave Pindar's old and wither'd flow'rs;
In vain thou count'st the fair Europa's wrongs,
And her whom Jove deceiv'd in golden show'rs.
Thou hast slept never under myrtle's shed;
Or, if that passion hath thy soul oppress'd,
It is but for some Grecian mistress dead,
Of such old sighs thou dost discharge thy breast;
How can true love with fables hold a place?
Thou who with fables dost set forth thy love,
Thy love a pretty fable needs must prove:
Thou suest for grace, in scorn more to disgrace.
I cannot think thou wert charm'd by my looks,
O no! thou learn'st thy love in lovers' books.

No more with candid words infect mine ears;
Tell me no more how that you pine in anguish ;
When sound you sleep, no more say that you languish ;
No more in sweet despite say you spend tears.

Who hath such hollow eyes as not to see,

How those that are hair-brain'd boast of Apollo,
And bold give out the Muses do them follow,
Though in Love's library, yet no lovers be.
If we, poor souls! least favour but them shew,
That straight in wanton lines abroad is blaz'd;
Their names doth soar on our fame's overthrow;
Mark'd is our lightness, whilst their wits are prais'd.
In silent thoughts who can no secret cover,
He may, say we, but not well, be a lover.

CXXXVIII.

YE who with curious numbers, sweetest art,
Frame Dædal nets our beauty to surprise,
Telling strange castles builded in the skies,
And tales of Cupid's bow and Cupid's dart;
Well, howsoe'er ye act your feigned smart,
Molesting quiet ears with tragic cries,

When you accuse our chastity's best part,
Nam'd cruelty, ye seem not half too wise;
Yea, ye yourselves it deem most worthy praise,
Beauty's best guard; that dragon, which doth keep
Hesperian fruit, the spur in you does raise,
That Delian wit that otherways may sleep,
To cruel nymphs your lines do fame afford,
Oft many pitiful, not one poor word.

CXXXIX.

If it be love, to wake out all the night,

And watchful eyes drive out in dewy moans,

R

And, when the sun brings to the world his light,
To waste the day in tears and bitter groans;
If it be love, to dim weak reason's beam

With clouds of strange desire, and make the mind
In hellish agonies a heav'n to dream,

Still seeking comforts where but griefs we find ;
If it be love, to stain with wanton thought

A spotless chastity, and make it try

More furious flames than his whose cunning wrought
That brazen bull, where he intomb'd did fry;
Then sure is love the causer of such woes,
Be ye our lovers, or our mortal foes.

CXL.

AND would you then shake off Love's golden chain, With which it is best freedom to be bound?

And, cruel! do you seek to heal the wound

Of love, which hath such sweet and pleasant pain? All that is subject unto Nature's reign

In skies above, or on this lower round,

When it its long and far-sought end hath found,

Doth in decadence fall and slack remain.
Behold the Moon, how gay her face doth grow
Till she kiss all the Sun, then doth decay!
See how the seas tumultuously do flow
Till they embrace lov'd banks, then post away;
So is't with love; unless you love me still,
O do not think I'll yield unto your will.

TO THAUMANTIA, SINGING.-CXLI.

Is it not too, too much

Thou late didst to me prove

A basilisk of love,

And didst my wits bewitch?

Unless, to cause more harm,

Made syren too thou with thy voice me charm?
Ah! though thou so my reason didst controul,
That to thy looks I could not prove a mole,
Yet do me not that wrong,

As not to let me turn asp to thy song.

UPON A GLASS.-CXLII.

If thou wouldst see threads purer than the gold,
Where love his wealth doth shew,

But take this glass, and thy fair hair behold.

If whiteness thou wouldst see more white than snow,

And read on wonder's book,

Take but this glass, and on thy forehead look.
Wouldst thou in winter see a crimson rose,

Whose thorns do hurt each heart,

Look but in glass how thy sweet lips do close.
Wouldst thou see planets which all good impart,
Or meteors divine,

But take this glass, and gaze upon thine eyne.
No-planets, rose, snow, gold, cannot compare
With you, dear eyes, lips, brows, and amber hair!

OF A BEE.-CXLIII.

As an audacious knight,

Come with some foe to fight,

His sword doth brandish, makes his armour ring;

So this proud bee, at home perhaps a king,

Did buzzing fly about,

And, tyrant, after thy fair lip did sting.

O champion strange as stout!

Who hast by nature found

Sharp arms, and trumpet shrill, to sound and wound.

OF THE SAME.-CXLIV.

O Do not kill that bee

That thus hath wounded thee!

Sweet, it was no despite,

But hue did him deceive:

For when thy lips did close,

He deemed them a rose.

What wouldst thou further crave?

He wanting wit, and blinded with delight,

Would fain have kiss'd, but mad with joy did bite.

OF A KISS.-CXLV.

AH! of that cruel bee

Thy lips have suck'd too much; .

For when they mine did touch,

I found that both they hurt and sweeten'd me: