To shame the weird retirement of the night?
O clamourous bird! O sad; sweet nightingale!
Withhold thy voice, and blame not Beauty's queen.
She may be pure, though dumb: and she is pale,
And wears a radiance on her brow serene.
XXIV.
THE SONNET KING.
O Petrarch! I am here. I bow to thee,
Great king of sonnets, thronèd long ago
And lover-like, as Love enjoineth me,