Whiles teares poure out his inke, and sighes breathe
His paper pale despaire, and paine his penne doth move.
I can speake what I feele, and feele as much as they,
But thinke that all the mappe of my state I display,
When trembling voice brings foorth, that I do Stella love.
When nature made her chiefe worke, Stella’s eyes,
In collour blacke, why wrapt she beames so bright?
Would she in beamy blacke like Painter wise,
Frame daintiest lustre mixte of shades of light?
Or did she els that sober hewe devise,