THy beauty, subject of my Song I make; O fairest Fair! on whom depends my life: Refuse not then the task I undertake To please thy rage, and to appease my strife! But with one smile remunerate my toil; None other guerdon I, of thee desire. Give not my lowly Muse new-hatched the foil, But warmth; that she may at the length aspire Unto the temples of thy star-bright Eyes; Upon whose round orbs perfect Beauty sits: From whence such glorious crystal Beams arise As best my Chloris' seemly Face befits. Which Eyes, which Beauty, which bright crystal Beam, Which Face of thine, hath made my love extreme.
SONNET III.
FEed, silly sheep! although your keeper pineth; Yet, like to Tantalus, doth see his food. Skip you and leap! now bright Apollo shineth Whilst I bewail my sorrows in yon wood: Where woeful Philomela doth record (And sings with notes of sad and dire lament), The tragedy wrought by her sister's Lord. I'll bear a part in her black discontent! That pipe, which erst was wont to make you glee, Upon these downs whereon you careless graze, Shall to her mournful music tunèd be! Let not my plaints, poor lambkins, you amaze! There, underneath that dark and dusky bower, Whole showers of Tears to Chloris I will pour!
SONNET IV.
