SONNET VII.
WHat need I mourn? seeing Pan, our sacred King, Was, of that Nymph, fair Syrinx coy, disdained. The World's great Light, which comforteth each thing, All comfortless for Daphne's sake remained. If gods can find no help to heal the sore Made by Love's shafts, which pointed are with fire; Unhappy Corin, then thy chance deplore! Since they despair by wanting their desire. I am not Pan, though I a shepherd be; Yet is my Love as fair as Syrinx was. My Song cannot with Phœbus's tunes agree; Yet Chloris doth his Daphne far surpass. How much more fair, by so much more unkind Than Syrinx coy, or Daphne, I her find.
SONNET VIII.
NO sooner had fair Phœbus trimmed his car, Being newly arisen from Aurora's bed; But I, in whom Despair and Hope did war, My unpenned flock unto the mountains led. Tripping upon the snow-soft downs I spied Three Nymphs, more fairer than those Beauties Three Which did appear to Paris on Mount Ide. Coming more near, my goddess I there see. For She, the field Nymphs oftentimes doth haunt, To hunt with them the fierce and savage boar: And having sported, Virelays they chant; Whilst I, unhappy, helpless cares deplore. There did I call to her, ah, too unkind! But tiger-like, of me she had no mind.