TEll me, my dear, what moves thy ruthless mind To be so cruel, seeing thou art so fair? Did Nature frame thy beauty so unkind; Or dost thou scorn to pity my despair? O no, it was not Nature's ornament, But wingèd Love's impartial cruel wound, Which in my heart is ever permanent, Until my Chloris makes me whole and sound. O glorious Love-God, think on my heart's grief! Let not thy vassal pine through deep disdain! By wounding Chloris, I shall find relief; If thou impart to her some of my pain. She doth thy temples and thy shrines abject! They with Aminta's flowers by me are decked.
SONNET XII.
CEase eyes to weep, sith none bemoans your weeping! Leave off, good Muse, to sound the cruel name Of my love's Queen! which hath my heart in keeping; Yet of my love doth make a jesting game. Long hath my sufferance laboured to enforce One pearl of pity from her pretty eyes; Whilst I, with restless oceans of remorse, Bedew the banks where my fair Chloris lies, Where my fair Chloris bathes her tender skin; And doth triumph to see such rivers fall From those moist springs, which never dry have been Since she their honour hath detained in thrall. And still she scorns one favouring smile to show Unto those waves proceeding from my woe.
A Dream.