LIke to the shipman, in his brittle boat, Tossed aloft by the unconstant wind; By dangerous rocks and whirling gulfs doth float, Hoping, at length, the wishèd Port to find: So doth my love in stormy billows sail, And passing the gaping Scylla's waves, In hope at length with Chloris to prevail; And win that prize which most my fancy craves. Which unto me of value will be more Than was that rich and wealthy Golden Fleece; Which Jason stout, from Colchos island bore, With wind in sails, unto the shore of Greece, More rich, more rare, more worth her love I prize; Than all the wealth which under heaven lies.
SONNET XXXVI.
O What a wound, and what a deadly stroke, Doth Cupid give to us, perplexed lovers! Which cleaves, more fast than ivy doth to oak, Unto our hearts where he his might discovers. Though warlike Mars were armèd at all points With that tried coat which fiery Vulcan made; Love's shafts did penetrate his steelèd joints, And in his breast in streaming gore did wade. So pitiless is this fell conqueror, That in his Mother's paps his arrows stuck! Such is his rage! that he doth not defer To wound those orbs, from whence he life did suck. Then sith no mercy he shews to his mother; We meekly must his force and rigour smother.
SONNET XXXVII.
