SONNET XLII.
DIe, die my Hopes! for you do but augment The burning accents of my deep despair; Disdain and scorn, your downfall do consent: Tell to the World, She is unkind, yet fair. O Eyes, close up those ever-running fountains! For pitiless are all the tears you shed; Wherewith you watered have both dales and mountains. I see, I see remorse from her is fled. Pack hence, ye Sighs, into the empty air! Into the air that none your sound may hear. Sith cruel Chloris hath of you no care (Although she once esteemèd you full dear); Let sable night all your disgraces cover: Yet truer sighs were never sighed by lover.
SONNET XLIII.
THou glorious Sun (from whence my lesser light The substance of his crystal shine doth borrow) Let these my moans find favour in thy sight, And with remorse extinguish now my sorrow! Renew those lamps which thy disdain hath quenched, As Phœbus doth his sister Phœbe's shine: Consider how thy Corin, being drenched In seas of woe, to thee his plaints incline! And at thy feet, with tears, doth sue for grace; Which art the goddess of his chaste desire. Let not thy frowns, these labours poor deface! Although aloft they at the first aspire. And time shall come, as yet unknown to men, When I more large thy praises forth shall pen.