IF April fresh doth kindly give us flowers; September yields with more increase the fruit. Sweetest, you have in bosom, Beauty's Bowers, Both these sweet tides: whence forth they always shoot Both flower and fruit. All only you, alone, Can give me, when you please; or else can none. O dainty bosom, bosom rich in price, Surmounting mountains huge of beaten gold; Whose whiteness braves the whitest snow that lies On highest hills, whose height none can behold. In you, my soul doth hope, without annoy, Both Spring and Harvest, one day to enjoy.
Roma.
XII.
DRawn, cunning Painter, hast thou with great art, The Shadow [Image] of my lovely Laura fair; Which object sweet not smally joys my heart: But little didst thou think, nor wast thou 'ware, That where thou thought'st my fancy for to please, Effect contrary sorts to my desire: So that it breeds, in body mine, unease; And, senseless, burns my heart with feeling fire. O strange success! What made was for content Doth most displease; and, lifeless, doth torment.
XIII.
WHen first the cruel Fair deigned graciously To look on me with kind and courteous view; And cast on me a lovely glancing eye: She knew not that I was her servant true. But She no sooner 'ware was of the same; But that She turned her back with great disdain. So as the wound I then close bare in breast; I now, through grief, show outward in my face: But if that She, by whom I wounded rest, Lives in compassion cold towards me, sans grace: Hard hearted is She, cruel was She to her friend; And wicked shall be, world withouten end.