SONNET XXI.
LIcia, my Love, was sitting in a grove; Tuning her smiles unto the chirping songs: But straight she spied where two together strove, Each one complaining of the other's wrongs. Cupid did cry, lamenting of the harm, "Jove's Messenger, thou wrong'st me too too far! Use thou thy rod! rely upon thy charm! Think not by speech, my force thou can'st debar!" "A rod, sir boy, were fitter for a child! My weapons oft, and tongue, and mind you took: And in my wrong, at my distress thou smiled; And scorn to grace me with a loving look." Speak you, Sweet Love, for you did all the wrong! That broke his arrows, and did bind his tongue.
SONNET XXII.
"I might have died before my life began; When as my father, for his country's good, The Persians' favour and the Sophy wan: But yet with danger of his dearest blood." Thy father, Sweet, whom danger did beset, Escapèd all: and for no other end But only this, that you he might beget: Whom heavens decreed into the world to send. Then, father, thank thy daughter for thy life! And Neptune praise, that yielded so to thee, To calm the tempest, when the storms were rife; And that thy daughter should a Venus be. I call thee Venus, Sweet! but be not wroth; Thou art more chaste, yet seas did favour both.