MY Love was masked, and armèd with a fan; To see the sun so careless of his light: Which stood and gazed; and gazing, waxèd wan To see a star, himself that was more bright. Some did surmise She hid her from the sun; Of whom, in pride, She scorned for to be kissed: And feared the harm by him to others done. But these the reason of this wonder missed; Nor durst the sun, if that her face were bare, In greatest pride presume to take a kiss: But she, more kind, did show she had more care Than with her eyes eclipse him of his bliss. Unmask you, Sweet, and spare not! dim the sun! Your light's enough, although that his were done.
SONNET XXIV.
WHen as my Love lay sickly in her bed, Pale Death did post, in hope to have a prey; But she so spotless made him, that he fled: "Unmeet to die," he cried; and could not stay. Back he retired, and thus the heavens he told: "All things that are, are subject unto me; Both towns, and men, and what the world doth hold: But let fair Licia still immortal be!" The heavens did grant. A goddess she was made, Immortal, fair, unfit to suffer change. So now she lives, and never more shall fade. In earth, a goddess. What can be more strange? Then will I hope! A goddess, and so near; She cannot choose, my sighs and prayers but hear.