SONNET XXX.
WHen as her lute is tunèd to her voice, The air grows proud for honour of that sound; And rocks do leap, to shew how they rejoice That in the earth such music should be found. When as her hair (more worth, more pale, than gold) Like silver thread lies wafting in the air; Diana-like she looks, but yet more bold: Cruel in chase, more chaste, and yet more fair. When as she smiles, the cloud for envy breaks; She Jove in pride encounters with a check: The sun doth shine for joy when as she speaks, Thus heaven and earth do homage at her beck. Yet all these graces, blots; not graces, are: If you, my Love, of love do take no care.
SONNET XXXI.
YEars, months, days, hours, in sighs I sadly spend. I black the night, wherein I sleepless toss. I love my griefs, yet wish them at an end. Thus time's expense increaseth but my loss. I musing stand, and wonder at my Love; That in so fair, should be a heart of steel. And then I think, my fancy to remove: But then more painful I my passions feel. Thus must I love, sweet Fair, until I die; And your unkindness doth my love increase: I conquered am, I cannot it deny. My life must end; yet shall my love not cease. Then heavens, make Licia fair most kind to me; Or with my life, my love may finished be!