I wrote my sighs, and sent them to my Love. I praised that Fair, that none enough could praise: But plaints, nor praises, could fair Licia move. Above my reach, she did her virtues raise. And thus replied, "False scrawl, untrue thou art! To feign those sighs that nowhere can be found. For half those praises came not from his heart; Whose faith and love, as yet, was never found. "Thy master's life, false scrawl, shall be thy doom! Because he burns, I judge thee to the flame! Both your attempts deserve no better room." Thus, at her word, we ashes both became. Believe me, Fair, and let my paper live! Or be not fair, and so me freedom give.
SONNET XXXIII.
PAle are my looks, forsaken of my life: Cinders, my bones; consumèd with thy flame. Floods are my tears, to end this burning strife; And yet I sigh, for to increase the same. I mourn alone, because alone I burn: Who doubts of this, then let him learn to love! Her looks, cold ice into a flame can turn; As I distressèd in myself do prove. Respect, fair Licia, what my torments are! Count but the tithe both of my sighs and tears! See how my love doth still increase my care! And care's increase, my life to nothing wears. Send but a sigh, my flame for to increase: Or lend a tear, and cause it so to cease.