LIke Memnon's rock, touched with the rising sun, Which yields a sound, and echoes forth a voice: But when it's drowned in western seas is dumb; And drowsy-like, leaves off to make a noise. So I, my Love, enlightened with your shine, A Poet's skill within my soul I shroud; Not rude, like that which finer wits decline; But such as Muses, to the best allowed. But when your figure and your shape is gone; I speechless am, like as I was before: Or if I write, my verse is filled with moan; And blurred with tears, by falling in such store. Then muse not, Licia, if my Muse be slack: For when I wrote, I did thy beauty lack.
SONNET XLVIII.
I saw, sweet Licia, when the Spider ran Within your house, to weave a worthless web; You present were, and feared her with your fan: So that, amazèd, speedily she fled. She, in your house, such sweet perfumes did smell; And heard the Muses with their notes refined: Thus, filled with envy, could no longer dwell; But straight returned, and at your house repined. "Then tell me, Spider, why of late I saw Thee lose thy poison, and thy bowels gone? Did these enchant and keep thy limbs in awe, And made thy forces to be small or none? No, no! Thou didst, by chance, my Licia see; Who, for her look, Minerva seemed to be."
SONNET XLIX.