I know frail beauty’s like the purple flow’r,
To which one morn oft birth and death affords:
That love a jarring is of minds’ accords,
Where sense and will bring under reason’s pow’r.
Know what I list, this all cannot me move,
But that, alas! I both must write and love.’
Another—
‘Fair moon, who with thy cold and silver shine
Mak’st sweet the horror of the dreadful night,
Delighting the weak eye with smiles divine,