‘And long upon these terms I held my city,
Till thus he ’gan besiege me: “Gentle maid,
Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity,
And be not of my holy vows afraid:
That’s to ye sworn, to none was ever said,
For feasts of love I have been call’d unto,
Till now did ne’er invite, nor never woo.
‘“All my offences that abroad you see
Are errors of the blood, none of the mind:
Love made them not; with acture they may be,
Where neither party is nor true nor kind,
They sought their shame that so their shame did find,
And so much less of shame in me remains,
By how much of me their reproach contains.
‘“Among the many that mine eyes have seen,
Not one whose flame my heart so much as warmed,
Or my affection put to th’ smallest teen,
Or any of my leisures ever charmed:
Harm have I done to them, but ne’er was harmed;
Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free,
And reign’d commanding in his monarchy.
‘“Look here what tributes wounded fancies sent me,
Of pallid pearls and rubies red as blood,
Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me
Of grief and blushes, aptly understood
In bloodless white and the encrimson’d mood;
Effects of terror and dear modesty,
Encamp’d in hearts, but fighting outwardly.
‘“And, lo! behold these talents of their hair,
With twisted metal amorously empleach’d,
I have receiv’d from many a several fair,
Their kind acceptance weepingly beseech’d,
With th’ annexions of fair gems enrich’d,
And deep-brain’d sonnets that did amplify
Each stone’s dear nature, worth and quality.
‘“The diamond, why ’twas beautiful and hard,
Whereto his invis’d properties did tend,
The deep green emerald, in whose fresh regard
Weak sights their sickly radiance do amend;
The heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend
With objects manifold; each several stone,
With wit well blazon’d smil’d, or made some moan.
‘“Lo, all these trophies of affections hot,
Of pensiv’d and subdued desires the tender,
Nature hath charg’d me that I hoard them not,
But yield them up where I myself must render,
That is, to you, my origin and ender:
For these of force must your oblations be,
Since I their altar, you empatron me.
‘“O then advance of yours that phraseless hand,
Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise;
Take all these similes to your own command,
Hallowed with sighs that burning lungs did raise:
What me, your minister for you, obeys,
Works under you; and to your audit comes
Their distract parcels in combined sums.
‘“Lo, this device was sent me from a nun,
Or sister sanctified of holiest note,
Which late her noble suit in court did shun,
Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote;
For she was sought by spirits of richest coat,
But kept cold distance, and did thence remove
To spend her living in eternal love.
‘“But O, my sweet, what labour is’t to leave
The thing we have not, mast’ring what not strives,
Planing the place which did no form receive,
Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves,
She that her fame so to herself contrives,
The scars of battle ’scapeth by the flight,
And makes her absence valiant, not her might.