1

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,

That the dear She might take some pleasure of my pain:

Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,

Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain;

I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,

Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain:

Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow

Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburn't brain.

But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay;

Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows;

And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way.

Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,

Biting my truant pen, beating my self for spite,

"Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart and write."

15

You that do search for every purling spring,

Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows;

And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows

Near thereabouts, into your Poesy wring;

You that do dictionary's method bring

Into your rhymes, running in rattling rows;

You that poor Petrarch's long-deceased woes,

With new-born sighs and denizened wit do sing;

You take wrong ways, those far-fet helps be such

As do bewray a want of inward touch:

And sure at length stol'n goods do come to light.

But if (both for your love and skill) your name

You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame,

Stella behold, and then begin to endite.

27

Because I oft, in dark abstracted guise,

Seem most alone in greatest company,

With dearth of words, or answers quite awry,

To them that would make speech of speech arise,

They deem, and of that doom the rumour flies,

That poison foul of bubbling pride doth lie

So in my dwelling breast, that only I

Fawn on my self, and others do despise:

Yet pride, I think, doth not my soul possess,

Which looks too oft in his unflatt'ring glass:

But one worse fault, Ambition, I confess,

That makes me oft my best friends overpass,

Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place

Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace.

31

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies,

How silently, and with how wan a face,

What may it be, that even in heav'nly place

That busie archer his sharp arrows tries?

Sure, if that long with Love acquainted eyes

Can judge of Love, thou feel'st a Lover's case;

I read it in thy looks, thy languish'd grace

To me that feel the like, thy state descries.

Then ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me

Is constant Love deem'd there but want of wit?

Are Beauties there as proud as here they be?

Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet

Those Lovers scorn whom that Love doth possess?

Do they call Virtue there ungratefulness?

54

Because I breathe not love to ev'ry one,

Nor do not use set colours for to wear,

Nor nourish special locks of vowed hair,

Nor give each speech a full point of a groan.

The courtly Nymphs, acquainted with the moan,

Of them, who in their lips Love's standard bear;

"What he?" say they of me, "now I dare swear,

He cannot love: no, no, let him alone."

And think so still, so Stella know my mind,

Profess in deed I do not Cupid's art;

But you fair maid at length this true shall find,

That his right badge is but worn in the heart:

Dumb Swan, not chatt'ring Pies, do Lovers prove,

They love indeed, who quake to say they love.