In truth, O Love, with what a boyish kind Thou dost proceed in thy most serious

ways,

That when the heaven to thee his best displays,

Yet of that best thou leav'st the best

behind.

For, like a child that some fair book doth

find,

With gilded leaves or coloured vellum plays,

Or, at the most, on some fair picture

stays,

But never heeds the fruit of writer's

mind;

So when thou saw'st in Nature's cabinet Stella, thou straight look'st babies in her eyes,

In her cheek's pit thou didst thy pitfold

set,

And in her breast bo-peep or couching lies,

Playing and shining in each outward part;

But, fool, seek'st not to get into her heart.

Sonnet XIV

Alas, have I not pain enough, my friend, Upon whose breast a fiercer gripe doth

tire

Than did on him who first stole down

the fire,

While Love on me doth all his quiver spend;

But with your rhubarb words ye must contend

To grieve me worse in saying, that Desire Doth plunge my well-formed soul even in the mire

Of sinful thoughts, which do in ruin end? If that be sin which doth the manners frame,

Well stayed with truth in word and faith of deed,

Ready of wit, and fearing nought but shame

If that be sin which in fixt hearts doth breed

A loathing of all loose unchastity,

Then love is sin, and let me sinful be!

The curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness Bewray itself in my long settled eyes, Whence those same fumes of melancholy

rise,

With idle pains and missing aim, do

guess.

Some that know how my spring I did address,

Deem that my Muse some fruit of knowledge plies;

Others, because the Prince my service tries,

Think that I think state errors to redress. But harder judges judge ambition's rage, Scourge of itself, still climbing slippery place,

Holds my young brain captived in golden cage.

O fools, or overwise: alas, the race

Of all my thoughts hath neither stop nor start,

But only Stella's eyes and Stella's heart.

Sonnet XXVI

Though dusty wits do scorn astrology, And fools can think those lamps of purest light,

Whose number, ways, greatness, eternity,
Promising wonders, wonder do invite,
To have for no cause birthright in the
sky

But for to spangle the black weeds of night;

Or for some brawl which in that chamber

high

They should still dance to please a gazer's sight:

For me, I do Nature unidle know,

And know great causes great effects pro

cure;

And know those bodies high reign on the

low.

And if these rules did fail, proof makes me sure,

Who oft fore-judge my after-following

race,

By only those two stars in Stella's face.

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 heavenly place

That busy 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 languisht

grace,

To me that feel the like, thy state descries.

Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell

me,

Is constant love deemed there but want

of wit?

Are beauties there as proud as here they be?

Do they above love to be loved, and yet.

Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?

Do they call virtue there, ungratefulness?