ANSWER.

If present peril reason find,

And hope for help do haste;
Unfold the secrets of your mind,

Whilst hope of help may taste.
And I will ease your pain and smart,
As if it were mine own;
Respects and peril put apart,

And let the truth be known.

QUESTION.

The words be sound, the sound is sweet, The sweet yields bounty free;

No wight hath worth to yield meed meet For grace of such degree:

Now, sith my plaint doth pity move,

Grant grace that I may taste

Such joys as angels feel above,
That lovingly may last.

ANSWER.

I yield with heart and willing mind
To do all you desire;
Doubting no deal such faith to find.
As such truth doth require:
Now you have wealth at your own will,
And law at your own lust,

To make or mar, to save or spill;
Then be a conqueror just.

ANSWER.

First shall the sun in darkness dwell,

The moon and stars lack light,

Before in thought I do rebel

Against my life's delight:

Tried is my trust, known is my truth,
In time, my sweet, provide,

Whilst beauty flourish in thine youth,
And breath in me abide.

A SONNET.

Made on Isabella Markham, when I first thought her fair, as she stood at the Princess's window in goodly attire, and talked to divers in the court-yard.

Whence comes my love, O heart, disclose!
'Twas from cheeks that shamed the rose;
From lips that spoil the rubies' praise;
From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze.
Whence comes my woe, as freely own:
Ah, me! 'twas from a heart like stone.

The

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind,
The lips befitting words most kind;
eye does tempt to love's desire,
And seems to say, 'tis Cupid's fire;
Yet all so fair but speak my moan,
Sith nought doth say the heart of stone.

Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak
Sweet lip, sweet eye, sweet blushing cheek,
Yet not a heart to save my pain?
O Venus, take thy gifts again;
Make not so fair to cause our moan,
Or make a heart that's like our own.

THOMAS WATSON.

1560-1591.

["Ekatompathia, or Passionate Centurie of Love." 1581.]

SONNET.

WHEN May is in his prime, and youthful Spring

Doth clothe the tree with leaves, and ground with flowers, And time of year reviveth everything,

And lovely Nature smiles, and nothing lowers;

Then Philomela most doth strain her breast

With night complaints, and sits in little rest.

This bird's estate I may compare with mine,

To whom fond Love doth work such wrongs by day,
That in the night my heart must needs repine,
And storm with sighs, to ease me as I may,
Whilst others are becalmed, or lie them still,
Or sail secure, with tide and wind at will.

And as all those which hear this bird complain,
Conceive in all her tunes a sweet delight,

Without remorse, or pitying her pain;

So she, for whom I wail both day and night, Doth sport herself in hearing my complaint,

A just reward for serving such a saint!

SONNET.

All ye that grieve to think my death so near,
Take pity on yourselves, whose thought is blind :
Can there be day unless some light appear?

Can fire be cold, which yieldeth heat by kind?
If love were passed, my life would soon decay;
Love bids me hope, and hope is all my stay.

And you that see in what estate I stand,

Now hot, now cold, and yet am living still,
Persuade yourselves Love hath a mighty hand,
And custom frames what pleaseth best her will :
A lingering use of Love hath taught my breast
To harbour strife, and yet to live in rest.

The man that dwells far north hath seldom harm With blast of winter's wind, or nipping frost ; seldom feels himself too warm,

The

negro

If he abide within his native coast;

So love in me a second nature is,

And custom makes me think my woes are bliss.

SONNET.

Youth made a fault through lightness of belief,
Which fond belief Love placed in my breast;

But now I find that reason gives relief,

And time shows truth, and wit that's bought is best: Muse not therefore although I change my vein, He runs too far which never turns again.

Henceforth my mind shall have a watchful eye,
I'll scorn fond love, and practice of the same;

The wisdom of my heart shall soon descry

Each thing that's good from what deserveth blame.

My song shall be, "Fortune hath spit her spite, And Love can hurt no more with all his might."

Therefore all you, to whom my cause is known, Think better comes, and pardon what is past: I find that all my wildest oats are sown,

And joy to see what now I see at last; And since that Love was cause I trod awry, I here take off his bells, and let him fly.