XXIII.

As an unperfect actor on the stage,

Who with his fear is put befides his part,
Or fome fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; }
So I, for fear of truft, forget to fay

The perfect ceremony of love's rite,

And in mine own love's ftrength feem to decay, O`ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might. O, let my books be then the eloquence

And dumb prefagers of my speaking breast,

Who plead for love, and look for recompenfe,
More than that tongue that more hath more expreff❜d.
O, learn to read what filent love hath writ :

To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

XXIV.

Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath ftell'd

Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,

And perfpective it is best painter's art.

For through the painter must you see his skill,

To find where your true image pictured lies,
Which in my bofom's fhop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;

Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,

They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

XXV.

Let thofe who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilft I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread
But as the marigold at the fun's eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,

For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the reft forgot for which he toil'd:
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove nor be removed.

XXVI.

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty ftrongly knit,
To thee I fend this written ambaffage,
To witness duty, not to show my wit:
Duty fo great, which wit fo poor as mine

May make feem bare, in wanting words to show it,
But that I hope fome good conceit of thine

In thy foul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;
Till whatsoever ftar that guides my moving
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
To show me worthy of thy fweet refpe&t:

Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
Till then not show my head where thou mayst

prove me.

1

XXVII.

Weary with toil, I hafte me to my bed,
The dear repofe for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head

To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,

And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do fee:
Save that my foul's imaginary fight

Presents thy fhadow to my fightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,

Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,

For thee, and for myself no quiet find.