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, Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art, They draw but what they see, know not the heart. XXV. Let those who are in favour with their stars Then happy I, that love and am beloved XXVI. Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage In thy foul's thought, all naked, will bestow it; Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; Till then not show my head where thou mayft prove me. XXVII. Weary with toil, I hafte me to my bed, To work my mind, when body's work's expired: And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, Makes black night beauteous and her old face new. For thee, and for myself no quiet find. XXVIII. How can I then return in happy plight, When day's oppreffion is not eased by night, How far I toil, ftill farther off from thee? When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even. But day doth daily draw my forrows longer, And night doth nightly make grief's length seem ftronger. |