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SONNET XXV.

How long shall this lyke dying lyfe endure,
And know no end of her owne mysery,

But wast and weare away in termes unsure,
"Twixt feare and hope depending doubtfully!
Yet better were attonce to let me die,
And shew the last ensample of your pride;
Than to torment me thus with cruelty,
To prove your powre, which I too wel have tride.
But yet if in your hardned brest ye hide
A close intent at last to show me grace;
Then all the woes and wrecks which I abide,
As meanes of blisse I gladly wil embrace;

And wish that more and greater they might be,
That greater meede at last may turn to mee.

SONNET XXVI.

SWEET is the Rose, but grows upon a brere;
Sweet is the Iunipeer, but sharpe his bough;
Sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh near;
Sweet is the Firbloome, but his braunches rough;
Sweet is the Cypresse, but his rynd is tough;
Sweet is the Nut, but bitter is his pill;
Sweet is the Broome-flower, but yet sowre enough;
And sweet is Moly, but his root is ill:

So every sweet with soure is tempred still;
That maketh it be coveted the more:
For easie things, that may be got at will,
Most sorts of men doe set but little store.
Why then should I accompt of little paine,
That endlesse pleasure shall unto me gaine!

SONNET XXVII.

FAIRE Proud! now tell me why should fair be proud,
Sith all worlds glorie is but drosse uncleane,

And in the shade of death it selfe shall shroud,
However now thereof ye little weene!
That goodly idoll, now so gay beseene,
Shall doffe her fleshes borrowd fayre attyre;
And be forgot as it had never beene;
That many now much worship and admire!
Ne any then shall after it inquire,
Ne any mention shall thereof remaine,
But what this verse, that never shall expire,
Shall to you purchase with her thankless pain.
Fair! be no lenger proud of that shall perish;
But that, which shall you make immortall, che-
rish.

SONNET XXVIII.

THE laurel-leafe, which you this day doe weare,
Gives me great hope of your relenting mynd:
For since it is the badge which I doe beare,
Ye, bearing it, doe seeme to me inclind:
The powre thereof, which ofte in me I find,
Let it lykewise your gentle brest inspire
With sweet infusion, and put you in mind
Of that proud Mayd, whom now those leaves attyre:
Proud Daphne, scorning Phœbus lovely fyre,
On the Thessalian shore from him did flie:
For which the gods, in theyr revengefull yre,
Did her transforme into a laurell-tree. [chace,
Then fly no more, fayre Love! from Phebus
But in your brest his leafe and love embrace.

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SONNET XXIX.

SEE! how the stubborn damzell doth deprave
My simple meaning with disdaynfull scorne
And by the bay, which I unto her gave,
Accoumpts my self her captive quite forlorne.
The bay, quoth she, is of the victours born,
Yielded them by the vanquisht as theyr meeds,
And they therewith doe poetes heads adorne,
To sing the glory of their famous deeds.
But sith she will the conquest challeng needs,
Let her accept me as her faithfull thrall;
That her great triumph, which my skill exceeds,
I may in trump of Fame blaze over all.

Then would I decke her headwith glorious bayes,
And fill the world with her victorious prayse.

SONNET XXX.

My love is lyke to yse, and 1 to fyre;
How comes it, then, that this her cold so great
Is not dissolv'd through my so hot desyre,

But harder growes the more I her intreat!

Or how comes it that my exceeding heat

Is not delayd by her heart frosen cold;
But that I burne much more in boyling sweat,
And feele my flames augmented manifold!
What more miraculous thing may be told,

That fire, which all things melts, should harden yse ;
And yse, which is congeald with sencelesse cold,
Should kindle fyre by wonderful devyse!

Such is the powre of love in gentle mind,
That it can alter all the course of kynd,

SONNET XXXI.

An! why hath Nature to so hard a hart
Given so goodly giftes of beauties grace!
Whose pryde depraves each other better part,
And all those pretious ornaments deface.
Sith to all other beastes, of bloody race,
A dreadful countenance she given hath;

That with theyr terrour all the rest may chace,
And warne to shun the daunger of theyr wrath.
But my proud one doth worke the greater scath,
Through sweet allurement of her lovely hew;
That she the better may, in bloody bath
Of such poor thralls, her cruell hands embrew.
But, did she know how ill these two accord,
Such cruelty she would have soone abhord.

SONNET XXXII.

THE paynefull smith, with force of fervent heat,
The hardest yron soone doth mollify;

That with his heavy sledge he can it beat,
And fashion to what he it list apply.

Yet cannot all these flames, in which I fry,
Her hart, more hard than iron, soft awhit;
Ne all the playnts and prayers, with which I
Doe beat on th' andvile of her stubberne wit:
But still, the more she fervent sees my fit,
The more she frieseth in her wilfull pryde;
And harder growes, the harder she is smit
With all the playnts which to her be applyde.
What then remaines but I to ashes burne,
And she to stones at length all frozen turne.

SONNET XXXIII.

GREAT Wrong I doe, I can it not deny,
To that most sacred Empresse, my dear dred,
Not finishing her Queene of Faëry,

That mote enlarge her living prayses, dead:
But Lodwick! this of grace to me aread;
Do ye not thinck th' accomplishment of it,
Sufficient worke for one mans simple head,
All were it, as the rest, but rudely writ?
How then should 1, without another wit,
Thinck ever to endure so tedious toil!
Sith that this one is tost with troublous fit
Of a proud Love, that doth my spirite spoyle.
Cease then, till she vouchsafe to grawnt me rest;
Or lend you me another living brest.

SONNET XXXIV.

LYKE as a ship, that through the ocean wyde,
By conduct of some star, doth make her way;
Whenas a storm hath dimd her trusty guyde,
Out of her course doth wander far astray!
So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray
Me to direct, with clouds is over-cast,
Do wander now, in darknesse and dismay,
Through hidden perils round about me plast;
Yet hope I well that, when this storme is past,
My Helice, the lodestar of my lyfe,
Will shine again, and looke on me at læst,
With lovely light to cleare my cloudy grief.
Till then I wander carefull, comfortlesse,
In secret sorrow, and sad pensivenesse.

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