FAINT amorist, what, dost thou think To taste Love’s honey, and not drink One dram of gall? or to devour A world of sweet, and taste no sour? Dost thou ever think to enter Th’ Elysian fields, that dar’st not venture In Charon’s barge? a lover’s mind Must use to sail with every wind. He that loves and fears to try, Learns his mistress to deny. Doth she chide thee? ’tis to show it, That thy coldness makes her do it: Is she silent? is she mute? Silence fully grants thy suit: Doth she pout, and leave the room? Then she goes to bid thee come: Is she sick? why then be sure, She invites thee to the cure: Doth she cross thy suit with “No?” Tush, she loves to hear thee woo: Doth she call the faith of man In question? Nay, she loves thee than; And if e’er she makes a blot, She’s lost if that thou hit’st her not. He that after ten denials, Dares attempt no farther trials, Hath no warrant to acquire The dainties of his chaste desire. SONNETS SINCE shunning pain, I ease can never find; Since bashful dread seeks where he knows me harmed; Since will is won, and stoppéd ears are charmed; Since force doth faint, and sight doth make me blind; Since loosing long, the faster still I bind; Since naked sense can conquer reason armed; Since heart, in chilling fear, with ice is warmed; In fine, since strife of thought but mars the mind, I yield, O Love, unto thy loathed yoke, Yet craving law of arms, whose rule doth teach, That, hardly used, who ever prison broke, In justice quit, of honour made no breach: Whereas, if I a grateful guardian have, Thou art my lord, and I thy vowéd slave. When Love puffed up with rage of high disdain, Resolved to make me pattern of his might, Like foe, whose wits inclined to deadly spite, Would often kill, to breed more feeling pain; He would not, armed with beauty, only reign On those affects which easily yield to sight; But virtue sets so high, that reason’s light, For all his strife can only bondage gain: So that I live to pay a mortal fee, Dead palsy-sick of all my chiefest parts, Like those whom dreams make ugly monsters see, And can cry help with naught but groans and starts: Longing to have, having no wit to wish, To starving minds such is god Cupid’s dish. SONG. _To the tune of_ “_Non credo gia che piu infelice amante_.”