My fair ALCILIA! gladly would I know it, If ever Loving Passion pierced thy heart? O, no! For, then, thy kindness soon would show it! And of my pains, thyself wouldst bear some part. Full little knoweth he that hath not proved, What hell it is to love, and not be loved. XXIV. LOVE! Art thou blind? Nay, thou canst see too well! And they are blind that so report of thee! That thou dost see, myself by proof can tell; (A hapless proof thereof is made by me); For sure I am, hadst thou not had thy sight, Thou never couldst have hit my heart so right. XXV. Long have I languished, and endured much smart Since hapless I, the Cruel Fair did love; And lodged her in the centre of my heart. Who, there abiding, Reason should her move. Though of my pains she no compassion take; Yet to respect me, for her own sweet sake. XXVI. In midst of winter season, as the snow, Whose milk white mantle overspreads the ground; In part, the colour of my love is so. Yet their effects, I have contrary found: For when the sun appears, snow melts anon; But I melt always when my sun is gone. XXVII. The sweet content, at first, I seemed to prove (While yet Desire unfledged, could scarcely fly), Did make me think there was no life to Love; Till all too late, Time taught the contrary. For, like a fly, I sported with the flame; Till, like a fool, I perished in the same. XXVIII. After dark night, the cheerful day appeareth; After an ebb, the river flows again; After a storm, the cloudy heaven cleareth: All labours have their end, or ease of pain. Each creature hath relief and rest, save I, Who only dying, live; and living, die! XXIX. Sometimes I seek for company to sport, Whereby I might my pensive thoughts beguile; Sometimes, again, I hide me from resort, And muse alone: but yet, alas, the while In changing place, I cannot change my mind; For wheresoe'er I fly, myself I find. XXX. [Sidenote: _Meritum petere grave._] Fain would I speak, but straight my heart doth tremble, And checks my tongue that should my griefs reveal: And so I strive my Passions to dissemble, Which all the art I have, cannot conceal. Thus standing mute, my heart with longing starveth! "It grieves a man to ask, what he deserveth." XXXI. Since you desire of me the cause to know, For which these divers Passions I have proved; Look in your glass! which will not fail to show The shadowed portrait of my best beloved. If that suffice not, look into my heart! Where it's engraven by a new found art.