The fire of Love is first bred in the Eye, And thence conveys his heat unto the Heart, Where it lies hid, till time his force descry. The Tongue thereto adds fuel for his part; The touch of Lips, which doth succeed the same, Kindles the rest, and so it proves a flame. LVII. The tender Sprigs that sprouted in the field, And promised hope of fruit to him that planted; Instead of fruit, doth nought but blossoms yield, Though care, and pain to prune them never wanted Even so, my hopes do nought but blossoms prove, And yield no fruits to recompense my love. LVIII. Though little sign of love in show appear; Yet think, True Love, of colours hath no need! It's not the glorious garments, which men wear, That makes them other than they are indeed: "In meanest show, the most affection dwells; And richest pearls are found in simplest shells." LIX. [Sidenote: _MARTIAL._ _Ille dolet vere, qui sine teste dolet._] Let not thy tongue, thy inward thoughts disclose! Or tell the sorrows that thy heart endures! Let no man's ears be witness of thy woes! Since pity, neither help nor ease procures: And "only he is, truly, said to moan, Whose griefs none knoweth but himself alone." LX. [Sidenote: _Alteri inserviens meipsum conficio._] A thousand times; I curse these idle rhymes, Which do their Maker's follies vain set forth; Yet bless I them again, as many times, For that in them, I blaze ALCILIA's worth. Meanwhile, I fare, as doth the torch by night, Which wastes itself in giving others light. LXI. Enough of this! For all is nought regarded! And She, not once, with my complaints is moved. Die, hapless love! since thou art not rewarded; Yet ere thou die, to witness that I loved! Report my truth! and tell the Fair unkind, That "She hath lost, what none but She shall find!" LXII. Lovers, lament! You that have truly loved! For PHILOPARTHEN, now, hath lost his love: The greatest loss that ever lover proved. O let his hard hap some compassion move! Who had not rued the loss of her so much; But that he knows the world yields no more such. LXIII. Upon the ocean of conceited error, My weary spirits, many storms have past; Which now in harbour, free from wonted terror, Joy the possession of their rest at last. And, henceforth, safely may they lie at road! And never rove for "Had I wist!" abroad! [Illustration]