UNTO the fountain, where fair DIANA chaste The proud ACTEON turnèd to a hart, I drave my flock that water sweet to taste; 'Cause from the welkin, PHŒBUS 'gan depart. There did I see the Nymph whom I admire. Remembering her locks; of which the yellow hue Made blush the beauties of her curlèd wire. Which JOVE himself with wonder well might view. Then red with ire, her tresses she berent; And weeping hid the beauty of her face: Whilst I, amazèd at her discontent, With tears and sighs do humbly sue for grace. But she, regarding neither tears nor moan, Flies from the fountain, leaving me alone. SONNET X. AM I a GORGON? that she doth me fly! Or was I hatchèd in the river Nile? Or doth my CHLORIS stand in doubt that I, With Siren songs, do seek her to beguile? If any one of these she can object 'Gainst me, which chaste affectèd love protest; Then might my fortunes by her frowns be checked: And blameless She from scandal free might rest. But seeing I am no hideous monster born; But have that shape which other men do bear: Which form great JUPITER did never scorn Amongst his subjects here on earth to wear. Why should she then that soul with sorrow fill Which vowèd hath to love and serve her still? SONNET XI. TELL me, my dear, what moves thy ruthless mind To be so cruel, seeing thou art so fair? Did Nature frame thy beauty so unkind; Or dost thou scorn to pity my despair? O no, it was not Nature's ornament, But wingèd LOVE's impartial cruel wound, Which in my heart is ever permanent, Until my CHLORIS makes me whole and sound. O glorious Love-God, think on my heart's grief! Let not thy vassal pine through deep disdain! By wounding CHLORIS, I shall find relief; If thou impart to her some of my pain. She doth thy temples and thy shrines abject! They with AMINTA's flowers by me are decked. SONNET XII. CEASE eyes to weep, sith none bemoans your weeping! Leave off, good Muse, to sound the cruel name Of my love's Queen! which hath my heart in keeping; Yet of my love doth make a jesting game. Long hath my sufferance laboured to enforce One pearl of pity from her pretty eyes; Whilst I, with restless oceans of remorse, Bedew the banks where my fair CHLORIS lies, Where my fair CHLORIS bathes her tender skin; And doth triumph to see such rivers fall From those moist springs, which never dry have been Since she their honour hath detained in thrall. And still she scorns one favouring smile to show Unto those waves proceeding from my woe. _A Dream._ SONNET XIII.