WHICH I pour forth unto a cruel Saint, Who merciless my prayers doth attend: Who tiger-like doth pity my complaint; And never unto my woes will lend. But still false hope despairing life deludes; And tells my fancy I shall grace obtain. But CHLORIS fair, my orisons concludes With fearful frowns, presagers of my pain. Thus do I spend the weary wandering day, Oppressèd with a chaos of heart's grief: Thus I consume the obscure night away, Neglecting sleep which brings all cares relief. Thus I pass my lingering life in woe: But when my bliss will come, I do not know! SONNET XVII. THE perils which LEANDER took in hand, Fair HERO's love and favour to obtain; When, void of fear, securely leaving land, Through Hellespont he swam to Cestos main: His dangers should not counterpoise my toil. If my dear Love would once but pity show, To quench these flames which in my breast do broil, Or dry these springs which from mine eyes do flow; Not only Hellespont, but ocean seas, For her sweet sake, to ford I would attempt! So that my travails would her ire appease; My soul, from thrall and languish to exempt. O what is't not, poor I, would undertake; If labour could my peace with CHLORIS make? SONNET XVIII. MY Love, I cannot thy rare beauties place Under those forms which many Writers use. Some like to stones, compare their Mistress' face. Some in the name of flowers do love abuse. Some make their love a goldsmith's shop to be, Where orient pearls and precious stones abound. In my conceit these far do disagree The perfect praise of beauty forth to sound. O CHLORIS, thou dost imitate thyself! Self's imitating passeth precious stones Or all the Eastern Indian golden pelf, Thy red and white, with purest fair atones, Matchless for beauty Nature hath thee framed: Only "unkind" and "cruel" thou art named. SONNET XIX. THE Hound, by eating grass, doth find relief: For, being sick, it is his choicest meat. The wounded Hart doth ease his pain and grief; If he, the herb _Dictamion_ may eat. The loathsome Snake renews his sight again, When he casts off his withered coat and hue. The sky-bred Eagle fresh age doth obtain When he, his beak decayèd doth renew. I worse than these, whose sore no salve can cure; Whose grief, no herb, nor plant, nor tree can ease: Remediless, I still must pain endure Till I, my CHLORIS's furious mood can please. She, like the scorpion, gave to me a wound; And, like the scorpion, she must make me sound. SONNET XX.