THESE waves no way in her to sink can find; To penetrate the pith of contemplation. These tears cannot dissolve her hardened mind, Nor move her heart on me to take compassion. O then, poor CORIN, scorned and quite despised, Loathe now to live! since life procures my woe. Enough thou hast thy heart anatomised, For her sweet sake which will no pretty show. But as cold winter's storms and nipping frosts Can never change sweet AMARANTHUS' hue; So, though my love and life by her are crossed, My heart shall still be constant firm and true! Although ERINNYES hinder HYMEN's rites, My fixèd faith against oblivion fights. SONNET XXXII. MY fixèd faith against oblivion fights; And I cannot forget her, pretty Elf! Although she cruel be unto my plights; Yet let me rather clean forget myself, Than her sweet name out of my mind should go: Which is th' elixir of my pining soul; From whence the essence of my life doth flow. Whose beauty rare, my senses all control; Themselves most happy evermore accounting That such a Nymph is Queen of their affection: With ravished rage, they to the skies are mounting; Esteeming not their thraldom nor subjection. But still do joy amidst their misery; With patience bearing LOVE's captivity. SONNET XXXIII. WITH patience bearing LOVE's captivity, Themselves unguilty of his wrath alleging; These homely Lines, abjects of Poesy, For liberty and for their ransom pledging: And being free, they solemnly do vow Under his banner ever arms to bear Against those rebels, which do disallow That Love, of Bliss should be the sovereign Heir. And CHLORIS, if these weeping Truce-men may One spark of pity from thine eyes obtain, In recompense of their sad heavy Lay; Poor CORIN shall thy faithful friend remain. And what I say, I ever will approve, "No joy may be comparèd to thy love!" SONNET XXXIV. THE bird of Thrace, which doth bewail her rape And murdered ITIS eaten by his Sire, When she her woes in doleful tunes doth shape; She sets her breast against a thorny briar. Because care-charmer Sleep should not disturb The tragic tale which to the night she tells; She doth her rest and quietness thus curb, Amongst the groves where secret silence dwells. Even so I wake; and waking, wail all night. CHLORIS' unkindness, slumbers doth expel. I need not thorns, sweet sleep to put to flight. Her cruelty, my golden rest doth quell: That day and night to me are only one; Consumed in woe, in tears, in sighs, and moan. SONNET XXXV.