LIKE to the shipman, in his brittle boat, Tossed aloft by the unconstant wind; By dangerous rocks and whirling gulfs doth float, Hoping, at length, the wishèd Port to find: So doth my love in stormy billows sail, And passing the gaping SCYLLA's waves, In hope at length with CHLORIS to prevail; And win that prize which most my fancy craves. Which unto me of value will be more Than was that rich and wealthy Golden Fleece; Which JASON stout, from Colchos island bore, With wind in sails, unto the shore of Greece, More rich, more rare, more worth her love I prize; Than all the wealth which under heaven lies. SONNET XXXVI. O WHAT a wound, and what a deadly stroke, Doth CUPID give to us, perplexed lovers! Which cleaves, more fast than ivy doth to oak, Unto our hearts where he his might discovers. Though warlike MARS were armèd at all points With that tried coat which fiery VULCAN made; LOVE's shafts did penetrate his steelèd joints, And in his breast in streaming gore did wade. So pitiless is this fell conqueror, That in his Mother's paps his arrows stuck! Such is his rage! that he doth not defer To wound those orbs, from whence he life did suck. Then sith no mercy he shews to his mother; We meekly must his force and rigour smother. SONNET XXXVII. EACH beast in field doth wish the morning light. The birds to HESPER pleasant Lays do sing. The wanton kids, well fed, rejoice in night; Being likewise glad when day begins to spring. But night, nor day, are welcome unto me: Both can bear witness of my lamentation. All day, sad sighing CORIN you shall see; All night he spends in tears and exclamation. Thus still I live, although I take no rest; But living look as one that is a dying: Thus my sad soul, with care and grief opprest, Seems as a ghost to Styx and Lethe flying. Thus hath fond love bereft my youthful years Of all good hap, before old age appears. SONNET XXXVIII. THAT day wherein mine eyes cannot her see, Which is the essence of their crystal sight; Both blind, obscure, and dim that day they be, And are debarrèd of fair heaven's light. That day wherein mine ears do want to hear her; Hearing, that day, is from me quite bereft. That day wherein to touch I come not near her; That day no sense of touching I have left. That day wherein I lack the fragrant smell, Which from her pleasant amber breath proceedeth; Smelling, that day, disdains with me to dwell. Only weak hope, my pining carcase feedeth. But burst, poor heart! Thou hast no better hope, Since all thy senses have no further scope. SONNET XXXIX.