Most fair and lovely maid, look from the shore, See thy Leander striving in these waves, Poor soul quite spent, whose force can do no more. Now send forth hope, for now calm pity saves, And waft him to thee with those lovely eyes, A happy convoy to a holy land. Now show thy power, and where thy virtue lies; To save thine own, stretch out the fairest hand. Stretch out the fairest hand, a pledge of peace, That hand that darts so right and never misses; I shall forget old wrongs, my griefs shall cease; And that which gave me wounds, I'll give it kisses. Once let the ocean of my care find shore, That thou be pleased, and I may sigh no more. XLIV Read in my face a volume of despairs, The wailing Iliads of my tragic woe; Drawn with my blood, and painted with my cares, Wrought by her hand that I have honoured so. Who whilst I burn, she sings at my soul's wrack, Looking aloft from turret of her pride; There my soul's tyrant joys her in the sack Of her own seat, whereof I made her guide. There do these smokes that from affliction rise, Serve as an incense to a cruel dame; A sacrifice thrice-grateful to her eyes, Because their power serves to exact the same. Thus ruins she to satisfy her will, The temple where her name was honoured still. XLV My Delia hath the waters of mine eyes, The ready handmaids on her grace t'attend, That never fail to ebb, but ever rise; For to their flow she never grants an end. The ocean never did attend more duly Upon his sovereign's course, the night's pale queen, Nor paid the impost of his waves more truly, Than mine unto her cruelty hath been. Yet nought the rock of that hard heart can move, Where beat these tears with zeal, and fury drives; And yet, I'd rather languish in her love, Than I would joy the fairest she that lives. And if I find such pleasure to complain, What should I do then if I should obtain? XLVI How long shall I in mine affliction mourn, A burden to myself, distressed in mind; When shall my interdicted hopes return From out despair wherein they live confined? When shall her troubled brow charged with disdain Reveal the treasure which her smiles impart? When shall my faith the happiness attain, To break the ice that hath congealed her heart? Unto herself, herself my love doth summon, (If love in her hath any power to move) And let her tell me, as she is a woman, Whether my faith hath not deserved her love? I know her heart cannot but judge with me, Although her eyes my adversaries be. XLVII