The fowler hides as closely as he may The net, where caught the silly bird should be, Lest he the threatening poison should but see, And so for fear be forced to fly away. My lady so, the while she doth assay In curled knots fast to entangle me, Put on her veil, to th' end I should not flee The golden net wherein I am a prey. Alas, most sweet! what need is of a net To catch a bird that is already ta'en? Sith with your hand alone you may it get, For it desires to fly into the same. What needs such art my thoughts then to entrap, When of themselves they fly into your lap? IX _To his lady's hand upon occasion of her glove which in her absence he kissed_ Sweet hand, the sweet but cruel bow thou art, From whence at me five ivory arrows fly; So with five wounds at once I wounded lie, Bearing my breast the print of every dart. Saint Francis had the like, yet felt no smart, Where I in living torments never die. His wounds were in his hands and feet; where I All these five helpless wounds feel in my heart. Now, as Saint Francis, if a saint am I, The bow that shot these shafts a relic is; I mean the hand, which is the reason why So many for devotion thee would kiss: And some thy glove kiss as a thing divine, This arrows' quiver, and this relic's shrine. X _Of his lady's going over early to bed, so depriving him too soon of her sight_ Fair sun, if you would have me praise your light, When night approacheth wherefore do you fly? Time is so short, beauties so many be, As I have need to see them day and night, That by continual view my verses might Tell all the beams of your divinity; Which praise to you and joy should be to me, You living by my verse, I by your sight; I by your sight, and not you by my verse, Need mortal skill immortal praise rehearse? No, no, though eyes were blind, and verse were dumb, Your beauty should be seen and your fame known; For by the wind which from my sighs do come, Your praises round about the world are blown. THE THIRD DECADE I _Complaint of his lady's sickness_ Uncivil sickness, hast thou no regard, But dost presume my dearest to molest, And without leave dar'st enter in that breast Whereto sweet love approach yet never dared? Spare thou her health, which my life hath not spared; Too bitter such revenge of my unrest! Although with wrongs my thought she hath opprest, My wrongs seek not revenge, they crave reward Cease, sickness, cease in her then to remain; And come and welcome, harbour thou in me Whom love long since hath taught to suffer in! So she which hath so oft my pain increased, O God, that I might so revenged be, By my poor pain might have her pain released!