The richest relic Rome did ever view Was' Caesar's tomb; on which, with cunning hand, Jove's triple honours, the three fair Graces, stand, Telling his virtues in their virtues true. This Rome admired; but dearest dear, in you Dwelleth the wonder of the happiest land, And all the world to Neptune's furthest strand, For what Rome shaped hath living life in you. Thy naked beauty, bounteously displayed, Enricheth monarchies of hearts with love; Thine eyes to hear complaints are open laid; Thine eyes' kind looks requite all pains I prove; That of my death I dare not thee accuse; But pride in me that baser chance refuse. VIII Why thus unjustly, say, my cruel fate, Dost thou adjudge my luckless eyes and heart, The one to live exiled from that sweet smart, Where th' other pines, imprisoned without date? My luckless eyes must never more debate Of those bright beams that eased my love apart; And yet my heart, bound to them with love's dart, Must there dwell ever to bemoan my state. O had mine eyes been suffered there to rest, Often they had my heart's unquiet eased; Or had my heart with banishment been blest, Mine eye with beauty never had been pleased! But since these cross effects hath fortune wrought, Dwell, heart, with her; eyes, view her in my thought! [The Sonnet numbered IX is by Sidney, and is found in the _Certaine Sonets_ printed in the 1598 edition of the _Arcadia_.] X Hope, like the hyaena, coming to be old, Alters his shape, is turned into despair. Pity my hoary hopes, Maid of clear mould! Think not that frowns can ever make thee fair. What harm is it to kiss, to laugh, to play? Beauty's no blossom, if it be not used. Sweet dalliance keeps the wrinkles long away; Repentance follows them that have refused. To bring you to the knowledge of your good, I seek, I sue. O try and then believe! Each image can be chaste that's carved of wood. You show you live, when men you do relieve. Iron with wearing shines; rust wasteth treasure. On earth but love there is no other pleasure. THE FIFTH DECADE I Ay me, poor wretch, my prayer is turned to sin! I say, "I love!" My mistress says "'Tis lust!" Thus most we lose where most we seek to win. Wit will make wicked what is ne'er so just. And yet I can supplant her false surmise. Lust is a fire that for an hour or twain Giveth a scorching blaze and then he dies; Love a continual furnace doth maintain. A furnace! Well, this a furnace may be called; For it burns inward, yields a smothering flame, Sighs which, like boiled lead's smoking vapour, scald. I sigh apace at echo of sighs' name. Long have I served; no short blaze is my love. Hid joys there are that maids scorn till they prove. II