I do not now complain of my disgrace, O cruel fair one! fair with cruel crost; Nor of the hour, season, time, nor place; Nor of my foil, for any freedom lost; Nor of my courage, by misfortune daunted; Nor of my wit, by overweening struck; Nor of my sense, by any sound enchanted; Nor of the force of fiery-pointed hook; Nor of the steel that sticks within my wound; Nor of my thoughts, by worser thoughts defaced; Nor of the life I labour to confound. But I complain, that being thus disgraced, Fired, feared, frantic, fettered, shot through, slain, My death is such as I may not complain. III If ever sorrow spoke from soul that loves, As speaks a spirit in a man possest, In me her spirit speaks. My soul it moves, Whose sigh-swoll'n words breed whirlwinds in my breast; Or like the echo of a passing bell, Which sounding on the water seems to howl; So rings my heart a fearful heavy knell, And keeps all night in consort with the owl. My cheeks with a thin ice of tears are clad, Mine eyes like morning stars are bleared and red. What resteth then but I be raging mad, To see that she, my cares' chief conduit-head, When all streams else help quench my burning heart, Shuts up her springs and will no grace impart. IV You secret vales, you solitary fields, You shores forsaken and you sounding rocks! If ever groaning heart hath made you yield, Or words half spoke that sense in prison locks, Then 'mongst night shadows whisper out my death. That when myself hath sealed my lips from speaking, Each tell-tale echo with a weeping breath, May both record my truth and true love's breaking. You pretty flowers that smile for summer's sake, Pull in your heads before my wat'ry eyes Do turn the meadows to a standing lake, By whose untimely floods your glory dies! For lo, mine heart, resolved to moistening air, Feedeth mine eyes which double tear for tear. V His shadow to Narcissus well presented, How fair he was by such attractive love! So if thou would'st thyself thy beauty prove, Vulgar breath-mirrors might have well contented, And to their prayers eternally consented, Oaths, vows and sighs, if they believe might move; But more thou forc'st, making my pen approve Thy praise to all, least any had dissented. When this hath wrought, thou which before wert known But unto some, of all art now required, And thine eyes' wonders wronged, because not shown The world, with daily orisons desired. Thy chaste fair gifts, with learning's breath is blown, And thus my pen hath made thy sweets admired. VI