I am no model figure, or sign of care, But his eternal heart's-consuming essence, In whom grief's commentaries written are, Drawing gross passion into pure quintessence, Not thine eye's fire, but fire of thine eye's disdain, Fed by neglect of my continual grieving, Attracts the true life's spirit of my pain, And gives it thee, which gives me no relieving. Within thine arms sad elegies I sing; Unto thine eyes a true heart love-torn lay I: Thou smell'st from me the savours sorrows bring; My tears to taste my truth to touch display I. Lo thus each sense, dear fair one, I importune; But being care, thou flyest me as ill fortune. VII But being care, thou flyest me as ill fortune;-- Care the consuming canker of the mind! The discord that disorders sweet hearts' tune! Th' abortive bastard of a coward mind! The lightfoot lackey that runs post by death, Bearing the letters which contain our end! The busy advocate that sells his breath, Denouncing worst to him, is most his friend! O dear, this care no interest holds in me; But holy care, the guardian of thy fair, Thine honour's champion, and thy virtue's fee, The zeal which thee from barbarous times shall bear, This care am I; this care my life hath taken. Dear to my soul, then leave me not forsaken! VIII Dear to my soul, then, leave, me not forsaken! Fly not! My heart within thy bosom sleepeth; Even from myself and sense I have betaken Me unto thee for whom my spirit weepeth, And on the shore of that salt teary sea, Couched in a bed of unseen seeming pleasure, Where in imaginary thoughts thy fair self lay; But being waked, robbed of my life's best treasure, I call the heavens, air, earth, and seas to hear My love, my truth, and black disdained estate, Beating the rocks with bellowings of despair, Which still with plaints my words reverberate, Sighing, "Alas, what shall become of me?" Whilst echo cries, "What shall become of me?" IX Whilst echo cries, "What shall become of me?" And desolate, my desolations pity, Thou in thy beauty's carack sitt'st to see My tragic downfall, and my funeral ditty. No timbrel, but my heart thou play'st upon, Whose strings are stretched unto the highest key; The diapason, love; love is the unison; In love my life and labours waste away. Only regardless to the world thou leav'st me, Whilst slain hopes, turning from the feast of sorrow, Unto despair, their king, which ne'er deceives me, Captives my heart, whose black night hates the morrow, And he in truth of my distressed cry Plants me a weeping star within mine eye. X