If that a loyal heart and faith unfeigned, If a sweet languish with a chaste desire, If hunger-starven thoughts so long retained, Fed but with smoke, and cherished but with fire; And if a brow with care's characters painted Bewray my love with broken words half spoken To her which sits in my thoughts' temple sainted, And lays to view my vulture-gnawn heart open; If I have done due homage to her eyes, And had my sighs still tending on her name, If on her love my life and honour lies, And she, th'unkindest maid, still scorns the same; Let this suffice, that all the world may see The fault is hers, though mine the hurt must be. XVI Happy in sleep, waking content to languish, Embracing clouds by night, in daytime mourn, My joys but shadows, touch of truth my anguish, Griefs ever springing, comforts never born; And still expecting when she will relent, Grown hoarse with crying, "mercy, mercy give," So many vows and prayers having spent That weary of my life I loathe to live; And yet the hydra of my cares renews Still new-born sorrows of her fresh disdain; And still my hope the summer winds pursues, Finding no end nor period of my pain; This is my state, my griefs do touch so nearly, And thus I live because I love her dearly. XVII Why should I sing in verse? Why should I frame These sad neglected notes for her dear sake? Why should I offer up unto her name, The sweetest sacrifice my youth can make? Why should I strive to make her live for ever, That never deigns to give me joy to live? Why should m'afflicted Muse so much endeavour Such honour unto cruelty to give? If her defects have purchased her this fame, What should her virtues do, her smiles, her love? If this her worst, how should her best inflame? What passions would her milder favours move? Favours, I think, would sense quite overcome; And that makes happy lovers ever dumb. XVIII Since the first look that led me to this error, To this thoughts' maze to my confusion tending, Still have I lived in grief, in hope, in terror, The circle of my sorrows never ending; Yet cannot leave her love that holds me hateful; Her eyes exact it, though her heart disdains me. See what reward he hath that serves th'ungrateful? So true and loyal love no favour gains me. Still must I whet my young desires abated, Upon the flint of such a heart rebelling; And all in vain; her pride is so innated, She yields no place at all for pity's dwelling. Oft have I told her that my soul did love her, And that with tears; yet all this will not move her. XIX