When conquering love did first my heart assail, Unto mine aid I summoned every sense, Doubting if that proud tyrant should prevail, My heart should suffer for mine eyes' offence. But he with beauty first corrupted sight, My hearing bribed with her tongue's harmony, My taste by her sweet lips drawn with delight, My smelling won with her breath's spicery, But when my touching came to play his part, The king of senses, greater than the rest, He yields love up the keys unto my heart, And tells the others how they should be blest. And thus by those of whom I hoped for aid, To cruel love my soul was first betrayed. TO THE VESTALS XXX Those priests which first the vestal fire begun, Which might be borrowed from no earthly flame, Devised a vessel to receive the sun, Being stedfastly opposed to the same; Where with sweet wood laid curiously by art, On which the sun might by reflection beat, Receiving strength for every secret part, The fuel kindled with celestial heat. Thy blessed eyes, the sun which lights this fire, My holy thoughts, they be the vestal flame, Thy precious odours be my chaste desires, My breast's the vessel which includes the same; Thou art my Vesta, thou my goddess art, Thy hallowed temple only is my heart. TO THE CRITICS XXXI Methinks I see some crooked mimic jeer, And tax my Muse with this fantastic grace; Turning my papers asks, "What have we here?" Making withal some filthy antic face. I fear no censure nor what thou canst say, Nor shall my spirit one jot of vigour lose. Think'st thou, my wit shall keep the packhorse way, That every dudgeon low invention goes? Since sonnets thus in bundles are imprest, And every drudge doth dull our satiate ear, Think'st thou my love shall in those rags be drest That every dowdy, every trull doth wear? Up to my pitch no common judgment flies; I scorn all earthly dung-bred scarabies. TO THE RIVER ANKOR XXXII Our floods' queen, Thames, for ships and swans is crowned, And stately Severn for her shore is praised; The crystal Trent for fords and fish renowned, And Avon's fame to Albion's cliff is raised. Carlegion Chester vaunts her holy Dee; York many wonders of her Ouse can tell; The Peak, her Dove, whose banks so fertile be; And Kent will say her Medway doth excel. Cotswold commends her Isis to the Thame; Our northern borders boast of Tweed's fair flood; Our western parts extol their Wilis' fame; And the old Lea brags of the Danish blood. Arden's sweet Ankor, let thy glory be, That fair Idea only lives by thee! TO IMAGINATION XXXIII