The phoenix fair which rich Arabia breeds, When wasting time expires her tragedy, No more on Phoebus' radiant rays she feeds, But heapeth up great store of spicery; And on a lofty towering cedar tree, With heavenly substance she herself consumes, From whence she young again appears to be, Out of the cinders of her peerless plumes. So I which long have fried in love's flame, The fire not made of spice but sighs and tears, Revive again in hope disdain to shame, And put to flight the author of my fears. Her eyes revive decaying life in me, Though they augmenters of my thraldom be. XXIV Though they augmenters of my thraldom be, For her I live and her I love and none else; O then, fair eyes, look mildly upon me, Who poor, despised, forlorn must live alone else, And like Amintas haunt the desert cells, And moanless there breathe out thy cruelty, Where none but care and melancholy dwells. I for revenge to Nemesis will cry; If that will not prevail, my wandering ghost, Which breathless here this love-scorched trunk shall leave, Shall unto thee with tragic tidings post, How thy disdain did life from soul bereave. Then all too late my death thou wilt repent, When murther's guilt thy conscience shall torment. XXV Who doth not know that love is triumphant, Sitting upon the throne of majesty? The gods themselves his cruel darts do daunt, And he, blind boy, smiles at their misery. Love made great Jove ofttimes transform his shape; Love made the fierce Alcides stoop at last; Achilles, stout and bold, could not escape The direful doom which love upon him cast; Love made Leander pass the dreadful flood Which Cestos from Abydos doth divide; Love made a chaos where proud Ilion stood, Through love the Carthaginian Dido died. Thus may we see how love doth rule and reigns, Bringing those under which his power disdains. XXVI Though you be fair and beautiful withal, And I am black for which you me despise, Know that your beauty subject is to fall, Though you esteem it at so high a price. And time may come when that whereof you boast, Which is your youth's chief wealth and ornament, Shall withered be by winter's raging frost, When beauty's pride and flowering years are spent. Then wilt thou mourn when none shall thee respect; Then wilt thou think how thou hast scorned my tears; Then pitiless each one will thee neglect, When hoary grey shall dye thy yellow hairs; Then wilt thou think upon poor Corin's case, Who loved thee dear, yet lived in thy disgrace. XXVII