Ye heralds of my heart, mine ardent groans, O tears which gladly would burst out to brooks, Oh spent on fruitless sand my surging moans, Oh thoughts enthralled unto care-boding looks! Ah just laments of my unjust distress, Ah fond desires whom reason could not guide! Oh hopes of love that intimate redress, Yet prove the load-stars unto bad betide! When will you cease? Or shall pain never-ceasing, Seize oh my heart? Oh mollify your rage, Lest your assaults with over-swift increasing, Procure my death, or call on timeless age. What if they do? They shall but feed the fire, Which I have kindled by my fond desire. XXII Fair art thou, Phillis, ay, so fair, sweet maid, As nor the sun, nor I have seen more fair; For in thy cheeks sweet roses are embayed, And gold more pure than gold doth gild thy hair. Sweet bees have hived their honey on thy tongue, And Hebe spiced her nectar with thy breath; About thy neck do all the graces throng, And lay such baits as might entangle death. In such a breast what heart would not be thrall? From such sweet arms who would not wish embraces? At thy fair hands who wonders not at all, Wonder itself through ignorance embases? Yet natheless though wondrous gifts you call these, My faith is far more wonderful than all these. XXIII Burst, burst, poor heart! Thou hast no longer hope; Captive mine eyes unto eternal sleep; Let all my senses have no further scope; Let death be lord of me and all my sheep! For Phillis hath betrothed fierce disdain, That makes his mortal mansion in her heart; And though my tongue have long time taken pain To sue divorce and wed her to desert, She will not yield, my words can have no power; She scorns my faith, she laughs at my sad lays, She fills my soul with never ceasing sour, Who filled the world with volumes of her praise. In such extremes what wretch can cease to crave His peace from death, who can no mercy have! XXIV No glory makes me glorious or glad, Nor pleasure may to pleasure me dispose, No comfort can revive my senses sad, Nor hope enfranchise me with one repose. Nor in her absence taste I one delight, Nor in her presence am I well content; Was never time gave term to my despite, Nor joy that dried the tears of my lament. Nor hold I hope of weal in memory, Nor have I thought to change my restless grief, Nor doth my conquest yield me sovereignty, Nor hope repose, nor confidence relief. For why? She sorts her frowns and favours so, As when I gain or lose I cannot know. XXV