Bright matchless star, the honour of the sky, From whose clear shine heaven's vault hath all his light, I send these poems to your graceful eye; Do you but take them, and they have their right. I build besides a temple to your name, Wherein my thoughts shall daily sing your praise; And will erect an altar for the same, Which shall your virtues and your honour raise. But heaven the temple of your honour is, Whose brasen tops your worthy self made proud; The ground an altar, base for such a bliss With pity torn, because I sighed so loud. And since my skill no worship can impart, Make you an incense of my loving heart. Sad all alone not long I musing sat, But that my thoughts compelled me to aspire, A laurel garland in my hand I gat; So the Muses I approached the nigher. My suite was this, a poet to become, To drink with them, and from the heavens be fed. Phoebus denied, and sware there was no room, Such to be poets as fond fancy led. With that I mourned and sat me down to weep. Venus she smiled, and smiling to me said, "Come, drink with me, and sit thee still and sleep." This voice I heard; and Venus I obeyed. That poison sweet hath done me all this wrong, For now of love must needs be all my song. II Weary was love and sought to take his rest, He made his choice, upon a virgin's lap; And slyly crept from thence unto her breast, Where still he meant to sport him in his hap; The virgin frowned like Phoebus in a cloud; "Go pack, sir boy, here is no room for such, My breast no wanton foolish boy must shroud." This said, my love did give the wag a touch; Then as the foot that treads the stinging snake Hastes to be gone, for fear what may ensue, So love my love was forced for to forsake, And for more speed, without his arrows flew. "Pardon," he said, "For why? You seemed to me My mother Venus in her pride to be." III The heavens beheld the beauty of my queen, And all amazed, to wonder thus began: "Why dotes not Jove, as erst we all have seen, And shapes himself like to a seemly man? Mean are the matches which he sought before, Like bloomless buds, too base to make compare, And she alone hath treasured beauty's store, In whom all gifts and princely graces are." Cupid replied: "I posted with the sun To view the maids that lived in those days, And none there was that might not well be won, But she, most hard, most cold, made of delays." Heavens were deceived, and wrong they do esteem, She hath no heat, although she living seem. IV