Are those two stars, her eyes, my life's light gone, By which my soul was freed from all dark? And am I left distressed to live alone, Where none my tears and mournful tale shall mark? Ah sun, why shine thy looks, thy looks like gold, When horsemen brave thou risest in the east? Ah Cynthia pale, to whom my griefs I told, Why do you both rejoice both man and beast? And I alone, alone that dark possess By Licia's absence brighter than the sun, Whose smiling light did ease my sad distress, And broke the clouds, when tears like rain begun. Heavens, grant that light and so me waking keep, Or shut my eyes and rock me fast asleep! XLIV Cruel fair love, I justly do complain Of too much rigor and thy heart unkind, That for mine eyes thou hast my body slain, And would not grant that I should favour find. I looked, fair love, and you my love looked fair, I sighed for love and you for sport did smile. Your smiles were such as did perfume the air, And this perfumed did my heart beguile. Thus I confess the fault was in mine eyes, Begun with sighs and ended with a flame. I for your love did all the world despise; And in these poems honored have your name. Then let your love so with my fault dispense, That all my parts feel not mine eyes' offense. XLV There shone a comet, and it was full west. My thoughts presaged what it did portend; I found it threatened to my heart unrest, And might in time my joys and comfort end. I further sought and found it was a sun, Which day nor night did never use to set. It constant stood when heavens did restless run, And did their virtues and their forces let. The world did muse and wonder what it meant, A sun to shine and in the west to rise; To search the truth, I strength and spirits spent; At length I found it was my Licia's eyes. Now never after soul shall live in dark, That hath the hap this western sun to mark. XLVI If he be dead, in whom no heart remains, Or lifeless be in whom no life is found; If he do pine that never comfort gains, And be distressed that hath his deadly wound; Then must I die whose heart elsewhere is clad, And lifeless pass the greedy worms to feed; Then must I pine that never comfort had, And be distressed whose wound with tears doth bleed. Which if I do, why do I not wax cold? Why rest I not like one that wants a heart? Why move I still like him that life doth hold, And sense enjoy both of my joy and smart? Like Niobe queen which made a stone did weep, Licia my heart dead and alive doth keep. XLVII