Some Atheist or vile Infidell in loue, When I doe speake of thy diuinitie, May blaspheme thus, and say I flatter thee, And onely write my skill in verse to proue. See myracles, ye vnbeleeuing! see A dumbe-born Muse made to expresse the mind, A cripple hand to write, yet lame by kind, One by thy name, the other touching thee. Blind were mine eyes, till they were seene of thine, And mine eares deafe by thy fame healed be; My vices cur'd by vertues sprung from thee, My hopes reuiu'd, which long in graue had lyne: All vncleane thoughts, foule spirits, cast out in mee By thy great power, and by strong fayth in thee. Amour 13 Cleere _Ankor_, on whose siluer-sanded shore My soule-shrinde Saint, my faire _Idea_, lyes; O blessed Brooke! whose milk-white Swans adore The christall streame refined by her eyes: Where sweet Myrh-breathing _Zephyre_ in the spring Gently distils his Nectar-dropping showers; Where Nightingales in _Arden_ sit and sing Amongst those dainty dew-empearled flowers. Say thus, fayre Brooke, when thou shall see thy Queene: Loe! heere thy Shepheard spent his wandring yeeres, And in these shades (deer Nimphe) he oft hath been, And heere to thee he sacrifiz'd his teares. Fayre _Arden_, thou my _Tempe_ art alone, And thou, sweet _Ankor_, art my _Helicon_. Amour 14 Looking into the glasse of my youths miseries, I see the ugly face of my deformed cares, With withered browes, all wrinckled with dispaires, That for my mis-spent youth the tears fel from my eyes. Then, in these teares, the mirror of these eyes, Thy fayrest youth and Beautie doe I see Imprinted in my teares by looking still on thee: Thus midst a thousand woes ten thousand joyes arise. Yet in those joyes, the shadowes of my good, In this fayre limned ground as white as snow, Paynted the blackest Image of my woe, With murthering hands imbru'd in mine own blood: And in this Image his darke clowdy eyes, My life, my youth, my loue, I heere Anotamize. Amour 15 Now, Loue, if thou wilt proue a Conqueror, Subdue thys Tyrant euer martyring mee; And but appoint me for her Tormentor, Then for a Monarch will I honour thee. My hart shall be the prison for my fayre; Ile fetter her in chaines of purest loue, My sighs shall stop the passage of the ayre: This punishment the pittilesse may moue. With teares out of the Channels of mine eyes She'st quench her thirst as duly as they fall: Kinde words vnkindest meate I can deuise, My sweet, my faire, my good, my best of all. Ile binde her then with my torne-tressed haire, And racke her with a thousand holy wishes; Then, on a place prepared for her there, Ile execute her with a thousand kisses. Thus will I crucifie, my cruell shee; Thus Ile plague her which hath so plagued mee. Amour 16