If those ten Regions, registred by Fame, By theyr ten Sibils haue the world controld, Who prophecied of Christ or ere he came, And of his blessed birth before fore-told; That man-god now, of whom they did diuine, This earth of those sweet Prophets hath bereft, And since the world to iudgement doth declyne, Instead of ten, one Sibil to vs left. Thys pure _Idea_, vertues right Idea, Shee of whom _Merlin_ long tyme did fore-tell, Excelling her of _Delphos_ or _Cumæa_, Whose lyfe doth saue a thousand soules from hell: That life (I meane) which doth Religion teach, And by example true repentance preach. Amour 20 Reading sometyme, my sorrowes to beguile, I find old Poets hylls and floods admire: One, he doth wonder monster-breeding _Nyle_, Another meruailes Sulphure _Aetnas_ fire. Now broad-brymd _Indus_, then of _Pindus_ height, _Pelion_ and _Ossa_, frosty _Caucase_ old, The Delian _Cynthus_, then _Olympus_ weight, Slow _Arrer_, franticke _Gallus_, _Cydnus_ cold. Some _Ganges_, _Ister_, and of _Tagus_ tell, Some whir-poole _Po_, and slyding _Hypasis_; Some old _Pernassus_ where the Muses dwell, Some _Helycon_, and some faire _Simois_: A, fooles! thinke I, had you _Idea_ seene, Poore Brookes and Banks had no such wonders beene. Amour 21 Letters and lynes, we see, are soone defaced, Mettles doe waste and fret with cankers rust; The Diamond shall once consume to dust, And freshest colours with foule staines disgraced. Paper and yncke can paynt but naked words, To write with blood of force offends the sight, And if with teares, I find them all too light; And sighes and signes a silly hope affoords. O, sweetest shadow! how thou seru'st my turne, Which still shalt be as long as there is Sunne, Nor whilst the world is neuer shall be done, Whilst Moone shall shyne by night, or any fire shall burne: That euery thing whence shadow doth proceede, May in his shadow my Loues story reade. Amour 22 My hart, imprisoned in a hopeless Ile, Peopled with Armies of pale iealous eyes, The shores beset with thousand secret spyes, Must passe by ayre, or else dye in exile. He framd him wings with feathers of his thought, Which by theyr nature learn'd to mount the skye; And with the same he practised to flye, Till he himself thys Eagles art had taught. Thus soring still, not looking once below, So neere thyne eyes celesteall sunne aspyred, That with the rayes his wafting pyneons fired: Thus was the wanton cause of his owne woe. Downe fell he, in thy Beauties Ocean drenched, Yet there he burnes in fire thats neuer quenched. Amour 23