Why doe I speake of ioy, or write of loue, When my hart is the very Den of horror, And in my soule the paynes of hell I proue, With all his torments and infernall terror? Myne eyes want teares thus to bewayle my woe, My brayne is dry with weeping all too long; My sighes be spent with griefe and sighing so, And I want words for to expresse my wrong. But still, distracted in loues lunacy, And Bedlam like thus rauing in my griefe, Now rayle vpon her hayre, now on her eye, Now call her Goddesse, then I call her thiefe; Now I deny her, then I doe confesse her, Now I doe curse her, then againe I blesse her. Amour 44 My hart the Anuile where my thoughts doe beate, My words the hammers fashioning my desire, My breast the forge, including all the heate, Loue is the fuell which maintaines the fire: My sighes the bellowes which the flame increaseth, Filling mine eares with noise and nightly groning, Toyling with paine my labour neuer ceaseth, In greeuous passions my woes styll bemoning. Myne eyes with teares against the fire stryuing, With scorching gleed my hart to cynders turneth; But with those drops the coles againe reuyuing, Still more and more vnto my torment burneth. With _Sisiphus_ thus doe I role the stone, And turne the wheele with damned _Ixion_. Amour 45 Blacke pytchy Night, companyon of my woe, The Inne of care, the Nurse of drery sorrow, Why lengthnest thou thy darkest howres so, Still to prolong my long tyme lookt-for morrow? Thou Sable shadow, Image of dispayre, Portraite of hell, the ayres black mourning weed, Recorder of reuenge, remembrancer of care, The shadow and the vaile of euery sinfull deed. Death like to thee, so lyue thou still in death, The graue of ioy, prison of dayes delight. Let heauens withdraw their sweet Ambrozian breath, Nor Moone nor stars lend thee their shining light; For thou alone renew'st that olde desire, Which still torments me in dayes burning fire. Amour 46 Sweete secrecie, what tongue can tell thy worth? What mortall pen sufficiently can prayse thee? What curious Pensill serues to lim thee forth? What Muse hath power aboue thy height to raise thee? Strong locke of kindnesse, Closet of loues store, Harts Methridate, the soules preseruatiue; O vertue! which all vertues doe adore, Cheefe good, from whom all good things wee deriue. O rare effect! true bond of friendships measure, Conceite of Angels, which all wisdom teachest; O, richest Casket of all heauenly treasure, In secret silence which such wonders preachest. O purest mirror! wherein men may see The liuely Image of Diuinitie. Amour 47