The golden Sunne vpon his fiery wheeles The horned Ram doth in his course awake, And of iust length our night and day doth make, Flinging the Fishes backward with his heeles: Then to the Tropicke takes his full Careere, Trotting his sun-steeds till the Palfrays sweat, Bayting the Lyon in his furious heat, Till Virgins smyles doe sound his sweet reteere. But my faire Planet, who directs me still, Vnkindly such distemperature doth bring, Makes Summer Winter, Autumne in the Spring, Crossing sweet nature by vnruly will. Such is the sunne who guides my youthfull season, Whose thwarting course depriues the world of reason. Amour 48 Who list to praise the dayes delicious lyght, Let him compare it to her heauenly eye, The sun-beames to the lustre of her sight; So may the learned like the similie. The mornings Crimson to her lyps alike, The sweet of _Eden_ to her breathes perfume, The fayre _Elizia_ to her fayrer cheeke, Vnto her veynes the onely Phœnix plume. The Angels tresses to her tressed hayre, The _Galixia_ to her more then white. Praysing the fayrest, compare it to my faire, Still naming her in naming all delight. So may he grace all these in her alone, Superlatiue in all comparison. Amour 49 Define my loue, and tell the ioyes of heauen, Expresse my woes, and shew the paynes of hell; Declare what fate vnlucky starres haue giuen, And aske a world vpon my life to dwell. Make knowne that fayth vnkindnes could not moue; Compare my worth with others base desert: Let vertue be the tuch-stone of my loue, So may the heauens reade wonders in my hart. Behold the Clowdes which haue eclips'd my sunne, And view the crosses which my course doth let; Tell mee, if euer since the world begunne, So faire a Morning had so foule a set? And, by all meanes, let black vnkindnes proue The patience of so rare, diuine a loue. Amour 50 When I first ended, then I first began; The more I trauell, further from my rest; Where most I lost, there most of all I wan; Pyned with hunger, rysing from a feast. Mee thinks I flee, yet want I legs to goe, Wise in conceite, in acte a very sot; Rauisht with ioy amidst a hell of woe, What most I seeme, that surest I am not. I build my hopes a world aboue the skye, Yet with a Mole I creepe into the earth: In plenty am I staru'd with penury, And yet I serfet in the greatest dearth. I haue, I want, dispayre, and yet desire, Burn'd in a Sea of Ice, and drown'd amidst a fire. Amour 51