Tell me, you stars that our affections move, Why made ye me that cruel one to love? Why burns my heart her scorned sacrifice, Whose breast is hard as crystal, cold as ice? God of Desire! if all thy votaries Thou thus repay, succession will grow wise; No sighs for incense at thy shrine shall smoke, Thy rites will be despis'd, thy altars broke. O! or give her my flame to melt that snow Which yet unthaw'd does on her bosom grow; 10 Or make me ice, and with her crystal chains Bind up all love within my frozen veins. [_Tell me, &c._] [Line: 6 succession] = 'those who come after us'.] _Sonnet._ I prithee turn that face away Whose splendour but benights my day. Sad eyes like mine, and wounded hearts Shun the bright rays which beauty darts. Unwelcome is the Sun that pries Into those shades where sorrow lies. Go, shine on happy things. To me That blessing is a misery: Whom thy fierce Sun not warms, but burns, Like that the sooty Indian turns. 10 I'll serve the night, and there confin'd Wish thee less fair, or else more kind. [_I prithee, &c._] Part of this is very neat and good, but it tails off.] _Sonnet._ Dry those fair, those crystal eyes, Which like growing fountains rise To drown their banks. Grief's sullen brooks Would better flow in furrow'd looks. Thy lovely face was never meant To be the shore of discontent. Then clear those wat'rish stars again Which else portend a lasting rain; Lest the clouds which settle there Prolong my winter all the year: 10 And the example others make In love with sorrow for thy sake. [_Dry those fair, &c._] This piece is also claimed for Lord Pembroke (see _Preface_ to this volume). It might be his, King's, or the work of almost any lyrical poet in this collection and of many outside of it.] _Sonnet._ When I entreat, either thou wilt not hear, Or else my suit arriving at thy ear Cools and dies there. A strange extremity! To freeze i' th' Sun, and in the shade to fry. Whilst all my blasted hopes decline so soon, 'Tis evening with me, though at high noon. For pity to thyself, if not to me, Think time will ravish, what I lose, from thee. If my scorch'd heart wither through thy delay, Thy beauty withers too. And swift decay 10 Arrests thy youth. So thou whilst I am slighted Wilt be too soon with age or sorrow nighted. [_When I entreat, &c._] [Line: 6 'E-ven-ing'.] _To a Lady who sent me a copy of verses at my going to bed._