What may words say? or what may words not say, Where truth it selfe must speake like flattery? Within what bounds can one his lyking stay, Where Nature doth with infinite agree? What _Nestors_ counsell can my flames allay, Since Reasons selfe doth blow the coles to me? And ah, what hope that hope should once see day, Where _Cupid_ is sworne page to Chastitie; Honour is honoured that thou dost possesse Him as thy slave, and now long needie Fame Doth even grow rich, meaning my _Stellas_ name; Wit learnes in _thee_ perfection to expresse, Not _thou_ by praise, but praise in _thee_ is raised, It is a praise, to praise where _thou_ art praised. _Stella_, whence doth these newe assaults arise, A conquerd, yeelding, ransackt hart to win? Whereto long since, through my long battred eyes, Whole Armies of _thy_ beauties entred in, And there long since, Love thy Lieuetenant lyes, My forces raz’d, thy banners rais’d within Of conquest, what do these effects suffise, But wilt new warre uppon thine owne begin, With so sweet voyce, and by sweet nature so, In sweetest strength, so sweetly skild withall, In all sweet stratagems sweet Art can shew: That not my soule which at thy foot did fall Long since forst by thy beames; but stone nor tree By sences priviledge can scape from thee. This night while sleepe begins, with heavie wings To close mine eyes, and the unbitted thought Doth fall to stray, and my chiefe powers are brought To leave the scepter of all subject things, The first that straight my fancies errour brings Unto my minde, is _Stellas_ Image, wrought By Loves owne selfe, but with so curious draught, That she me thinkes not onely shines but sings: I start, looke, harke, but what inclos’d up sence Was helde in open sence it flyes away, Leaving me nought but wayling eloquence. I seeing Better sights in sighes decay, Conclude a new, and woed Sleepe againe, But him her hoast that unkind guest had slaine. Come Sleepe, ô Sleepe, the certaine knot of peace, The bathing place of wits, the balme of woe, The poore mans wealth, the prysoners release, The indifferent judge betweene the high and lowe, With shield of proofe, shield me from out the presse Of these fierce darts, Dispaire at me doth throw; O make in me those civill warres to cease: I will good trybute pay if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillowes, sweetest bed; A chamber deafe of noyse, and blinde of light, A rosie garland, and a wearie head. And if these things (as being thine in right) Move not thy heavie grace, thou shalt in mee Livelier than els where _Stellas_ Image see.