Soules joy, bend not those morning starres from me, Where vertue is made strong by beauties might, Where love is chastnes, paine doth learne delight, And humblenes growes on with majestie; What ever may ensue, O let me be Copartner of the ritches of that sight: Let not mine eyes be driven from that light; ô looke, ô shine, ô let me die and see, For though I oft my selfe of them bemone, That through my hart their beamie darts be gone, Whose curelesse wounds even nowe most freshly bleede; Yet since my deaths wound is already got, Deere killer, spare not _thy_ sweete cruell shot, A kinde of grace it is to slaye with speede. I on my horse, and Love on me doth trie Our horsmanship, while by strange worke I prove, A horsman to my horse, a horse to Love; And now mans wrongs in me poore beast discry. The raines wherewith my ryder doth me tie Are reverent thoughts, which bit of reverence move, Curbde in with feare, but with gilt bosse above Of hope, which makes it seeme faire to the eye: The wande is will, thou fancie saddle art, Girt fast by memorie; and while I spurre My horse, he spurres with sharpe desires my hart, He sits me fast how ever I doe sturre, And now hath made me to his hand so right, That in the manage, my selfe do take delight. _Stella_, the fulnes of my thoughts of thee Cannot be stayed within my panting brest: But they do swell and struggle forth of me, Till that in words thy figure be exprest; And yet as soone as they so formed be, According to my Lord Loves owne behest, With sad eyes I their weake proportion see To portract what within this world is best. So that I cannot chuse but write my minde, And cannot chuse but put out what I write, While those poore babes their death in birth doe find; And now my penne these lynes had dashed quite, But that they stop his furie from the same: Because their fore-front beares sweet _Stellas_ name. Pardon mine eares, both I and they doe pray, So may _your_ tongue full flauntingly proceede, To them that doe such entertainments neede; So may _you_ still have somewhat new to say. On sillie me, doe not _you_ burthen lay Of all the grave conceipts _your_ braine doth breede, But find some _Hercules_, to beard (in steede Of _Atlas_ tyrde) _your_ wisedomes heavenly sway. For me while you discourse of courtly tydes, Of cunningst Fishers in most troubled streames, Of straying waves when valiant errour guides: Meane while my hart confers with _Stellas_ beames, And is even woe that so sweet Comedie, By such unfuted speech, should hindered be.