No more my deere, no more these Counsels try, O give my passions leave to runne their race: Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace. Let Folke orecharg’d with braine against me cry, Let Cloudes be dimme, my face breake in my eye, Let me no steps but of lost labour try, Let all the earth in scorne recount my race; But doe not will me from my love to fly. I do not envie _Aristotles_ wit, Nor do aspire to _Cæsars_ bleeding fame: Nor ought to care though some above me sit; Nor hope nor with another course to frame: But that which once may winne thy cruell hart, Thou art my wit; and thou my vertue art. Love, by sure proofe I may call thee unkinde, That gives no better cares to my just cryes: Thou whom to me, such my good turnes shouldst binde, As I may well recount, but none can prise. For when nak’d boy, hou couldst no harbour finde In this olde world, (growne now so to be wise) I lodg’de thee in my heart: and being blinde By nature borne, I gave to thee my eyes. Mine eyes, my light, my life, my hart alas, If so great services may scorned be: Yet let this thought thy Tygrish courage passe, That I perhaps am somewhat kin to thee: Since in thine armes, if learn’d fame truth hath spred, Thou bearst the Arrowe, I the Arrowhed. And doe I see some cause a hope to feede Or doth the tedious burthen of long woe In weakned mindes, quick apprehension breede Of every Image which may comfort showe. I cannot brag of word, much lesse of deede, Fortune wheels still with me in one sort slowe. My wealth no more, and no whit lesse my neede, Desier, still on stilts of feare doth goe. And yet amids all feares, a hope there is Stolne to my hart: since last faire night (nay day) _Stellas_ eyes sent to me the beames of blisse, Looking on mee, while I looke other way: But when mine eyes backe to their heaven did move: They fled with blush, which guiltie seem’d of love: Hope art thou true or doost thou flatter me? Doth _Stella_ now beginne, with pitteous eye The raigne of this her conquest to espie? Will shee take time before all wracked be? Her eye speech is translated thus by thee. But failste thou not in phrase so heavenly hye? Looke on againe, the faire text better prie; What blushing notes dost thou in Margent see? What sighes stolne out, or kild before full borne Hast thou found such and such like arguments? Or art thou els to comfort me forsworne? Well how so thou interpret the contents, I am resolv’d thy error to maintaine: Rather than by more trueth to get more paine.