Vertue (alas) now let me take some rest, Thou set’st a bate betweene my will and wit; If vaine love have my simple soule opprest, Leave what thou lik’st not, deale not thou with it. Thy Scepter use in some olde _Catoes_ brest, Churches or Schooles are for thy seat more fit: I doe confes, (pardon a fault confest,) My mouth too tender is for thy hard bit. But if that needes, thou wilt usurping bee The little reason that is left in mee. And still th’ effect of thy perswasions proove, I sweare, my heart such one shall shew to thee, That shrines in flesh so true a deitie, That Vertue, thou thy selfe shalt be in love. It is most true, that eyes are found to serve The inward light: and that the heavenly part Ought to be King, from whose rules who doth swerve, Rebels to nature, strive for their owne smart. It is most true, what wee call _Cupids_ dart, An Image is, which for ourselves we carve: And fooles adore, in Temple of our hart, Till that good God make church and Church-men starve. True that true beautie vertue is in deede, Whereof this beautie can but be a shade: Which Elements with mortall mixture breede, True that on earth we are but Pilgrimes made, And should in soule, up to our Country move: True and most true, that I must _Stella_ love. Some Lovers speake, when they their Muses entertaine Of hopes begot, by feare, of wot not what desires, Of force of heavenly beames, infusing hellish paine; Of lyving deathes, deere woundes, faire Stormes, and friesing fyres. Some one his songs in _Jove_ and _Joves_ straunge tales attyres, Bordered with Bulles and Swannes, poudered with golden raine: Another humbler witte to shepheards pipe retyres, Yet hiding royall blood, full oft in Rurall vaine. To some a sweetest plaint a sweetest stile affordes, Whiles teares poure out his inke, and sighes breathe His paper pale despaire, and paine his penne doth move. I can speake what I feele, and feele as much as they, But thinke that all the mappe of my state I display, When trembling voice brings foorth, that I do _Stella_ love. When nature made her chiefe worke, _Stella’s_ eyes, In collour blacke, why wrapt she beames so bright? Would she in beamy blacke like Painter wise, Frame daintiest lustre mixte of shades of light? Or did she els that sober hewe devise, In object best, to strength and knitt our sighte Least if no vaile these brave gleames did disguise, They Sun-like should more dazell than delight. Or would she her miraculous power shewe, That whereas blacke seemes Beauties contrarie, Shee even in blacke doth make all Beauties flower Both so and thus; she minding Love should bee Plaste ever there, gave him this mourning weede: To honour all their deathes, which for her bleede.