When I was forst from _Stella_ ever deare, _Stella_, foode of my thoughts, hart of my hart: _Stella_, whose eyes make all my temples cleare, By Yron lawes, of duetie to depart, Alas I found that shee with mee did smart: I sawe that teares did in her eyes appeare: I sawe that sighes her sweetest lips did part: And her sad words my sadded sense did heare. For mee, I weepe to see Pearles scattered so: I sighd her sighes, and wailed for her woe: Yet swamme in joy such love in her was seene. Thus while the effect most bitter was to mee, And nothing than that cause more sweet could be, I had beene vext, if vext I had not beene. Out Traytour absence dar’st thou counsell mee From my deare Captainnesse to runne away, Because in brave arraye here marcheth shee That to winne mee oft showes a present paye. Is Faith so weake, or is such force in thee? When Sunne is hid, can Starres such beames displaie? Cannot Heavens foode once felt keepe stomacks free From base desire on earthly cares to praie? Tush absence, while thy mistes eclypse that light, My Orphan sense flyes to the inward sight: Where memorie settes foorth the beames of Love, That where before heart lov’d and eyes did see, In heart my sight and Love now coupled be, United powres make eche the stronger prove. Now that of absence the most yrksome night, With darkest shade doth overcome the daie: Since _Stella’s_ eyes wont to give mee my daie, Leaving my _Hemisphere_ leaves mee in night, Each day seemes long, and longs for long staied night: The night as tedious, wooes th’approch of day: Tyr’d with the dustie toyles of busie day, Languisht with horrors of the silent night, Suffering the evils both of daie and night, While no night is more darke than is my day, Nor no day hath lesse quiet then my night: With such bad mixture of my night and daie, That living thus in blackest Winter night, I feele the flames of hottest Sommers daie. _Stella_, thinke not that I by verse seeke fame, Who seeke, who hope, who love, who like, but thee: Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my historie, If thou praise not, all other praise is shame. Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame A nest for my yong praise in Lawrell tree, In trueth I sweare, I wish not there should be graved in my Epitaph a Poets name. Nor if I would could I just title make That anie laud thereof to me should growe Without my Plumes from others wings I take; For nothing from my wit or will doth flowe: Since all my words thy beautie doth indite, And Love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.