_Stella_, while now by honours cruell might, I am from you (light of my light) misled, And that faire you, my Sunne thus overspred With absence vale I live in sorrowes night. If this darke place yet shewe by candle light Some Beauties peece, as amber collourd hed, Milke hands, rose cheekes, or lips more sweet more red, Or seeming jett black, but in blacknes bright They please I doe confesse, they please mine eyes, But whie? because of you they moddels be; Moddels such be wood globes of glistering skyes. Deare therefore be not jealous over me, If you heare that they seeme my heart to move, Not them, no no, but you in them I love. Be your words made (good sir) of _Indean_ ware, That you allowe them mee by so small rate, Or do you cutted _Spartanes_ imitate, Or do you meane my tender eares to spare? That to my questions you so totall are? When I demaund of Phœnix _Stellas_ state, You say (forsooth) you left her well of late O God, thinke you that satisfies my care? I would know whether shee did sit or walke. How cloathd: how waited on: sighd shee or smilde: Whereof: with whome: how often did shee talke: With what pastimes, times jorneys shee beguild? If her lips daine to sweeten my poore name? Saie all: and all well said: still say the same. O Fate, ô fault, O curst child of my blisse, What sobs can give words grace my griefe to show? What inke is black enough to paint my woe? Through mee, wretch mee, even _Stella_ vexed is: Yet Trueth, if Caitives brath might call thee this, Witnes with mee, that my fowle stumbling so, From carelesnes did in no manner growe, But wit confusd with too much care did misse. And do I then my selfe this vaine scuse give: I do sweete Love, and know this harmed thee. The world quit mee, shall I my self forgive? Onely with paines my paines thus eased be: That all thy hurtes in my hearts wracke I reed I crye thy sighs (my deare) thy teares I bleed. Greefe find the words, for thou hast made my braine So darke with mistie vapours which arise From out thy heavie mould, that inbent eyes Can scarce discerne the shape of mine owne paine: Do thou then (for thou canst) do thou complaine For my poore soule which now that sicknes tries, Which even to sense, sense of it selfe denies. Though harbengers of death lodge there his traine, Or if the love of plaint yet mind forbeares, As of a Caitife worthie so to dye; Yet waye thy selfe and wayle in causefull teares: That though in wretchednes thy life doth lie, Yet growest more wretched than thy nature beares: By being plast in such a wretch as I.