On _Cupids_ bowe, how are my hart strings bent? That see my wracke, and yet imbrace the same: When most I glorie, then I feele most shame; I willing run, yet while I runne repent; My best wittes still their owne disgrace invent, My verie ynke, turnes straight to _Stella’s_ name: And yet my words (as them my penne doth frame) Against themselves that they are vainely spent. For though she passe all things, yet what is all That unto me, who fare like him that both Lookes to the skyes and in a ditch doth fall, O let me prop my mind yet in his grouth And not in nature, for best fruits unfit; Scholler saith Love bend hitherward your wit. Fly, flye my friends, I have my deathes wound, flye; See there that boy, that murthering boy I say, Who like a thiefe hid in a bush doth lye, Tyll blooddy bullet get him wrongfull pray. So, tyrant he no fitter place could spy, Nor so farre levell in so secrete stay: As that sweete blacke which veiles thy heavenly eye. There himselfe with his shot he close doth laye. Poore passenger, passe now thereby I did, And staid pleasd with prospect of the place, While that black hue from me the bad guest hid, But straight I saw motions of lightnings grace, And there descried the glisterings of his dart: But ere I could flie thence, it pearst my hart. Your words my freend right helthfull caustickes blame. My young minde marde whom Love doth windlase so: That my owne writings like bad servants showe My wits, quick in vaine thoughts, in vertue lame; That _Plato_ I reade for nought, but if he tame Such coltish giers; that to my birth I owe Nobler desires: lest els that friendly foe Great expectation were a traine of shame. For since mad _March_ great promise made to mee, If now the _May_ of my yeeres much decline, What can be hop’d my harvest time will be, Sure you say well, your wisedomes golden myne Digs deepe with learnings spade: now tell me this, Hath this world ought so faire as _Stella_ is? In highest way of heaven the Sunne did ride, Progressing then from fayre Twynns golden place, Having no maske of Clowdes before his face, But shining forth of heat in his chiefe pride, When some faire Ladies by hard promise tyde, On horsebacke met him in his furious race, Yet each prepar’de with Fannes well shading grace, From that foes wounds their tender skinnes to hide. _Stella_ alone, with face unarmed marcht, Either to doe like him, which open shone: Or carelesse of the welth, because her owne. Yet were the hid and meaner beauties parcht, Her dainties bare went free; the cause was this, The Sunne which others burnt, did her but kisse.