Because I oft in darke abstracted guise, Seeme most alone in greatest company, With dearth of words, and aunswers quite awry, To them that would make speech of speech arise; They deeme, and of their doome the rumor flies, That poyson foule of bubling pride doth lie So in my swelling brest, that onely I Faune on my selfe, all others doe dispise: Yet pride (I thinke) doth not my soule possesse, (Which lookes too oft in this unflattering glasse) But one worse fault, ambition I confesse, That makes me oft my best freends over-passe, Unseene unheard, while thought to highest place Bends all his powers, even unto _Stellas_ grace. You that with allegories curious frame Of others children changelings use to make, With mee those paines for good now doe not take, I list not dig so deepe for brasen fame. When I see _Stella_, I doe meane the same Princesse of beautie, for whose onely sake, The raynes of love I love, though never slake; And joy therein, though Nations count it shame: I begge no subject to use eloquence, Nor in hid waies to guide Philosophie, Looke at my hands for no such quintessence, But know that I in pure simplicitie, Breath out the flames which burn within my hart, Love only leading me into this arte. Like some weake Lords Neighbord by mightie kings, To keepe themselves and their chiefe Cities free, Doe easily yeelde, that all their coast may be Readie to serve their Campe of needfull things: So _Stellas_ hart finding what power Love brings, To keepe it selfe in life and libertie, Doth willing graunt that in the Frontire he Use all to help his other conquerings. And thus her hart escapes, but thus her eyes Serve him with shot, her lips his Heralds are, Her brests his Tents, legges his tryumphall Chare, Herselfe his foode, her skin his Armour brave. And I but for because my prospect lyes: Upon that coast, am given up for slave. Whether the Turkish new Moone minded be, To fill her hornes this yeere on Christian coast, How Polands King mindes without leave of hoast, To warme with ill made fire cold _Muscovie_, If French can yet three parts in one agree, What now the Dutch in their full diets boast, How Holland harts, now so good Townes are lost, Trust in the shade of pleasing Orange tree. How Ulster likes of the same goldenbitt, Wherewith my Father made it once halfe tame, If in the Scottish Court be weltering yet; These questions busie wits to me do frame, I combered with good manners, aunswere doe, But know not how, for still I thinke on _you_.