With how sad steps ô Moone thou clim’st the skyes, How silently, and with how meane a face, What may it be, that even in heavenly place, That busie Archer his sharpe Arrowes tryes? Sure if that long with love acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feelst of Lovers case, I reade within thy lookes thy languisht grace. To mee that feele the like, my state discries. Then even of fellowship ô Moone tell me, Is constant love deemde there but want of wit? Are beauties there, as proude as here there be? Doe they above, love to be lov’d, and yet Those Lovers scorne, whom that love doth possesse? Doe they call vertue there ungratefulnesse? _Morpheus_ the lively sonne of deadlie Sleepe, Witnes of life to them that living die: A Prophet oft, and oft an Historie, A Poet eake as humors flye and creepe: Since thou in me so sure a power doost keepe, That never I with clos’d up fence doe lye, But by thy worke, my _Stella_ I discry, Teaching blind eyes both how to smile and weepe, Vouchsafe of all acquaintance this to tell, Whence hast thou Ivorie, Rubies, Pearle, and Golde, To shew _her_ skin, lips, teeth, and head so well? (Foole aunswers he) no _Indes_ such treasures hold, But from thy hart, while my Sire charmeth thee, Sweet _Stellas_ Image I do steale to mee. I might, unhappy word, (woe me) I might, And then would not, nor could not see my blisse: Till now, wrapt in a most infernall Night, I finde, how heavenly day (wretch) did I misse; Hart rent thy selfe, thou doost thy selfe but right. No lovely _Paris_ made thy _Helen_ his, No force, no fraude, robd thee of thy delight, Nor fortune of thy fortune Author is; But to my selfe, my selfe did give the blow, While too much wit forsooth so trubled me, That I respects for both our sakes must show, And yet could not by rysing morne fore-see, How faire a day was neere, (ô punisht eyes) That I had beene more foolish, or more wise. Come let me write, and to what end? to ease A burthened hart, (how can words ease, which are The glasses of thy daily vexing care?) Oft cruell fights well pictured forth doe please, Art not asham’d to publish thy disease? Nay, that may breede my fame, it is so rare, But will not wise men thinke thy words fonde ware? Then be they close, and they shall none displease, What idler thing than speake and not be heard? What harder thing than smart and not to speake? Peace foolish wit, with wit my wit is marde; Thus write I while I doubt to write, and wreake My harmes in ynkes poore losse, perhaps some finde _Stellas_ great power, that so confus’d my minde.