Sighing, and sadly sitting by my Loue, He ask't the cause of my hearts sorrowing, Coniuring me by heauens eternall King To tell the cause which me so much did moue. Compell'd: (quoth I) to thee will I confesse, Loue is the cause; and only loue it is That doth depriue me of my heauenly blisse. Loue is the paine that doth my heart oppresse. And what is she (quoth he) whom thou dos't loue? Looke in this glasse (quoth I) there shalt thou see The perfect forme of my fælicitie. When, thinking that it would strange Magique proue He open'd it: and taking of the couer, He straight perceau'd himselfe to be my Louer. _SONNET. XII._ [Illustration] Some talke of _Ganymede_ th' _Idalian_ Boy, And some of faire _Adonis_ make their boast, Some talke of him whom louely _Læda_ lost, And some of _Ecchoes_ loue that was so coy. They speake by heere-say, I of perfect truth, They partially commend the persons named, And for them, sweet Encomions haue framed: I onely t'him haue sacrifized my youth. As for those wonders of antiquitie, And those whom later ages haue inioy'd, (But ah what hath not cruell death destroide? Death, that enuies this worlds felicitie), They were (perhaps) lesse faire then Poets write. But he is fairer then I can indite. _SONNET. XIII._ [Illustration] Speake Eccho, tell; how may I call my loue? _Loue._ But how his Lamps that are so christaline? _Eyne._ Oh happy starrs that make your heauens diuine: And happy Iems that admiration moue. How tearm'st his golden tresses wau'd with aire? _Haire._ Oh louely haire of your more-louely Maister, Image of loue, faire shape of Alablaster, Why do'st thou driue thy Louer to dispaire? How do'st thou cal the bed wher beuty grows? _Rose._ Faire virgine-Rose, whose mayden blossoms couer The milke-white Lilly, thy imbracing Louer: Whose kisses makes thee oft thy red to lose. And blushing oft for shame, when he hath kist thee, He vades away, and thou raing'st where it list thee. _SONNET. XIIII._ [Illustration] Here, hold this gloue (this milk-white cheueril gloue) Not quaintly ouer-wrought with curious knots, Not deckt with golden spangs, nor siluer spots, Yet wholsome for thy hand as thou shalt proue. Ah no; (sweet boy) place this gloue neere thy heart, Weare it, and lodge it still within thy brest, So shalt thou make me (most vnhappy,) blest. So shalt thou rid my paine, and ease my smart: How can that be (perhaps) thou wilt reply, A gloue is for the hand not for the heart, Nor can it well be prou'd by common art, Nor reasons rule. To this, thus answere I: If thou from gloue do'st take away the g, Then gloue is loue: and so I send it thee. _SONNET. XV._ [Illustration]