In midst of winter season, as the snow, Whose milk white mantle overspreads the ground; In part, the colour of my love is so. Yet their effects, I have contrary found: For when the sun appears, snow melts anon; But I melt always when my sun is gone. XXVII. The sweet content, at first, I seemed to prove (While yet Desire unfledged, could scarcely fly), Did make me think there was no life to Love; Till all too late, Time taught the contrary. For, like a fly, I sported with the flame; Till, like a fool, I perished in the same. XXVIII. After dark night, the cheerful day appeareth; After an ebb, the river flows again; After a storm, the cloudy heaven cleareth: All labours have their end, or ease of pain. Each creature hath relief and rest, save I, Who only dying, live; and living, die! XXIX. Sometimes I seek for company to sport, Whereby I might my pensive thoughts beguile; Sometimes, again, I hide me from resort, And muse alone: but yet, alas, the while In changing place, I cannot change my mind; For wheresoe'er I fly, myself I find. XXX. [Sidenote: _Meritum petere grave._] Fain would I speak, but straight my heart doth tremble, And checks my tongue that should my griefs reveal: And so I strive my Passions to dissemble, Which all the art I have, cannot conceal. Thus standing mute, my heart with longing starveth! "It grieves a man to ask, what he deserveth." XXXI. Since you desire of me the cause to know, For which these divers Passions I have proved; Look in your glass! which will not fail to show The shadowed portrait of my best beloved. If that suffice not, look into my heart! Where it's engraven by a new found art. XXXII. The painful ploughman hath his heart's delight; Who, though his daily toil his body tireth, Yet merrily comes whistling home at night, And sweetly takes the ease his pain requireth: But neither days nor nights can yield me rest; Born to be wretched, and to live opprest! XXXIII. O well were it, if Nature would devise That men with men together might engender, As grafts of trees, one from another rise; Then nought, of due, to women should we render! But, vain conceit! that Nature should do this; Since, well we know, herself a woman is! XXXIV. Upon the altar where LOVE'S fires burnèd, My Sighs and Tears for sacrifice I offered; When LOVE, in rage, from me his countenance turnèd, And did reject what I so humbly proffered. If he, my heart expect, alas, it's gone! "How can a man give that, is not his own?" XXXV.