‘Fair moon, who with thy cold and silver shine Mak’st sweet the horror of the dreadful night, Delighting the weak eye with smiles divine, Which Phœbus dazzles with his too much light; Bright queen of the first Heav’n, if in thy shrine By turning oft, and Heav’n’s eternal might, Thou hast not yet that once sweet fire of thine, Endymion, forgot, and lovers’ plight: If cause like thine may pity breed in thee, And pity somewhat else to it obtain, Since thou hast power of dreams as well as he That holds the golden rod and mortal chain; Now while she sleeps,[31] in doleful guise her show, These tears, and the black map of all my woe.’ This is the eleventh sonnet: the twelfth is full of vile and forced conceits, without any sentiment at all; such as calling the Sun ‘the Goldsmith of the stars,’ ‘the enameller of the moon,’ and ‘the Apelles of the flowers.’ This is as bad as Cowley or Sir Philip Sidney. Here is one that is worth a million of such quaint devices. ‘_To the Nightingale._ Dear chorister, who from these shadows sends,[32] Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light, Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends (Become all ear[33]) stars stay to hear thy plight. If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends, Who ne’er (not in a dream) did taste delight, May thee importune who like case pretends, And seem’st to joy in woe, in woe’s despite: Tell me (so may thou milder fortune try, And long, long sing!) for what thou thus complains,[32] Since winter’s gone, and sun in dappled sky Enamour’d smiles on woods and flow’ry plains? The bird, as if my questions did her move, With trembling wings sigh’d forth, ‘I love, I love.’ Or if a mixture of the Della Cruscan style be allowed to enshrine the true spirit of love and poetry, we have it in the following address to the river Forth, on which his mistress had embarked. ‘Slide soft, fair Forth, and make a chrystal plain, Cut your white locks, and on your foamy face Let not a wrinkle be, when you embrace The boat that earth’s perfections doth contain. Winds wonder, and through wondering hold your peace, Or if that you your hearts cannot restrain From sending sighs, feeling a lover’s case, Sigh, and in her fair hair yourselves enchain. Or take these sighs, which absence makes arise From my oppressed breast, and fill the sails, Or some sweet breath new brought from Paradise. The floods do smile, love o’er the winds prevails, And yet huge waves arise; the cause is this, The ocean strives with Forth the boat to kiss.’