DORUS O glittering miseries of man, if this be the fortune Of those fortunes’ lulls? so small rests, rest in a kingdom? What marvel tho’ a prince transform himself to a pastor? Come from marble bowers many times the gay harbour of anguish, Unto a silly caban, thought weak, yet stronger against woes. Now by the words I begin, most famous lady, to gather Comfort into my soul, I do find what a blessing Is chanced to my life, that from such muddy abundance Of carking agonies, to states which still be adherent, Destiny keeps me aloof, for if all this state to thy virtue Join’d by thy beauty adorn’d be no means those griefs to abolish: If neither by that help, thou canst climb up thy fancy, Nor yet fancy so dress’d do receive more plausible hearing: Then do I think indeed, that better it is to be private {107} In sorrow’s torments, than, tied to the pomps of a palace, Nurse inward maladies, which have not scope to be breath’d out: But perforce digest all bitter joys of horror In silence, from a man’s own self with company robbed. Better yet do I live, that though by my thoughts I be plunged Into my life’s bondage, yet may I disburden a passion (Oppress’d with ruinous conceits) by the help of an out-cry: Not limited to a whispering note, the lament of a courtier. But sometimes to the woods, sometimes to the heav’n do decipher With bold clamour unheard, unmark’d, what I seek, what I suffer: And when I meet those trees, in the earth’s fair livery clothed, Ease I do feel, such ease as falls to one wholly diseased, For that I find in them part of my state represented. Laurel shows what I seek, by the myrrh is shown how I seek it, Olive paints me the peace that I must aspire to by conquest: Myrtle makes my request; my request is crown’d with a willow. Cypress promiseth help, but a help where comes no recomfort: Sweet juniper saith this, “Though I burn, yet I burn in a sweet fire.” Yew doth make me think what kind of bow the boy holdeth, Which shoots strongly without any noise, and deadly without smart, Fir-trees great and green, fix’d on a high hill but a barren, Like to my noble thoughts, still new, well plac’d to me fruitless. Fig that yields most pleasant fruits, his shadow is hurtful: Thus be her gifts most sweet, thus more danger to be near her. Now in a palm when I mark, how he doth rise under a burden, And may I not, say then, get up though grief be so weighty? Pine is a mast to a ship, to my ship shall hope for a mast serve. Pine is high, hope is as high, sharp leav’d, sharp, yet be my hopes buds. Elm embrac’d by a vine, embracing fancy reviveth: Poplar changeth his hue from a rising sun to a setting: Thus to my sun do I yield, such looks her beams do afford me. Old aged oak cut down, of new work serves to the building: So my desires by my fear cut down, be the frames of her honour. As he makes spears which shields do resist, her force no repulse