by Thomas Watson

Sonnets 21- 40


Centurie of

Transcribed by Barboura Flues. Web version created by Robert Brazil.
copyright © 2002

Some, but not all footnotes are derived from the original publication.
Notes that derive from Graves' The Greek Myths are marked (Graves).
Notes from the transcriber are marked (BF).
Words/phrases described in the glossary are underlined.

H e k a t o m p a t h i a
Sonnets 21- 40


In the first staff of this passion the Author imitateth Petrarch, Sonetto 211.
  Chi vuol veder quantunge puo Natura
  El ciel tra noi, venga a mirar costeir,
And the very like sense hath Seraphine in one of his Strambotti, where he beginneth thus,
  Chi vuol ueder gran cose altiere e nuoue,
  Venga a mirar costei, laquale adoro:
  Dove gratia dal ciel continuo pioue.

Who list to view dame Nature's cunning skill,
And see what heav'n hath added to the same,
Let him prepare with me to gaze his fill
On her apace, whose gifts exceed ye trump of fame:
   But let him come apace before she fly
   From hence, to fix her seat above the sky.
By Juno's gift she bears a stately grace,
Pallas hath placed skill amid'st her breast;
Venus herself doth dwell within her face;
Alas I faint to think of all the rest;
   And shall I tell wherewith I most have wars?
   With those her eyes, which are two heav'nly stars.
Their beams draw forth by great attractive power
My moistened heart, whose force is yet so small,
That shine they bright, or list they but to lower,
It scarcely dare behold such lights at all,
   But sobs, and sighs, and faith I am undone;     [1]
   No bird but Jove's can look against the sun.

1. Vide Plin. nat. hist. lib. 10. cap. 3 et lib 29 cap. 6.qui de hac re mutuatur ex Aristotelis historia. Porro vide Seraphinum sonet. I. vbi de aquila suisque pullis per comparationem legantissime canit.


The substance of this passion is taken out of Seraphine sonetto 127. which beginneth thus.
Quando nascesti amor? quando la terra
Se rinueste di verde e bel colore;
Di che susti creato? d'vn ardore,
Che cio lasciuo in se rinchiude e serera etc.

But the Author hath in this translation inverted the order of some verses of Seraphine. and added the two last of himself to make the rest to seem the more pathetical.

When wert thou born, sweet Love? Who was thy fire?
When Flora first adorn'd Dame Tellus' lap,
Then sprung I forth from Wanton hot desire:
Who was thy nurse to feed thee first with pap?
   Youth first with tender hand bound up my head,
   Then said, with Looks alone I should be fed;
What maids had she attendant on her side,
To play, to sing, to rock thee fast asleep?
Vain Niceness, Beauty Fair, and Pompous Pride;
By stealth when further age on thee did creep;
   Where did'st thou make thy chief abiding place?
   In Willing hearts, which were of gentle race;
What is't wherewith thou wagest wars with me?
Fear cold as ice, and Hope as hot as fire;
And cannot age or death make end of thee?
No, no, my dying life still makes retire;
   Why then, sweet Love, take pity on my pain,
   Which often die, and oft revive again.


The Author in this passion wisheth her were in like estate and condition with the Looking Glass of his mistress; by that means the oftener to be made happy with her favorable and fair aspect. And in the last staff he alludeth somewhat to the invention of Seraphine, where he useth these words, in writing upon the Glass of his beloved.
Che ho visto ogni qual vetro render foco
Quando e dal Sol percosso in qualche part,
E't Sol che in gliocchi toi dando in quel loco
Douria per reflexion tutta infiammarte etc.

Thou Glass, wherein that Sun delights to see
Her own aspect, whose beams have dried my heart,
Would God I might possess like state with thee,
And joy some ease to quail my bitter smart:
   Thou gazest on her face, and she on thine;
   I see not hers, nor she will look on mine.
Once having look'd her fill, she turns thee fro,
And leaves thee, though amaz'd, yet well content;
But careless of my cares, will I or no,
Still dwells within my breast with tears besprent;
  And yet my heart to her is such a thrall,
  That she driv'n out, my life departs withal.
But thou deceitful Glass (I fear) with guile
Hast wrought my woes to shield thyself from ill,
Short forth her beams which were in thee erewhile,
And burnt my tender breast against my will:
  For Crystal from itself reflects the Sun
  And fires his coat, which knows not how tis done.


Seraphine in his Strambotti hath many pretty inventions concerning the Looking-glass of his Mistress: wherehence many particulars of this passion are cunningly borrowed, part being out of one place, and part out of another. And in the latter end is placed this fiction by the Author, that Cupid shooting his arrow from out the fair eyes of his Mistress, did so wound him with love and desire that now he is past all recure by any physic, and therefore is fain to use the old verse,
Hei mini quod nullus amor est medicabilis herbis.

Thou glass, wherein my Dame hath such delight,
As when she braves, then most on thee to gaze,
I marvel how her beams that are so bright
Do never cause thy brittle sides to craze:
   Thou should'st by reason melt or easily break
   To feel such force, thy substance being weak.
For when she first with seeming stately grace
Bestow'd on me a loving sweet regard,
The beams, which then proceeded from her face
Were such, as for the same I found no ward,
   But needs perforce I must become content
   To melt in mind till all my wits were spent.
And therewithal Cupid played his part,
He shot a shaft throughout her crystal eyes,
Wherewith he cleft in twain my yielding heart:
And this is cause my panting heart still cries,
   I break, I melt, help heav'ns in my behove,
   No herb doth grow whose virtue cureth love.


It is to be considered in reading this Passion, how in some answers, the accent or pointing of the words is altered, and therewithal how the Author walking in the woods, and bewailing his inward passion of Love, is contraried by the replies of Echo: whose meaning yet is not so much to gainsay him, as to express her own miserable estate in daily consuming away for the love of her beloved Narcissus; whose unkindness Ovid describeth at large, together with the extreme love of Echo.(1)
Author.  In all this world I think none loves but I.
    Echo.    None loves but I.
Author.  Thou foolish tattling guest, in this thou tell'st a lie.
    Echo.    Thou tell'st a lie.
Author.  Why? Love himself he lodgeth in my breast.
    Echo.    He lodgeth in my breast.
Author.  I pine for grief; and yet I want relief.
    Echo.    I want relief.
Author.  No star more fair than she whom I adore.
    Echo.    Than he, whom I adore.                         [2]
Author.  Herehence I burn still more and more.
    Echo.    I burn still more and more,
Author.  Love, let my heart return.
    Echo.    My heart, return.
Author.  Is then the Saint, for whom thou makest moan,
             And whom I love, but one?
    Echo.    I love but one.
Author.  O heav'ns, is there in love no end of ills?
    Echo.    In love no end of ills.
Author.  Thou prattling voice.
              Dwell'st thou in th' air, or but in hollow hills?
    Echo.    In hollow hills.
Author.   Cease of to vaunt thy choice.
    Echo.    Cease off to vaunt thy choice.
Author.   I would reply, but here for love I die.
   Echo.       For love I die.
1. Lib. 3. Metamorph.
2. S. Liquescens immutat sensum.


Here the Author as a man overtaken with some deep melancholy, compareth himself unto the Nightingale, and conferreth his unhappy estate (for that by no means his Mistress will pity him) with her nightly complaints: to whose harmony all those that give attentive ear, they conceive more delight in the musical variety of her notes, than they take just compassion upon her distressed heaviness.

When May is in his prime, and youthful spring
Doth clothe the tree with leaves, and ground with flowers,
And time of year reviveth ev'ry thing;
And lovely Nature smiles, and nothing lowers;
   Then Philomela most doth strain her breast
   With night-complaints, and fits in little rest.
This Bird's estate I may compare with mine,
To whom fond love doth work such wrongs by day,
That in the night my heart must needs repine,
And storm with sighs to ease me as I may;
   Whil'st others are becalm'd, or lie them still.
   Or sail secure with tide and wind at will.
And as all those, which hear this Bird complain,
Conceive in all her tunes a sweet delight,
Without remorse, or pitying her pain:
So she, for whom I wail both day and night,
   Doth sport herself in hearing my complaint;
   A just reward for serving such a Saint.


In the first six verses of this Passion, the Author hath imitated perfectly six verses in an Ode of Ronsard, which beginneth thus:
  Celui qui n'ayme est malheureux, . . En son 2. liure
  Et malheureux est l'amoureux, . . . . du Bocage.
  Mais la misere,
And in the last staff of this Passion also he cometh very near to the sense which Ronsard useth in another place, where he writeth to his Mistress in this manner:
  En vens tu baiser Pluton
  La bas, apres che Caron . . . . . . . . . En ses meslanges.
  T'aura mise en sa nacesse?

Unhappy is the wight that's void of Love,     [1]
And yet unhappy he, whom Love torments,
But greatest grief that man if forc'd to prove,
Whose haughty Love not for his love relents,
   But hoising up her sail of proud disdain,
   For service done makes no return of gain.
By this all you, which know my tickle state,
May give deserved blame to whom I serve,
And say, that Love hath misery to mate,
Since labor breeds but loss, and lets me starve:
   For I am he which lives a lasting thrall
   To her, whose heart affords no grace at all.
She hopes (perchance) to live and flourish still,
Or else, when Charon's boat hath felt her peace,
By loving looks to conquer Pluto's will;
But all in vain: t'is not Proserpin's ease:
   She never will permit that any one
   Shall joy his Love, but she herself alone.
1. Hii tres versus a Ronsardo describuntur ex Anacreonte Graeco.


In this Passion the Author doth very busily imitate and augment a certain Ode of Ronsard, which he writeth unto his Mistress; he beginneth as followeth,
  Plusieurs de leurs cors denues
  Se sont veuz en diverse terre
  Miraculeusement mues, . . . . . . . . . . . . Au luire des les
  L'vn en Serpent, et l'autre en Pierre, . . meslanges.
  L'vn en Fleur, latre en Arbrisseau
  L'vn en Loup etc.?

Many have liv'd in countries far and nigh,
Whose hearts by Love once quite consum'd away,
Strangely their shapes were changed by and by,
One to a Flow'r, another to a Bay,
   One to a Stream, whose course yet maketh moan,
   One to a Dove, another to a Stone,
But hark my Dear; if wishing could prevail,
I would become a Crystal Mirror aye,
Wherein thou might'st behold what thing I ail:
Or else I would be chang'd into a Fly,
   To taste thy cup, and being daily guest
   At board and bed, to kiss thee mid'st thy rest;
Or I would be Perfume for thee to burn,
That with my loss I might but please thy smell;
Or be some sacred Spring, to serve thy turn,
By bathing that wherein my heart doth dwell;
   But woe is me, my wishing is but vain,
   Since fate bids Love to work my endless pain.


The Author in this Sonnet in a large manner setteth forth the surpassing worthiness of his Lady, reporting her beauty and form to be so singular that neither Appelles can perfectly draw her portrait; nor Praxiteles truly frame her image and likeness in any kind of metal. And the like unableness he awardeth unto Virgil and Homer the two Paragons of Poetry, if they should but once endeavor to praise her. And the like insufficiency he sayeth would be found in Tully himself, if he should endeavor to commend her. And then finally he excuseth his own bold hardiness showed in praising her, upon the forcible extremity which he abideth in Love, and the earnest desire which he hath to please.

Such is the Saint whom I on earth adore,
As never age shall know when this is past,
Nor ever yet hath like been seen before;
Apelles if he liv'd would stand aghast
   With colors to set down her comely fare,     [1]
   Who far excels though Venus were in place.
Praxiteles might likewise stand in doubt
In metal to express her form aright,
Whose praise for shape is blown the world throughout:
Nor Virgil could so good a verse indite
   As only would suffice to tell her name;
   Nor Homer with his Muse express her fame;
Tully whose speech was bold in ev'ry cause,
If he were here to praise the Saint I serve,
The number of her gifts would make him pause,
And fear to speak how well she doth deserve.
   Why then am I thus bold that have no skill?
   Enforc'd by Love I show my zealous will.

1. Here he alludeth unto the portrait of Venus which Apelles drew: as Ovid doth. lib. 3. de art. aman. Si Venerem Cous nunquam pinxisset Appelles.


In the first part of this Passion the Author proveth that he abideth more unrest and hurt for his beloved than ever did Leander for his Hero: of which two paramours the mutual fervency in Love is most excellently set forth by Musaeus the Greek Poet. In the second part he compareth himself with Pyrarmus and Haemon, king Creon's Son of Thebes, which were both so true-hearted lovers that through Love they suffered untimely death, as Ovid Metam. lib. 4. writeth at large of the one, And the Greek Tragedian Sophocles in Antig. of the other. In the last, in making comparison of his pains in Love to the pains of Orpheus descending to hell for his Eurydice, he alludeth to those two verses in Strozza.
    Tartara, Cumba, Charon, Pluto, rota, Cerberus, angues,
    Cocytes, Phlegeton, Styx, lapis, urna, fitis.

What though Leander swam in darksome night,
Through troubled Hellespont for Hero's sake;
And lost his life by loss of Sestus' light?
The like or more myself do undertake,
   When ev'ry hour along the ling'ring year,
   My joy is drown'd, and hope blown out with fear.
And what though Priam spent his vital breath
For Thisbe's sake? or Haemon chose to die
To follow his Antigone by death?
In harder case and worser plight am I,
   Which love as they, but live in dying still,
   And fain would die, but cannot have my will.
We read that Orpheus with his Harp of gold,
For his Erydice went down to hell:
The toil is more, by that time all be told,
Which I endure for her, whose heart is fell;
   The Stygian Cur, the Wheel, the Stone, the Fire.
   And Furies all are plac'd in my desire.


There needeth no annotation at all before this Passion, it is of itself so plain and easily conveyed. Yet the unlearned may have this help given them by the way to know what Galaxia is, or Pactolus, which perchance they have not read of often in our vulgar Rhymes. Galaxia (to omit both the Etymology and what the Philosophers do write thereof) is a white way or milky Circle in the heavens, which Ovid mentioneth in this manner.
   Est via sublimis coelo manifesta sereno, . . . . . . . . Metamorph.
   Lactea nomen habet, candore notabilis ipso. . . . . lib. I.

And Cicero thus in somnio Scipionis; Erat autem is splendidissimo candore inter flammas circulus elucens, quem vos (ut a Graijs accepistis) orbem lacteum nuncupatis.
Pactolus is a river in Lydia, which hath golden sands under it, as Tibullus witnesseth in this verse,
Nec me regna juvant, nec Lydias auriser amnis. . Tibul. lib. 3

Who can recount the virtues of my dear,
Or say how far her fame hath taken flight,
That can not tell how many stars appear
In part of heav'n, which Galaxia height,
   Or number all the motes in Phoebus rays,
   Or golden sands, whereon Pactolus plays?
And yet my hurts enforce me to confess,
In crystal breast she shrouds a bloody heart,
Which heart in time will make her merits less,
Unless betimes she cure my deadly smart:
   For now my life is double dying still,
   And she defam'd by suff'rance of such ill;
And till the time she helps me as she may,
Let no man undertake to tell my toil,
But only such, as can distinctly say,
What Monsters Nilus breeds, or Affricke soil:
   For if he do, his labor is but lost,
   Whil'st I both fry and freeze twixt flame and frost.


Here the Author by feigning a troublesome dream, expresseth a full Passion of Love. And howsoever some will conster of this kind of invention, it is evident that the like hath been usual amongst those that have excelled in the sweetest vein of Poetry. And (to let the rest go,) it may please him that is curious to find some precedent hereof, to visit but the works of Hercules Strozza,(1) who in his Somnium hath written so exquisitely, that the Dream will quite his travail, that shall peruse it with due attention.

In Thetis' lap, while Titan took his rest,
I slumb'ring lay within my restless bed,
Till Morpheus us'd a falsed sorry jest,
Presenting her, by whom I still am led:
   For then I thought she came to end my woe,
   But when I wak'd (alas) t'was nothing so.
Embracing air instead of my delight,
I blamed Love as author of the guile,
Who with a second step clos'd up my sight,
And said (methought) that I must bide a while.
   Ixion's pains, whose arms did oft embrace
   False darken'd clouds, instead of Juno's grace,
When I had lain and slumber'd thus a while,
Ruing the doleful doom that Love assign'd,
A woman Saint, which bare an Angel's face,
Bad me awake and ease my troubled mind:
   With that I wak'd, forgetting what was past,
   And saw t'was Hope, which helped thus at last.
1. Eroticon lib. 2.


In this Sonnet the Author is of opinion that his Mistress (by the fatal appointment of destiny) was from the beginning reserved to live in these times, and to be the only governess and subject of his thoughts: whereas: if either she had been borne when Paris was to give sentence upon Ida for bestowing the Golden Apple; she had (as he supposeth) been preferred before Juno, Pallas and Venus, and moreover supplied that place in the love of king Priam's son, which Helen of Greece obtained: or if she had then lived when Bacchus took Ariadne to wife, she had been conveyed in her stead, unto that place in heav'n where now the Crown of Ariadne called Corona Gnosia [1] doth shine continually, being beautified with great variety of lightsome stars.

When Priam's son in mid'st of Ida plain
Gave one the prize, and other two the foil,
If she for whom I still abide in pain
Had lived then within the Trojan soil,
   No doubt but hers had been the golden ball,
   Helen had scaped rape, and Troy his fall.
Or if my Dame had then enjoyed life
When Bacchus fought for Ariadne's love,
No doubt but she had only been his wife,
And flown from hence to sit with Gods above:
   For she exceeds his choice of Crete so far
   As Phoebus doth excel a twinkling star.
But from the first all fates have thus assign'd,
That she should live in these our latter days,
I think to bear a sway within my mind
And feed my thoughts with friendly sweet delays;
   If so it be, let me attend my chance,
   And fortune pipe when I begin to dance.     [2]

1. Cuius ortum et occasum memorat Plinius nat. hist. lib. 18. c. 28. et. c. 31.
2. Assai ben balla a chi Fortuna suona.


The Author in this Sonnet very highly commendeth the most rare excellencies of his mistress, avouching her to have no equal. And he imitateth the second Sonnet, Nelle rime di messer Agnolo Fiorenzuola the Florentine, whose beginning is all one with that here; and this it is:

Deh le mie belle done et amorose,
Ditemi il ver per vostra cortesia,
Non e chiara tra voi la donna mia,
Come e'l Sol chiar tro tutte l' altre cose?

Ye stately Dames, whose beauties far excel,
Of courtesy confess at my request,
Doth not my Love amongst you bear the bell,
As Phoebus golden rays obscures the rest
   Of Planet Stars, and dimmeth ev'ry light
   That shines in heav'n or earth by day or night?
Take wistly heed in viewing her sweet face,
Where nature hath express'd what ere she could
Either for beauty's blaze or comely grace:
Since when to prize her work she break the mold,
   So that who seeks to find her Equal out,
   Intends a thing will nere be brought about.
Therefore sweet Ladies all vouchsafe with me
To follow her desert and my desire,
By praising her unto the ninth degree,
,, For honor by due right is virtue's hire,
   And Envy's mouth must say when all is done,
   No Bird but one is sacred to the sun.


In this Passion the Author, as being blinded with Love, first compareth himself with Tyresias the old Soothsayer of Thebes, whom Juno deprived of sight; but Jove rewarded him with the spirit of prophecy. Then he alludeth unto Acteon: And lastly he showeth why he is in worse case than those, which by viewing Medusa's head were turned into stones, leesing both life and light at once; and so concludeth that old accursed Oedipus of all other best befitteth him for a companion.

When first mine eyes were blinded with Desire,
They had new seen a Second Sun, whose face,
Though clear as beaten snow, yet kindled fire
Within my breast, and moult my heart apace:
   Thus learned I by proof what others write,
   That Sun and fire, and snow offend the sight.
O ten-times-happy blinded Theban wight,
Whose loss of sight did make him half divine,
Where I (alas) have lost both life and light,
Like him, whose horns did plague his heedless eyen;
   And yet was he in better case than I,
   Which neither live, nor can obtain to die.
All Perseus' foes that saw Medusa's head,
By leesing shape and sense were quit from thrall;
But I feel pains, though blind and double-dead,
And was myself efficient cause of all:
   Wherefore, of all that ere did cease to see
   Old Oedipus were meetest mate for me.     [1]
1. Vide Sophocl. and Seneca in tragedijs suis de Oedipi miserijs.


Here the Author misliketh of his wearisome estate in love, for that he neither obtaineth any favor at the hands of his Mistress for his good thought or speech, nor by his loving looks, or presents, nor by his humility in writing, or long sufferance in servitude. And herehence he blameth her over-hardness of heart, and the froward constellation of his own nativity: and therewithal abandoning all further desire of life, hath in request untimely death, as the only end of his infelicity.

Each thought I think is friend to her I Love;
I still in speech use course of gentle words;
My loving looks are such as ought to move;
My gifts as great as mine estate affords;
   My letters tell in what a case I stand,
   Though full of blots through fault of trembling hand;
I duly dance attendance as I may,
With hope to please, and fear to make offense,
With sov'reignty to her I grant for aye;
And where she hurts yet make I no defense;
Sobs are the song wherein I take delight;
   And show'rs of tears do daily dim my sight.
   And yet all this doth make but small avail,
Her heart is hard and never will relent;
No time, no place, no prayer can prevail,
The heav'ns themselves disfavor mine intent:
   Why should I then desire a longer life,
  To weave therein a web of endless strife?


The Author in this passion doth by manner of secret comparison prefer his beloved before all other women whatsoever: and persuadeth upon the examples of all sorts of Goddess (whom love hath overtaken at one time or other) that the worthiness of his Mistress being well considered, his own fondness in love must of force be in itself excusable.

If Jove himself be subject unto Love
And range the woods to find a mortal prey:
If Neptune from the seas himself remove,
And seek on sands with earthly wights to play:
   Then may I love my peerless choice by right,
   Who far excels each other mortal wight.
If Pluto could by love be drawn from hell,
To yield himself a silly Virgin's thrall:
If Phoebus could vouchsafe on earth to dwell,
To win a rustic maid unto his call:
   Then, how much more should I adore the sight
   Of her, in whom the heav'ns themselves delight?
If country Pan might follow Nymphs in chase,
And yet through love remain devoid of blame:
If Satyrs were excus'd for seeking grace
To joy the fruits of any mortal Dame:
   Then, why should I once doubt to love her still,
   On whom ne Gods nor men can gaze their fill?


In the first staff of this Passion the Author expresseth how fondly his friends over-trouble him, by questioning with him touching his love, or accidents thereof. In the two last verses of the second staff he imitateth those verses of Sophocles: (verse in Greek)
In Trachinijs. which may be thus Englished,

  That man, which champion like will strive with Love
  And combat hand-to-hand, hath little wit:
  For as he list he rules the Gods above.
And in the last, he setteth down his mind fully bent to persist constantly in the love and service of his Lady: like to that which Stephanus Forcatulus (an excellent Civilian, and one of the best Poets of France for these many years) wrote unto his beloved Clytia:
   Quin noctu pluuium citius mirabimur arcum,
   Solque domo Hesperidum mane propinquus erit,
  Quam capiat lepidae me foeda obliuio nymphae, etc.?

Some ask me, when and how my love begun;
Some, where it lies, and what effects it hath;
Some, who she is, by whom I am undone;
Some, what I mean to tread so lewd a path;
   I answer all alike by answ'ring nought,
   But, blest is he whom Cupid never caught:
And yet I could, if sorrow would permit.
Tell when and how I fix'd my fancy first,
And for whose sake I lost both will and wit,
And chose the path wherein I live accurst:
   But such-like deeds would breed a double sore,
   ,, For love gainsaid grows madder than before,
But note herewith that so my thoughts are bound
To her in whom my liberty lies thrall,
That if she would vouchsafe to salve my wound,
Yet force of this my love should never fall,
   Till Phoebus use to rise from out the West,
   And towards night seek lodging in the East.


The second part of this Passion is borrowed from out the fifth Sonnet in Petrarch part I, whose words are these,
   Piu volte gia per dir le labbra apersi:
   Poi rimase la voce in mezz'l petto:
   Ma qual suon poria mai salir tansalto?
   Piu volte incominciai di feriuer versi,
  Ma la penna, e la mano, e lo' intelletto
  Rimaser vinto net primier aaaalto.

When first these eyes beheld with great delight
The Phoenix of this world, or second Sun,
Her beams or plumes bewitched all my sight,
And love increas'd the hurt that was begun:
   Since when my grief is grown so much the more,
   Because I find no way to cure the sore,
I have attempted oft to make complaint,
And with some doleful words to tell my grief,
But through my fearful heart my voice doth faint,
And makes me mute where I should crave relief:
   Another while I think to write my pain,
   But straight my hand lays down the pen again.
Sometimes my mind with hopes of doubtful cares
Conjoin'd with fawning heaps is sore oppress'd,
And sometimes sudden joy at unawares
Doth move too much, and so doth hurt my breast;
   What man doth live in more extremes than these,
   Where death doth seem a life, and pains do please?


The sense contained in this Sonnet will seem strange to such as never have acquainted themselves with Love and his Laws, because of the contrarieties mentioned therein. But to such, as Love at any time hath had under his banner, all and every part of it will appear to be a familiar truth. It is almost word for word taken out of Petrarch, (where he beginneth,
   Pace mon truouo, e mon ho da far guerra; . . Parte prima
   E temo, espero, etc
.?) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sonet. 105.
All, except three verses, which this Author hath necessarily added for perfecting the number, which he hath determined to use in every one of these his Passions.

I Joy not peace, where yet no war is found;
I fear, and hope; I burn, yet freeze withal;
I mount to heav'n, yet lie but on the ground;
I compass nought, and yet I compass all;
   I live her bond, which neither is my foe,
   Nor friend; nor holds me fast, nor lets me go;
Love will not that I live, nor lets me die;
Nor locks me fast, nor suffers me to scape;
I want both eyes and tongue, yet see and cry;
I wish for death, yet after help I gape;
   I hate myself, but love another wight;
   And feed on grief, in lieu of sweet delight;
At self same time I both lament and joy;
I still am pleas'd, and yet displeased still;
Love sometimes seems a God, sometimes a Boy;
Sometimes I sink, sometimes I swim at will;
   Twixt death and life, small difference I make;
   All this, dear Dame, befalls me for thy sake.
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