X.

Unrighteous Lord of love, what law is this,
That me thou makest thus tormented be,
The whiles she lordeth in licentious blisse
Of her freewill, scorning both thee and me? 
See! how the Tyrannesse doth ioy to see
The hugh massacres which her eyes do make,
And humbled harts brings captive unto thee,
That thou of them mayst mightie vengeance take. 
But her proud hart doe thou a little shake,
And that high look, with which she doth comptroll
All this worlds pride, bow to a baser make*,
And al her faults in thy black booke enroll: 
  That I may laugh at her in equall sort
  As she doth laugh at me, and makes my pain her sport.
[* Make, mate.]

XI.

Dayly when I do seeke and sew for peace,
And hostages doe offer for ray truth,
She, cruell warriour, doth her selfe addresse
To battell, and the weary war renew’th;
Ne wilbe moov’d, with reason or with rewth*,
To graunt small respit to my restlesse toile;
But greedily her fell intent poursewth,
Of my poore life to make unpittied spoile. 
Yet my poore life, all sorrowes to assoyle,
I would her yield, her wrath to pacify;
But then she seeks, with torment and turmoyle,
To force me live, and will not let me dy. 
  All paine hath end, and every war hafh peace;
  But mine, no price nor prayer may surcease.
[* Rewth, ruth, pity.]

XII.

One day I sought with her hart-thrilling eies
To make a truce, and termes to entertaine;
All fearlesse then of so false enimies,
Which sought me to entrap in treasons traine. 
So, as I then disarmed did remaine,
A wicked ambush, which lay hidden long
In the close covert of her guilful eyen,
Thence breaking forth, did thick about me throng. 
Too feeble I t’abide the brunt so strong,
Was forst to yield my selfe into their hands;
Who, me captiving streight with rigorous wrong,
Have ever since kept me in cruell bands. 
  So, Ladie, now to you I doo complaine
  Against your eies, that iustice I may gaine.

XIII.

In that proud port which her so goodly graceth,
Whiles her faire face she reares up to the skie,
And to the ground her eie-lids low embaseth,
Most goodly temperature ye may descry;
Myld humblesse mixt with awful! maiestie. 
For, looking on the earth whence she was borne,
Her minde remembreth her mortalitie,
Whatso is fayrest shall to earth returne. 
But that same lofty countenance seemes to scorne
Base thing, and thinke how she to heaven may clime;
Treading downe earth as lothsome and forlorne,
That hinders heavenly thoughts with drossy slime. 
  Yet lowly still vouchsafe to looke on me;
  Such lowlinesse shall make you lofty be.