use to have. 
    But finding nature their request denies,
    This to each other mutually they crave;
      That since the one cannot the other be,
      That eyes could think of that my heart could see.

TO ADMIRATION

    XXXIV

    Marvel not, love, though I thy power admire,
      Ravished a world beyond the farthest thought,
      And knowing more than ever hath been taught,
    That I am only starved in my desire. 
    Marvel not, love, though I thy power admire,
      Aiming at things exceeding all perfection,
      To wisdom’s self to minister direction,
    That I am only starved in my desire. 
    Marvel not, love, though I thy power admire,
      Though my conceit I further seem to bend
      Than possibly invention can extend,
    And yet am only starved in my desire. 
      If thou wilt wonder, here’s the wonder, love,
      That this to me doth yet no wonder prove.

TO MIRACLE

    XXXV

    Some misbelieving and profane in love,
      When I do speak of miracles by thee,
      May say that thou art flattered by me,
    Who only write my skill in verse to prove
    See miracles, ye unbelieving, see! 
      A dumb-born Muse made to express the mind,
      A cripple hand to write, yet lame by kind,
    One by thy name, the other touching thee. 
    Blind were mine eyes, till they were seen of thine;
      And mine ears deaf by thy fame healed be;
      My vices cured by virtues sprung from thee;
    My hopes revived which long in grave had lien. 
      All unclean thoughts, foul spirits, cast out in me,
      Only by virtue that proceeds from thee.

CUPID CONJURED

    XXXVI

    Thou purblind boy, since thou hast been so slack
    To wound her heart whose eyes have wounded me
    And suffered her to glory in my wrack,
    Thus to my aid I lastly conjure thee! 
      By hellish Styx, by which the Thund’rer swears,
    By thy fair mother’s unavoided power,
    By Hecate’s names, by Proserpine’s sad tears,
    When she was wrapt to the infernal bower! 
      By thine own loved Psyche, by the fires
    Spent on thine altars flaming up to heaven,
    By all true lovers’ sighs, vows, and desires,
    By all the wounds that ever thou hast given;
      I conjure thee by all that I have named,
      To make her love, or, Cupid, be thou damned!

    XXXVII

    Dear, why should you command me to my rest,
    When now the night doth summon all to sleep? 
    Methinks this time becometh lovers best;
    Night was ordained together friends to keep. 
      How happy are all other living things,
    Which though the day disjoin by several flight,