straight to ire. 
    And coward love then to the heart apace
    Taketh his flight; whereas he lurks, and plains
    His purpose lost, and dare not show his face. 
    For my lord’s guilt thus faultless bide I pains. 
    Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove: 
    Sweet is his death, that takes his end by love.

    SURREY.

      Love in my thought who ever lives and reigns,
    And in my heart still holds the upper place,
    At times come forward boldly in my face,
    There plants his ensign and his post maintains: 
    She, who in love instructs us and its pains,
    Would fain that reason, shame, respect should chase
    Presumptuous hope and high desire abase,
    And at our daring scarce herself restrains,
    Love thereon to my heart retires dismay’d,
    Abandons his attempt, and weeps and fears,
    And hiding there, no more my friend appears. 
    What can the liege whose lord is thus afraid,
    More than with him, till life’s last gasp, to dwell? 
    For who well loving dies at least dies well.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CX.

Come talora al caldo tempo suole.

HE LIKENS HIMSELF TO THE INSECT WHICH, FLYING INTO ONE’S EYES, MEETS ITS DEATH.

      As when at times in summer’s scorching heats. 
    Lured by the light, the simple insect flies,
    As a charm’d thing, into the passer’s eyes,
    Whence death the one and pain the other meets,
    Thus ever I, my fatal sun to greet,
    Rush to those eyes where so much sweetness lies
    That reason’s guiding hand fierce Love defies,
    And by strong will is better judgment beat. 
    I clearly see they value me but ill,
    And, for against their torture fails my strength. 
    That I am doom’d my life to lose at length: 
    But Love so dazzles and deludes me still,
    My heart their pain and not my loss laments,
    And blind, to its own death my soul consents.

    MACGREGOR.

SESTINA V.

Alia dolce ombra de le belle frondi.

HE TELLS THE STORY OF HIS LOVE, RESOLVING HENCEFORTH TO DEVOTE HIMSELF TO GOD.

      Beneath the pleasant shade of beauteous leaves
    I ran for shelter from a cruel light,
    E’en here below that burnt me from high heaven,
    When the last snow had ceased upon the hills,
    And amorous airs renew’d the sweet spring time,
    And on the upland flourish’d herbs and boughs.

    Ne’er did the world behold such graceful boughs,
    Nor ever wind rustled so verdant leaves,
    As were by me beheld in that young time: 
    So that, though fearful of the ardent light,
    I sought not refuge from the shadowing hills,
    But of the plant accepted most in heaven.