towers! 
    O pleasant country!  O translucent stream,
    Bathing her lovely face, her eyes so clear,
    And catching of their living light the beam! 
    I envy ye her actions chaste and dear: 
    No rock shall stud thy waters, but shall learn
    Henceforth with passion strong as mine to burn.

    NOTT.

      O bright and happy flowers and herbage blest,
    On which my lady treads!—­O favour’d plain,
    That hears her accents sweet, and can retain
    The traces by her fairy steps impress’d!—­
    Pure shrubs, with tender verdure newly dress’d,—­
    Pale amorous violets,—­leafy woods, whose reign
    Thy sun’s bright rays transpierce, and thus sustain
    Your lofty stature, and umbrageous crest;—­
    O thou, fair country, and thou, crystal stream,
    Which bathes her countenance and sparkling eyes,
    Stealing fresh lustre from their living beam;
    How do I envy thee these precious ties! 
    Thy rocky shores will soon be taught to gleam
    With the same flame that burns in all my sighs.

    WROTTESLEY.

SONNET CXXX.

Amor, che vedi ogni pensiero aperto.

HE CARES NOT FOR SUFFERINGS, SO THAT HE DISPLEASE NOT LAURA.

      Love, thou who seest each secret thought display’d,
    And the sad steps I take, with thee sole guide;
    This throbbing breast, to thee thrown open wide,
    To others’ prying barr’d, thine eyes pervade. 
    Thou know’st what efforts, following thee, I made,
    While still from height to height thy pinions glide;
    Nor deign’st one pitying look to turn aside
    On him who, fainting, treads a trackless glade. 
    I mark from far the mildly-beaming ray
    To which thou goad’st me through the devious maze;
    Alas!  I want thy wings, to speed my way—­
    Henceforth, a distant homager, I’ll gaze,
    Content by silent longings to decay,
    So that my sighs for her in her no anger raise.

    WRANGHAM.

      O Love, that seest my heart without disguise,
    And those hard toils from thee which I sustain,
    Look to my inmost thought; behold the pain
    To thee unveil’d, hid from all other eyes. 
    Thou know’st for thee this breast what suffering tries;
    Me still from day to day o’er hill and plain
    Thou chasest; heedless still, while I complain
    As to my wearied steps new thorns arise. 
    True, I discern far off the cheering light
    To which, through trackless wilds, thou urgest me: 
    But wings like thine to bear me to delight
    I want:—­Yet from these pangs I would not flee,
    Finding this only favour in her sight,
    That not displeased my love and death she see.

    CAPEL LOFFT.

SONNET CXXXI.