The glorious sunne went blushing to his bed,
    When my soules sunne, from her fayre Cabynet,
    Her golden beames had now discouered,
    Lightning the world, eclipsed by his set. 
    Some muz’d to see the earth enuy the ayre,
    Which from her lyps exhald refined sweet,
    A world to see, yet how he ioyd to heare
    The dainty grasse make musicke with her feete. 
    But my most meruaile was when from the skyes,
    So Comet-like, each starre aduanc’d her lyght,
    As though the heauen had now awak’d her eyes,
    And summond Angels to this blessed sight. 
      No clowde was seene, but christalline the ayre,
      Laughing for ioy upon my louely fayre.

Amour 26

    Cupid, dumbe-Idoll, peeuish Saint of loue,
    No more shalt thou nor Saint nor Idoll be;
    No God art thou, a Goddesse shee doth proue,
    Of all thine honour shee hath robbed thee. 
    Thy Bowe, halfe broke, is peec’d with old desire;
    Her Bowe is beauty with ten thousand strings
    Of purest gold, tempred with vertues fire,
    The least able to kyll an hoste of Kings. 
    Thy shafts be spent, and shee (to warre appointed)
    Hydes in those christall quiuers of her eyes
    More Arrowes, with hart-piercing mettel poynted,
    Then there be starres at midnight in the skyes. 
      With these she steales mens harts for her reliefe,
      Yet happy he thats robd of such a thiefe!

Amour 27

    My Loue makes hote the fire whose heat is spent,
    The water moisture from my teares deriueth,
    And my strong sighes the ayres weake force reuiueth: 
    Thus loue, tears, sighes, maintaine each one his element. 
    The fire, vnto my loue, compare a painted fire,
    The water, to my teares as drops to Oceans be,
    The ayre, vnto my sighes as Eagle to the flie,
    The passions of dispaire but ioyes to my desire. 
    Onely my loue is in the fire ingraued,
    Onely my teares by Oceans may be gessed,
    Onely my sighes are by the ayre expressed;
    Yet fire, water, ayre, of nature not depriued. 
      Whilst fire, water, ayre, twixt heauen and earth shal be,
      My loue, my teares, my sighes, extinguisht cannot be.

Amour 28

    Some wits there be which lyke my method well,
    And say my verse runnes in a lofty vayne;
    Some say, I haue a passing pleasing straine,
    Some say that in my humour I excell. 
    Some who reach not the height of my conceite,
    They say, (as Poets doe) I vse to fayne,
    And in bare words paynt out my passions payne: 
    Thus sundry men their sundry minds repeate. 
    I passe not I how men affected be,
    Nor who commend, or discommend my verse;
    It pleaseth me if I my plaints rehearse,
    And in my lynes if shee my loue may see. 
      I proue my verse autentique still in thys,
      Who writes my Mistres praise can neuer write amisse.