I ever love where never hope appears,
      Yet hope draws on my never-hoping care,
      And my life’s hope would die but for despair;
    My never certain joy breeds ever certain fears. 
    Uncertain dread gives wings unto my hope;
      Yet my hope’s wings are laden so with fear
      As they cannot ascend to my hope’s sphere,
    Though fear gives them more than a heavenly scope. 
    Yet this large room is bounded with despair,
      So my love is still fettered with vain hope,
      And liberty deprives him of his scope,
    And thus am I imprisoned in the air. 
      Then, sweet despair, awhile hold up thy head,
      Or all my hope for sorrow will be dead.

    XXVII

    Is not love here as ’tis in other climes,
    And differeth it as do the several nations? 
    Or hath it lost the virtue with the times,
    Or in this island alt’reth with the fashions? 
      Or have our passions lesser power than theirs,
    Who had less art them lively to express? 
    Is nature grown less powerful in their heirs,
    Or in our fathers did she more transgress? 
      I am sure my sighs come from a heart as true
    As any man’s that memory can boast,
    And my respects and services to you,
    Equal with his that loves his mistress most. 
      Or nature must be partial in my cause,
      Or only you do violate her laws.

    XXVIII

    To such as say thy love I overprize,
    And do not stick to term my praises folly,
    Against these folks that think themselves so wise,
    I thus oppose my reason’s forces wholly: 
      Though I give more than well affords my state,
    In which expense the most suppose me vain
    Which yields them nothing at the easiest rate,
    Yet at this price returns me treble gain;
      They value not, unskilful how to use,
    And I give much because I gain thereby. 
    I that thus take or they that thus refuse,
    Whether are these deceived then, or I? 
      In everything I hold this maxim still,
      The circumstance doth make it good or ill.

TO THE SENSES

    XXIX

    When conquering love did first my heart assail,
    Unto mine aid I summoned every sense,
    Doubting if that proud tyrant should prevail,
    My heart should suffer for mine eyes’ offence. 
      But he with beauty first corrupted sight,
    My hearing bribed with her tongue’s harmony,
    My taste by her sweet lips drawn with delight,
    My smelling won with her breath’s spicery,
      But when my touching came to play his part,
    The king of senses, greater than the rest,
    He yields love up the keys unto my heart,
    And tells the others how they should be blest. 
      And thus by those of whom I hoped for aid,
      To cruel love my soul was first betrayed.