Then red with ire, her tresses she berent,
      And weeping hid the beauty of her face,
      Whilst I amazed at her discontent,
      With tears and sighs do humbly sue for grace;
    But she regarding neither tears nor moan,
    Flies from the fountain leaving me alone.

    X

    Am I a Gorgon that she doth me fly,
      Or was I hatched in the river Nile? 
      Or doth my Chloris stand in doubt that I
      With syren songs do seek her to beguile? 
    If any one of these she can object
      ’Gainst me, which chaste affected love protest,
      Then might my fortunes by her frowns be checked,
      And blameless she from scandal free might rest. 
    But seeing I am no hideous monster born,
      But have that shape which other men do bear,
      Which form great Jupiter did never scorn,
      Amongst his subjects here on earth to wear,
    Why should she then that soul with sorrow fill,
    Which vowed hath to love and serve her still?

    XI

    Tell me, my dear, what moves thy ruthless mind
      To be so cruel, seeing thou art so fair? 
      Did nature frame thy beauty so unkind? 
      Or dost thou scorn to pity my despair? 
    O no, it was not nature’s ornament,
      But winged love’s unpartial cruel wound,
      Which in my heart is ever permanent,
      Until my Chloris make me whole and sound. 
    O glorious love-god, think on my heart’s grief;
      Let not thy vassal pine through deep disdain;
      By wounding Chloris I shall find relief,
      If thou impart to her some of my pain. 
    She doth thy temples and thy shrines abject;
    They with Amintas’ flowers by me are decked.

    XII

    Cease, eyes, to weep sith none bemoans your weeping;
      Leave off, good muse, to sound the cruel name
      Of my love’s queen which hath my heart in keeping,
      Yet of my love doth make a jesting game! 
    Long hath my sufferance laboured to inforce
      One pearl of pity from her pretty eyes,
      Whilst I with restless oceans of remorse
      Bedew the banks where my fair Chloris lies,
    Where my fair Chloris bathes her tender skin,
      And doth triumph to see such rivers fall
      From those moist springs, which never dry have been
      Since she their honour hath detained in thrall;
    And still she scorns one favouring smile to show
    Unto those waves proceeding from my woe.

    XIII

    A Dream

    What time fair Titan in the zenith sat,
      And equally the fixed poles did heat,
      When to my flock my daily woes I chat,
      And underneath a broad beech took my seat,
    The dreaming god which Morpheus poets call,
      Augmenting fuel to my Aetna’s fire,
      With sleep possessing my weak senses all,