and thy face a sun,
    My passion’s flame:  and these doth Love employ
    To wound my breast, to dazzle, and destroy. 
    Thy heavenly song, thy speech with which I’m won,
    All thy sweet breathings of such strong controul,
    Form the dear gale that bears away my soul.

    NOTT.

      Me Love has placed as mark before the dart,
    As to the sun the snow, as wax to fire,
    As clouds to wind:  Lady, e’en now I tire,
    Craving the mercy which never warms thy heart. 
    From those bright eyes was aim’d the mortal blow,
    ’Gainst which nor time nor place avail’d me aught;
    From thee alone—­nor let it strange be thought—­
    The sun, the fire, the wind whence I am so. 
    The darts are thoughts of thee, thy face the sun,
    The fire my passion; such the weapons be
    With which at will Love dazzles yet destroys. 
    Thy fragrant breath and angel voice—­which won
    My heart that from its thrall shall ne’er be free—­
    The wind which vapour-like my frail life flies.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CIV.

Pace non trovo, e non ho da far guerra.

LOVE’S INCONSISTENCY.

      I fynde no peace and all my warre is done,
    I feare and hope, I bourne and freese lyke yse;
    I flye above the wynde, yet cannot ryse;
    And nought I have, yet all the worlde I season,
    That looseth, nor lacketh, holdes me in pryson,
    And holdes me not, yet can I escape no wyse. 
    Nor lets me leeve, nor die at my devyce,
    And yet of death it giveth none occasion. 
    Without eye I see, and without tongue I playne;
    I desyre to perishe, yet aske I health;
    I love another, and yet I hate my self;
    I feede in sorrow and laughe in all my payne,
    Lykewyse pleaseth me both death and lyf,
    And my delight is cawser of my greif.

    WYATT.[S]

[Footnote S:  Harrington’s Nugae Antiquae.]

      Warfare I cannot wage, yet know not peace;
    I fear, I hope, I burn, I freeze again;
    Mount to the skies, then bow to earth my face;
    Grasp the whole world, yet nothing can obtain. 
    His prisoner Love nor frees, nor will detain;
    In toils he holds me not, nor will release;
    He slays me not, nor yet will he unchain;
    Nor joy allows, nor lets my sorrow cease. 
    Sightless I see my fair; though mute, I mourn;
    I scorn existence, and yet court its stay;
    Detest myself, and for another burn;
    By grief I’m nurtured; and, though tearful, gay;
    Death I despise, and life alike I hate: 
    Such, lady, dost thou make my wayward state!

    NOTT.

CANZONE XVIII.

Qual piu diversa e nova.

HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO ALL THAT IS MOST STRANGE IN CREATION.