My heart then quak’d, then dazzled were mine eyes;
  One hand forgot to rule, th’other to fight;
  Nor trumpet’s sound I heard, nor friendly cries. 
  My foe came on, and beat the air for me—­
  Till that her blush made me my shame to see.

  VII

  No more, my dear, no more these counsels try;
  O give my passions leave to run their race;
  Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace;
  Let folk o’er-charged with brain against me cry;
  Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye;
  Let me no steps, but of lost labour, trace;
  Let all the earth with scorn recount my case—­
  But do not will me from my love to fly. 
  I do not envy Aristotle’s wit,
  Nor do aspire to Caesar’s bleeding fame;
  Nor aught do care, though some above me sit;
  Nor hope, nor wish, another course to frame. 
  But that which once may win thy cruel heart: 
  Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art.

  VIII

  Love still a boy, and oft a wanton, is,
  School’d only by his mother’s tender eye;
  What wonder then, if he his lesson miss,
  When for so soft a rod dear play he try? 
  And yet my STAR, because a sugar’d kiss
  In sport I suck’d, while she asleep did lie,
  Doth lour, nay chide, nay threat, for only this. 
  Sweet, it was saucy LOVE, not humble I.
  But no ’scuse serves; she makes her wrath appear
  In beauty’s throne—­see now, who dares come near
  Those scarlet judges, threat’ning bloody pain? 
  O heav’nly Fool, thy most kiss-worthy face
  Anger invests with such a lovely grace,
  That anger’s self I needs must kiss again.

  IX

  I never drank of Aganippe well,
  Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit,
  And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell;
  Poor lay-man I, for sacred rites unfit. 
  Some do I bear of Poets’ fury tell,
  But (God wot) wot not what they mean by it;
  And this I swear by blackest brook of hell,
  I am no pick-purse of another’s wit. 
  How falls it then, that with so smooth an ease
  My thoughts I speak, and what I speak doth flow
  In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please? 
  Guess me the cause—­what is it thus?—­fye, no. 
  Or so?—­much less.  How then? sure thus it is,
  My lips are sweet, inspired with STELLA’S kiss.

  X

  Of all the kings that ever here did reign,
  Edward, named Fourth, as first in praise I name,
  Not for his fair outside, nor well-lined brain—­
  Although less gifts imp feathers oft on Fame. 
  Nor that he could, young-wise, wise-valiant, frame
  His sire’s revenge, join’d with a kingdom’s gain;
  And, gain’d by Mars could yet mad Mars so tame,
  That Balance weigh’d what Sword did late obtain. 
  Nor that he made the Floure-de-luce so ’fraid,
  Though strongly hedged of bloody Lions’ paws
  That witty Lewis to him a tribute paid. 
  Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause—­
  But only, for this worthy knight durst prove
  To lose his crown rather than fail his love.