XVIII.

The rolling wheele that runneth often round,
The hardest steele, in tract of time doth teare: 
And drizling drops, that often doe redound*,
The firmest flint doth in continuance weare: 
Yet cannot I, with many a drooping teare
And long intreaty, soften her hard hart,
That she will once vouchsafe my plaint to heare,
Or looke with pitty on my payneful smart. 
But when I pleade, she bids me play my part;
And when I weep, she sayes, teares are but water;
And when I sigh, she sayes, I know the art;
And when I waile, she turnes hir selfe to laughter. 
  So do I weepe, and wayle, and pleade in vaine,
  Whiles she as steele and flint doth still remayne.
[* Redound, overflow.]

XIX.

The merry cuckow, messenger of Spring,
His trompet shrill hath thrise already sounded. 
That warnes al lovers wayte upon their king,
Who now is coming forth with girland crouned. 
With noyse whereof the quyre of byrds resounded
Their anthemes sweet, devized of loves prayse,
That all the woods theyr ecchoes back rebounded,
As if they knew the meaning of their layes. 
But mongst them all which did Loves honor rayse,
No word was heard of her that most it ought;
But she his precept proudly disobayes,
And doth his ydle message set at nought. 
  Therefore, O Love, unlesse she turne to thee
  Ere cuckow end, let her a rebell be!

XX.

In vaine I seeke and sew to her for grace,
And doe myne humbled hart before her poure,
The whiles her foot she in my necke doth place,
And tread my life downe in the lowly floure*. 
And yet the lyon, that is lord of power,
And reigneth over every beast in field,
In his most pride disdeigneth to devoure
The silly lambe that to his might doth yield. 
But she, more cruell and more salvage wylde
Than either lyon or the lyonesse,
Shames not to be with guiltlesse bloud defylde,
But taketh glory in her cruelnesse. 
  Fayrer then fayrest! let none ever say
  That ye were blooded in a yeelded pray.
[* Floure, floor, ground.]

XXI.

Was it the worke of Nature or of Art,
Which tempred so the feature of her face,
That pride and meeknesse, mist by equall part,
Doe both appeare t’adorne her beauties grace? 
For with mild pleasance, which doth pride displace,
She to her love doth lookers eyes allure;
And with stern countenance back again doth chace
Their looser lookes that stir up lustes impure. 
With such strange termes* her eyes she doth inure,
That with one looke she doth my life dismay,
And with another doth it streight recure: 
Her smile me drawes; her frowne me drives away. 
  Thus doth she traine and teach me with her lookes;
  Such art of eyes I never read in bookes!
[* Termes, extremes (?).]