XXII.

This holy season*, fit to fast and pray,
Men to devotion ought to be inclynd: 
Therefore, I lykewise, on so holy day,
For my sweet saynt some service fit will find. 
Her temple fayre is built within my mind,
In which her glorious ymage placed is;
On which my thoughts doo day and night attend,
Lyke sacred priests that never thinke amisse. 
There I to her, as th’author of my blisse,
Will builde an altar to appease her yre;
And on the same my hart will sacrifise,
Burning in flames of pure and chaste desyre: 
  The which vouchsafe, O Goddesse, to accept,
  Amongst thy deerest relicks to be kept.
[* I.e.  Easter.]

XXIII.

Penelope, for her Ulisses sake,
Deviz’d a web her wooers to deceave;
In which the worke that she all day did make,
The same at night she did againe unreave. 
Such subtile craft my damzell doth conceave,
Th’importune suit of my desire to shonne: 
For all that I in many dayes do weave,
In one short houre I find by her undonne. 
So when I thinke to end that I begonne,
I must begin and never bring to end: 
For with one looke she spils that long I sponne,
And with one word my whole years work doth rend. 
  Such labour like the spyders web I fynd,
  Whose fruitlesse worke is broken with least wynd.

XXIV.

When I behold that beauties wonderment,
And rare perfection of each goodly part,
Of Natures skill the onely complement,
I honor and admire the Makers art. 
But when I feele the bitter balefull smart
Which her fayre eyes unwares doe worke in mee,
That death out of theyr shiny beames doe dart,
I thinke that I a new Pandora see,
Whom all the gods in councell did agree
Into this sinfull world from heaven to send,
That she to wicked men a scourge should bee,
For all their faults with which they did offend. 
  But since ye are my scourge, I will intreat
  That for my faults ye will me gently beat.

XXV.

How long shall this lyke-dying lyfe endure,
And know no end of her owne mysery,
But wast and weare away in termes unsure,
’Twixt feare and hope depending doubtfully! 
Yet better were attonce to let me die,
And shew the last ensample of your pride,
Then to torment me thus with cruelty,
To prove your powre, which I too wel have tride. 
But yet if in your hardned brest ye bide
A close intent at last to shew me grace,
Then all the woes and wrecks which I abide,
As meanes of blisse I gladly wil embrace;
  And wish that more and greater they might be,
  That greater meede at last may turne to mee.

XXVI.