Sweet is the rose, but growes upon a brere;
Sweet is the iunipeer; but sharpe his bough;
Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh nere;
Sweet is the firbloome, but his braunches rough*;
Sweet is the cypresse, but his rynd is rough;
Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill**;
Sweet is the broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough;
And sweet is moly, but his root is ill. 
So every sweet with soure is tempred still,
That maketh it be coveted the more: 
For easie things, that may be got at will,
Most sorts of men doe set but little store. 
  Why then should I accompt of little paine,
  That endlesse pleasure shall unto me gaine!
[* I.e. raw, crude.]
[** Pill, peel.]

XXVII.

Faire Proud! now tell me, why should faire be proud,
Sith all worlds glorie is but drosse uncleane,
And in the shade of death it selfe shall shroud,
However now thereof ye little weene! 
That goodly idoll, now so gay beseene*,
Shall doffe her fleshes borrowd fayre attyre,
And be forgot as it had never beene,
That many now much worship and admire! 
Ne any then shall after it inquire,
Ne any mention shall thereof remaine,
But what this verse, that never shall expyre,
Shall to you purchas with her thankles pain! 
  Faire! be no lenger proud of that shall perish,
  But that which shall you make immortall cherish.
[* Beseene, appearing.]

XVIII.

The laurel-leafe which you this day doe weare
Gives me great hope of your relenting mynd: 
For since it is the badge which I doe beare*,
Ye, bearing it, doe seeme to me inclind. 
The powre thereof, which ofte in me I find,
Let it likewise your gentle brest inspire
With sweet infusion, and put you in mind
Of that proud mayd whom now those leaves attyre: 
Proud Daphne, scorning Phrebus lovely** fyre,
On the Thessalian shore from him did flie;
For which the gods, in theyr revengefull yre,
Did her transforme into a laurell-tree. 
  Then fly no more, fayre Love, from Phebus chace,
  But in your brest his leafe and love embrace.
[* I. e. as poet-laureate.]
[** Lovely, loving.]

XXIX.

See! how the stubborne damzell doth deprave
My simple meaning with disdaynfull scorne,
And by the bay which I unto her gave
Accoumpts my self her captive quite forlorne. 
The bay, quoth she, is of the victours born,
Yielded them by the vanquisht as theyr meeds,
And they therewith doe poetes heads adorne,
To sing the glory of their famous deeds. 
But sith she will the conquest challeng needs,
Let her accept me as her faithfull thrall;
That her great triumph, which my skill exceeds,
I may in trump of fame blaze over all. 
  Then would I decke her head with glorious bayes,
  And fill the world with her victorious prayse.