Weake is th’assurance that weake flesh reposeth
In her own powre, and scorneth others ayde;
That soonest fals, when as she most supposeth
Her selfe assur’d, and is of nought affrayd,
All flesh is frayle, and all her strength unstayd,
Like a vaine bubble blowen up with ayre: 
Devouring tyme and changeful chance have prayd*
Her glorious pride, that none may it repayre. 
Ne none so rich or wise, so strong or fayre,
But fayletb, trusting on his owne assurance: 
And he that standeth on the hyghest stayre
Fals lowest; for on earth nought hath endurance. 
  Why then doe ye, proud fayre, misdeeme so farre,
  That to your selfe ye most assured arre!

[Footnote:  LVIII.—­By her, &c. By is perhaps a misprint for to; or this title may belong to Sonnet LIX.  H.] [* Prayd, preyed upon.]

LIX.

Thrise happie she that is so well assured
Unto her selfe, and setled so in hart,
That neither will for better be allured,
Ne feard with worse to any chaunce to start: 
But, like a steddy ship, doth strongly part
The raging waves, and kcepes her course aright,
Ne ought for tempest doth from it depart,
Ne ought for fayrer weathers false delight. 
Such selfe-assurance need not feare the spight
Of grudging foes, ne favour seek of friends: 
But in the stay of her owne stedfast might,
Neither to one her selfe nor other bends. 
  Most happy she that most assur’d doth rest;
  But he most happy who such one loves best.

LX.

They that in course of heavenly spheares are skild
To every planet point his sundry yeare,
In which her circles voyage is fulfild: 
As Mars in threescore yeares doth run his spheare. 
So, since the winged god his planet cleare
Began in me to move, one yeare is spent;
The which doth longer unto me appeare,
Then al those fourty which my life out-went. 
Then, by that count which lovers books invent,
The spheare of Cupid fourty yeares containes,
Which I have wasted in long languishment,
That seem’d the longer for my greater paines. 
  But let my Loves fayre planet short her wayes
  This yeare ensuing, or else short my dayes.

[Footnote:  LX. 4.—­As Mars in three score yeares.  I do not understand Spenser’s astronomy.  C.]

LXI.

The glorious image of the Makers beautie,
My soverayne saynt, the idoll of my thought,
Dare not henceforth, above the bounds of dewtie,
T’accuse of pride, or rashly blame for ought. 
For being, as she is, divinely wrought,
And of the brood of angels heavenly born,
And with the crew of blessed saynts upbrought,
Each of which did her with theyr guifts adorne,
The bud of ioy, the blossome of the morne,
The beame of light, whom mortal eyes admyre,
What reason is it then but she should scorne
Base things, that to her love too bold aspire! 
  Such heavenly formes ought rather worshipt be,
  Then dare be lov’d by men of meane degree.