Muses which sadly sit about my chair,
    Drowned in the tears extorted by my lines;
    With heavy sighs whilst thus I break the air,
    Painting my passions in these sad designs,
      Since she disdains to bless my happy verse,
    The strong built trophies to her living fame,
    Ever henceforth my bosom be your hearse,
    Wherein the world shall now entomb her name. 
      Enclose my music, you poor senseless walls,
    Sith she is deaf and will not hear my moans;
    Soften yourselves with every tear that falls,
    Whilst I like Orpheus sing to trees and stones,
      Which with my plaint seem yet with pity moved,
      Kinder than she whom I so long have loved.

    XLVI

    Plain-pathed experience, the unlearned’s guide,
    Her simple followers evidently shows
    Sometimes what schoolmen scarcely can decide,
    Nor yet wise reason absolutely knows;
      In making trial of a murder wrought,
    If the vile actors of the heinous deed
    Near the dead body happily be brought,
    Oft ’t hath been proved the breathless corse will bleed. 
      She coming near, that my poor heart hath slain,
    Long since departed, to the world no more,
    The ancient wounds no longer can contain,
    But fall to bleeding as they did before. 
      But what of this?  Should she to death be led,
      It furthers justice but helps not the dead.

    XLVII

    In pride of wit, when high desire of fame
    Gave life and courage to my lab’ring pen,
    And first the sound and virtue of my name
    Won grace and credit in the ears of men,
      With those the thronged theatres that press,
    I in the circuit for the laurel strove,
    Where the full praise I freely must confess,
    In heat of blood a modest mind might move;
      With shouts and claps at every little pause,
    When the proud round on every side hath rung,
    Sadly I sit unmoved with the applause,
    As though to me it nothing did belong. 
      No public glory vainly I pursue;
      All that I seek is to eternise you.

    XLVIII

    Cupid, I hate thee, which I’d have thee know;
    A naked starveling ever mayst thou be! 
    Poor rogue, go pawn thy fascia and thy bow
    For some poor rags wherewith to cover thee;
      Or if thou’lt not thy archery forbear,
    To some base rustic do thyself prefer,
    And when corn’s sown or grown into the ear,
    Practice thy quiver and turn crowkeeper;
      Or being blind, as fittest for the trade,
    Go hire thyself some bungling harper’s boy;
    They that are blind are minstrels often made,
    So mayst thou live to thy fair mother’s joy;
      That whilst with Mars she holdeth her old way,
      Thou, her blind son, mayst sit by them and play.

    XLIX