Moaning the wrong they do unto their lord,
      Forcing the cruel fair by means to yield;
      Making her ’gainst her will some grace t’afford,
      And striving sore at length to win the field;
    Thus work they means to feed my fainting hope,
      And strengthened hope adds matter to each thought;
      Yet when they all come to their end and scope
      They do but wholly bring poor me to nought. 
    She’ll never yield although they ever cry,
    And therefore we must all together die.

    VIII

    Grief-urging guest, great cause have I to plain me,
      Yet hope persuading hope expecteth grace,
      And saith none but myself shall ever pain me;
      But grief my hopes exceedeth in this case;
    For still my fortune ever more doth cross me
      By worse events than ever I expected;
      And here and there ten thousand ways doth toss me,
      With sad remembrance of my time neglected. 
    These breed such thoughts as set my heart on fire,
      And like fell hounds pursue me to my death;
      Traitors unto their sovereign lord and sire,
      Unkind exactors of their father’s breath,
    Whom in their rage they shall no sooner kill
    Than they themselves themselves unjustly spill.

    IX

    My spotless love that never yet was tainted,
      My loyal heart that never can be moved,
      My growing hope that never yet hath fainted,
      My constancy that you full well have proved,
    All these consented have to plead for grace
      These all lie crying at the door of beauty;—­
      This wails, this sends out tears, this cries apace,
      All do reward expect of faith and duty;
    Now either thou must prove th’ unkindest one,
      And as thou fairest art must cruelest be,
      Or else with pity yield unto their moan,
      Their moan that ever will importune thee. 
    Ah, thou must be unkind, and give denial,
    And I, poor I, must stand unto my trial!

    X

    Clip not, sweet love, the wings of my desire,
      Although it soar aloft and mount too high: 
      But rather bear with me though I aspire,
      For I have wings to bear me to the sky. 
    What though I mount, there is no sun but thee! 
      And sith no other sun, why should I fear? 
      Thou wilt not burn me, though thou terrify,
      And though thy brightness do so great appear. 
    Dear, I seek not to batter down thy glory,
      Nor do I envy that thy hope increaseth;
      O never think thy fame doth make me sorry! 
      For thou must live by fame when beauty ceaseth. 
    Besides, since from one root we both did spring,
    Why should not I thy fame and beauty sing?

    XI