XIX

    My pain paints out my love in doleful verse,
      The lively glass wherein she may behold it;
      My verse her wrong to me doth still rehearse,
      But so as it lamenteth to unfold it. 
    Myself with ceaseless tears my harms bewail,
      And her obdurate heart not to be moved;
      Though long-continued woes my senses fail,
      And curse the day, the hour when first I loved. 
    She takes the glass wherein herself she sees,
      In bloody colours cruelly depainted;
      And her poor prisoner humbly on his knees,
      Pleading for grace, with heart that never fainted. 
    She breaks the glass; alas, I cannot choose
    But grieve that I should so my labour lose!

    XX

    Great is the joy that no tongue can express! 
      Fair babe new born, how much dost thou delight me! 
      But what, is mine so great?  Yea, no whit less! 
      So great that of all woes it doth acquite me. 
    It’s fair Fidessa that this comfort bringeth,
      Who sorry for the wrongs by her procured,
      Delightful tunes of love, of true love singeth,
      Wherewith her too chaste thoughts were ne’er inured. 
    She loves, she saith, but with a love not blind. 
      Her love is counsel that I should not love,
      But upon virtues fix a stayed mind. 
      But what!  This new-coined love, love doth reprove? 
    If this be love of which you make such store,
    Sweet, love me less, that you may love me more!

    XXI

    He that will Caesar be, or else not be—­
      Who can aspire to Caesar’s bleeding fame,
      Must be of high resolve; but what is he
      That thinks to gain a second Caesar’s name? 
    Whoe’er he be that climbs above his strength,
      And climbeth high, the greater is his fall! 
      For though he sit awhile, we see at length,
      His slippery place no firmness hath at all,
    Great is his bruise that falleth from on high. 
      This warneth me that I should not aspire;
      Examples should prevail; I care not, I! 
      I perish must or have what I desire! 
    This humour doth with mine full well agree
    I must Fidessa’s be, or else not be!

    XXII

    It was of love, ungentle gentle boy! 
      That thou didst come and harbour in my breast;
      Not of intent my body to destroy,
      And have my soul, with restless cares opprest. 
    But sith thy love doth turn unto my pain,
      Return to Greece, sweet lad, where thou wast born. 
      Leave me alone my griefs to entertain,
      If thou forsake me, I am less forlorn;
    Although alone, yet shall I find more ease. 
      Then see thou hie thee hence, or I will chase thee;
      Men highly wronged care not to displease;
      My fortune hangs on thee, thou dost disgrace me,
    Yet at thy farewell, play a friendly part;
    To make amends, fly to Fidessa’s heart.