XXXIX

    My lady’s hair is threads of beaten gold,
      Her front the purest crystal eye hath seen,
      Her eyes the brightest stars the heavens hold,
      Her cheeks red roses such as seld have been;
    Her pretty lips of red vermillion die,
      Her hand of ivory the purest white,
      Her blush Aurora or the morning sky,
      Her breast displays two silver fountains bright
    The spheres her voice, her grace the Graces three: 
      Her body is the saint that I adore;
      Her smiles and favours sweet as honey be;
      Her feet fair Thetis praiseth evermore. 
    But ah, the worst and last is yet behind,
    For of a griffon she doth bear the mind!

    XL

    Injurious Fates, to rob me of my bliss,
      And dispossess my heart of all his hope! 
      You ought with just revenge to punish miss,
      For unto you the hearts of men are ope. 
    Injurious Fates, that hardened have her heart,
      Yet make her face to send out pleasing smiles! 
      And both are done but to increase my smart,
      And entertain my love with falsed wiles. 
    Yet being when she smiles surprised with joy,
      I fain would languish in so sweet a pain,
      Beseeching death my body to destroy,
      Lest on the sudden she should frown again. 
    When men do wish for death, Fates have no force;
    But they, when men would live, have no remorse.

    XLI

    The prison I am in is thy fair face,
      Wherein my liberty enchained lies;
      My thoughts, the bolts that hold me in the place;
      My food, the pleasing looks of thy fair eyes. 
    Deep is the prison where I lie enclosed,
      Strong are the bolts that in this cell contain me;
      Sharp is the food necessity imposed,
      When hunger makes me feed on that which pains me. 
    Yet do I love, embrace, and follow fast,
      That holds, that keeps, that discontents me most;
      And list not break, unlock, or seek to waste
      The place, the bolts, the food, though I be lost;
    Better in prison ever to remain,
    Than being out to suffer greater pain.

    XLII

    When never-speaking silence proves a wonder,
      When ever-flying flame at home remaineth,
      When all-concealing night keeps darkness under,
      When men-devouring wrong true glory gaineth,
    When soul-tormenting grief agrees with joy,
      When Lucifer foreruns the baleful night,
      When Venus doth forsake her little boy,
      When her untoward boy obtaineth sight,
    When Sisyphus doth cease to roll his stone,
      When Otus shaketh off his heavy chain,
      When beauty, queen of pleasure, is alone,
      When love and virtue quiet peace disdain;
    When these shall be, and I not be,
    Then will Fidessa pity me.