XVII

    The perils which Leander took in hand
      Fair Hero’s love and favour to obtain,
      When void of fear securely leaving land,
      Through Hellespont he swam to Cestos’ main,
    His dangers should not counterpoise my toil,
      If my dear love would once but pity show,
      To quench these flames which in my breast do broil,
      Or dry these springs which from mine eyes do flow. 
    Not only Hellespont but ocean seas,
      For her sweet sake to ford I would attempt,
      So that my travels would her ire appease,
      My soul from thrall and languish to exempt. 
    O what is’t not poor I would undertake,
    If labour could my peace with Chloris make!

    XVIII

    My love, I cannot thy rare beauties place
      Under those forms which many writers use: 
      Some like to stones compare their mistress’ face;
      Some in the name of flowers do love abuse;
    Some makes their love a goldsmith’s shop to be,
      Where orient pearls and precious stones abound;
      In my conceit these far do disagree
      The perfect praise of beauty forth to sound. 
    O Chloris, thou dost imitate thyself,
      Self’s imitating passeth precious stones,
      Or all the eastern Indian golden pelf;
      Thy red and white with purest fair atones;
    Matchless for beauty nature hath thee framed,
    Only unkind and cruel thou art named!

    XIX

    The hound by eating grass doth find relief,
      For being sick it is his choicest meat;
      The wounded hart doth ease his pain and grief
      If he the herb dictamion may eat;
    The loathsome snake renews his sight again,
      When he casts off his withered coat and hue;
      The sky-bred eagle fresh age doth obtain
      When he his beak decayed doth renew. 
    I worse than these whose sore no salve can cure,
      Whose grief no herb nor plant nor tree can ease;
      Remediless, I still must pain endure,
      Till I my Chloris’ furious mood can please;
    She like the scorpion gave to me a wound,
    And like the scorpion she must make me sound.

    XX

    Ye wasteful woods, bear witness of my woe,
      Wherein my plaints did oftentimes abound;
      Ye careless birds my sorrows well do know,
      They in your songs were wont to make a sound! 
    Thou pleasant spring canst record likewise bear
      Of my designs and sad disparagement,
      When thy transparent billows mingled were
      With those downfalls which from mine eyes were sent! 
    The echo of my still-lamenting cries,
      From hollow vaults in treble voice resoundeth,
      And then into the empty air it flies,
      And back again from whence it came reboundeth. 
    That nymph unto my clamors doth reply,
    Being likewise scorned in love as well as I.