XXI

    Being likewise scorned in love as well as I
      By that self-loving boy, which did disdain
      To hear her after him for love to cry,
      For which in dens obscure she doth remain;
    Yet doth she answer to each speech and voice,
      And renders back the last of what we speak,
      But specially, if she might have her choice,
      She of unkindness would her talk forth break. 
    She loves to hear of love’s most sacred name,
      Although, poor nymph, in love she was despised;
      And ever since she hides her head for shame,
      That her true meaning was so lightly prised;
    She pitying me, part of my woes doth bear,
    As you, good shepherds, listening now shall hear.

XXII

O fairest fair, to thee I make my plaint,
(my plaint)
To thee from whom my cause of grief doth spring;
(doth spring)
Attentive be unto the groans, sweet saint,
(sweet saint)
Which unto thee in doleful tunes I sing.
(I sing)
My mournful muse doth always speak of thee;
(of thee)
My love is pure, O do it not disdain!
(disdain)
With bitter sorrow still oppress not me,
(not me)
But mildly look upon me which complain.
(which complain)
Kill not my true-affecting thoughts, but give
(but give)
Such precious balm of comfort to my heart,
(my heart)
That casting off despair in hope to live,
(hope to live)
I may find help at length to ease my smart.
(to ease my smart)
So shall you add such courage to my love,
(my love)
That fortune false my faith shall not remove.
(shall not remove)

XXIII

The phoenix fair which rich Arabia breeds,
When wasting time expires her tragedy,
No more on Phoebus’ radiant rays she feeds,
But heapeth up great store of spicery;
And on a lofty towering cedar tree,
With heavenly substance she herself consumes,
From whence she young again appears to be,
Out of the cinders of her peerless plumes. 
So I which long have fried in love’s flame,
The fire not made of spice but sighs and tears,
Revive again in hope disdain to shame,
And put to flight the author of my fears. 
Her eyes revive decaying life in me,
Though they augmenters of my thraldom be.

    XXIV

    Though they augmenters of my thraldom be,
      For her I live and her I love and none else;
      O then, fair eyes, look mildly upon me,
      Who poor, despised, forlorn must live alone else,
    And like Amintas haunt the desert cells,
      And moanless there breathe out thy cruelty,
      Where none but care and melancholy dwells. 
      I for revenge to Nemesis will cry;
    If that will not prevail, my wandering ghost,
      Which breathless here this love-scorched trunk shall leave,
      Shall unto thee with tragic tidings post,
      How thy disdain did life from soul bereave. 
    Then all too late my death thou wilt repent,
    When murther’s guilt thy conscience shall torment.