Some in their hearts their mistress’ colours bears;
      Some hath her gloves, some other hath her garters,
      Some in a bracelet wears her golden hairs,
      And some with kisses seal their loving charters. 
    But I which never favour reaped yet,
      Nor had one pleasant look from her fair brow,
      Content myself in silent shade to sit
      In hope at length my cares to overplow. 
    Meanwhile mine eyes shall feed on her fair face,
      My sighs shall tell to her my sad designs,
      My painful pen shall ever sue for grace
      To help my heart, which languishing now pines;
    And I will triumph still amidst my woe
    Till mercy shall my sorrows overflow.

    XXX

    The raging sea within his limits lies
      And with an ebb his flowing doth discharge;
      The rivers when beyond their bounds they rise,
      Themselves do empty in the ocean large;
    But my love’s sea which never limit keepeth,
      Which never ebbs but always ever floweth,
      In liquid salt unto my Chloris weepeth,
      Yet frustrate are the tears which he bestoweth. 
    This sea which first was but a little spring
      Is now so great and far beyond all reason,
      That it a deluge to my thoughts doth bring,
      Which overwhelmed hath my joying season. 
    So hard and dry is my saint’s cruel mind,
    These waves no way in her to sink can find.

    XXXI

    These waves no way in her to sink can find
      To penetrate the pith of contemplation;
      These tears cannot dissolve her hardened mind,
      Nor move her heart on me to take compassion;
    O then, poor Corin, scorned and quite despised,
      Loathe now to live since life procures thy woe;
      Enough, thou hast thy heart anatomised,
      For her sweet sake which will no pity show;
    But as cold winter’s storms and nipping frost
      Can never change sweet Aramanthus’ hue,
      So though my love and life by her are crossed. 
      My heart shall still be constant firm and true. 
    Although Erynnis hinders Hymen’s rites,
    My fixed faith against oblivion fights.

    XXXII

    My fixed faith against oblivion fights,
      And I cannot forget her, pretty elf,
      Although she cruel be unto my plights;
      Yet let me rather clean forget myself,
    Then her sweet name out of my mind should go,
      Which is th’ elixir of my pining soul,
      From whence the essence of my life doth flow,
      Whose beauty rare my senses all control;
    Themselves most happy evermore accounting,
      That such a nymph is queen of their affection,
      With ravished rage they to the skies are mounting,
      Esteeming not their thraldom nor subjection;
    But still do joy amidst their misery,
    With patience bearing love’s captivity.