XXXIII

    With patience bearing love’s captivity,
      Themselves unguilty of his wrath alleging;
      These homely lines, abjects of poesy,
      For liberty and for their ransom pledging,
    And being free they solemnly do vow,
      Under his banner ever arms to bear
      Against those rebels which do disallow
      That love of bliss should be the sovereign heir;
    And Chloris if these weeping truce-men may
      One spark of pity from thine eyes obtain,
      In recompense of their sad heavy lay,
      Poor Corin shall thy faithful friend remain;
    And what I say I ever will approve,
    No joy may be compared to thy love!

    XXXIV

    The bird of Thrace which doth bewail her rape,
      And murthered Itys eaten by his sire,
      When she her woes in doleful tunes doth shape,
      She sets her breast against a thorny briar;
    Because care-charmer sleep should not disturb
      The tragic tale which to the night she tells,
      She doth her rest and quietness thus curb
      Amongst the groves where secret silence dwells: 
    Even so I wake, and waking wail all night;
      Chloris’ unkindness slumbers doth expel;
      I need not thorn’s sweet sleep to put to flight,
      Her cruelty my golden rest doth quell,
    That day and night to me are always one,
    Consumed in woe, in tears, in sighs and moan.

    XXXV

    Like to the shipman in his brittle boat. 
      Tossed aloft by the unconstant wind,
      By dangerous rocks and whirling gulfs doth float,
      Hoping at length the wished port to find;
    So doth my love in stormy billows sail,
      And passeth the gaping Scilla’s waves,
      In hope at length with Chloris to prevail
      And win that prize which most my fancy craves,
    Which unto me of value will be more
      Then was that rich and wealthy golden fleece. 
      Which Jason stout from Colchos’ island bore
      With wind in sails unto the shore of Greece. 
    More rich, more rare, more worth her love I prize
    Then all the wealth which under heaven lies.

    XXXVI

    O what a wound and what a deadly stroke,
      Doth Cupid give to us perplexed lovers,
      Which cleaves more fast then ivy doth to oak,
      Unto our hearts where he his might discovers! 
    Though warlike Mars were armed at all points,
      With that tried coat which fiery Vulcan made,
      Love’s shafts did penetrate his steeled joints,
      And in his breast in streaming gore did wade. 
    So pitiless is this fell conqueror
      That in his mother’s paps his arrows stuck;
      Such is his rage that he doth not defer
      To wound those orbs from whence he life did suck. 
    Then sith no mercy he shows to his mother,
    We meekly must his force and rigour smother.