XLI

    Fair shepherdess, when as these rustic lines
      Comes to thy sight, weigh but with what affection
      Thy servile doth depaint his sad designs,
      Which to redress of thee he makes election. 
    If so you scorn, you kill; if you seem coy,
      You wound poor Corin to the very heart;
      If that you smile, you shall increase his joy;
      If these you like, you banish do all smart. 
    And this I do protest, most fairest fair,
      My muse shall never cease that hill to climb,
      To which the learned Muses do repair,
      And all to deify thy name in rime;
    And never none shall write with truer mind,
    As by all proof and trial you shall find.

    XLII

    Die, die, my hopes! for you do but augment
      The burning accents of my deep despair;
      Disdain and scorn your downfall do consent;
      Tell to the world she is unkind yet fair! 
    O eyes, close up those ever-running fountains,
      For pitiless are all the tears you shed
      Wherewith you watered have both dales and mountains! 
      I see, I see, remorse from her is fled. 
    Pack hence, ye sighs, into the empty air,
      Into the air that none your sound may hear,
      Sith cruel Chloris hath of you no care,
      Although she once esteemed you full dear! 
    Let sable night all your disgraces cover,
    Yet truer sighs were never sighed by lover.

    XLIII

    Thou glorious sun, from whence my lesser light
      The substance of his crystal shine doth borrow,
      Let these my moans find favour in thy sight. 
      And with remorse extinguish now my sorrow! 
    Renew those lamps which thy disdain hath quenched,
      As Phoebus doth his sister Phoebe’s shine;
      Consider how thy Corin being drenched
      In seas of woe, to thee his plaints incline,
    And at thy feet with tears doth sue for grace,
      Which art the goddess of his chaste desire;
      Let not thy frowns these labours poor deface
      Although aloft they at the first aspire;
    And time shall come as yet unknown to men
    When I more large thy praises forth shall pen!

    XLIV

    When I more large thy praises forth shall show,
      That all the world thy beauty shall admire,
      Desiring that most sacred nymph to know
      Which hath the shepherd’s fancy set on fire;
    Till then, my dear, let these thine eyes content,
      Till then, fair love, think if I merit favour,
      Till then, O let thy merciful assent
      Relish my hopes with some comforting savour;
    So shall you add such courage to my muse
      That she shall climb the steep Parnassus hill,
      That learned poets shall my deeds peruse
      When I from thence obtained have more skill;
    And what I sing shall always be of thee
    As long as life or breath remains in me!