XLV

    When she was born whom I entirely love,
      Th’ immortal gods her birth-rites forth to grace,
      Descending from their glorious seat above,
      They did on her these several virtues place: 
    First Saturn gave to her sobriety,
      Jove then indued her with comeliness,
      And Sol with wisdom did her beautify,
      Mercury with wit and knowledge did her bless,
    Venus with beauty did all parts bedeck,
      Luna therewith did modesty combine,
      Diana chaste all loose desires did check,
      And like a lamp in clearness she doth shine. 
    But Mars, according to his stubborn kind,
    No virtue gave, but a disdainful mind.

    XLVI

    When Chloris first with her heart-robbing eye
      Inchanted had my silly senses all,
      I little did respect love’s cruelty,
      I never thought his snares should me enthrall;
    But since her tresses have entangled me,
      My pining flock did never hear me sing
      Those jolly notes which erst did make them glee,
      Nor do my kids about me leap and spring
    As they were wont, but when they hear me cry
      They likewise cry and fill the air with bleating;
      Then do my sheep upon the cold earth lie,
      And feed no more, my griefs they are repeating. 
    O Chloris, if thou then saw’st them and me
    I’m sure thou wouldst both pity them and me!

    XLVII

    I need not tell thee of the lily white,
      Nor of the roseate red which doth thee grace,
      Nor of thy golden hairs like Phoebus bright,
      Nor of the beauty of thy fairest face. 
    Nor of thine eyes which heavenly stars excel,
      Nor of thine azured veins which are so clear,
      Nor of thy paps where Love himself doth dwell,
      Which like two hills of violets appear. 
    Nor of thy tender sides, nor belly soft,
      Nor of thy goodly thighs as white as snow,
      Whose glory to my fancy seemeth oft
      That like an arch triumphal they do show. 
    All these I know that thou dost know too well,
    But of thy heart too cruel I thee tell.

    XLVIII

    But of thy heart too cruel I thee tell,
      Which hath tormented my young budding age,
      And doth, unless your mildness passions quell,
      My utter ruin near at hand presage. 
    Instead of blood which wont was to display
      His ruddy red upon my hairless face,
      By over-grieving that is fled away,
      Pale dying colour there hath taken place. 
    Those curled locks which thou wast wont to twist
      Unkempt, unshorn, and out of order been;
      Since my disgrace I had of them no list,
      Since when these eyes no joyful day have seen
    Nor never shall till you renew again
    The mutual love which did possess us twain.