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And so restraines my soule, that faine it would
Say nought, although it cost my vitall aire.
What man of flint, that euer did behold
The burning beames that thy faire eies doe cast,
But waxed dumbe, and died with mortall cold?
Who euer sawe those beauties rare and chaste,
More perfect then the starrie skie aboue,
Or any liuing now or gone or past,
That presently felt not a feruent loue?
The cause whereof his senses so would vse,
As not to let him speake for his behoue:
So much I passe by silence, that I muse
That sad complaintes my hart doe neuer kill,
Nor breake my brest with anguish so confuse:
My ioies are none, my woes continue still,
My paine is firme, and all my hope is vaine,
I liue alas, and die in greeuous ill:
And take reuenge vpon my selfe againe,
That which I most eschew, doth take me straight:
And what I most desire, I lest obtaine:
For that, that lest behooues me, I awaite,
Not comfort for my greefe, that neuer endes,
Ioying in paine, wherewith my soule I fraight:
Yet my delight and life so far extendes,
As thought of that great distance doth abide,
That twixt thy beautie, grace, and me dependes:
For in my soule I doe conceiue a pride,
That I haue put it in so high a place:
Where constancie and hope my hart doe guide.
But yet thy gentle, and sweete Angels face
Against my soule such mortall war doe threate,
That thousand liues dare not abide the chace.
To feare me yet the passage’s not so great,
Nor way so steepe, nor craggie, that shall stay
My forward steps with aanger, or deceate:
I follow then my ruine and decay,
The path of paine, and seeke not to decline
From greeuous plaints, that force me euery day.
Yet endlesse ioy my heauie hart doth shrine,
And glads my life, by wished paine opprest:
That glories strangely in these greefes of mine.
Paine’s my delight, my plaints my sport and iest,
My sighes sweete soundes, my death my glory makes,
My woundes my health, my flames my happy rest,
Nothing I see, which stirs not, and awakes
My furious torment and her endlesse wheele;
But happy fortune by the same it takes:
These ils (sweete Mistresse) for thy sake I feele,
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