To hope for all, yet for despair to die,
Is of my life the certain destiny.

XXXIII

When first sweet Phillis, whom I must adore,
Gan with her beauties bless our wond'ring sky,
The son of Rhea, from their fatal store
Made all the gods to grace her majesty.
Apollo first his golden rays among,
Did form the beauty of her bounteous eyes;
He graced her with his sweet melodious song,
And made her subject of his poesies.
The warrior Mars bequeathed her fierce disdain,
Venus her smile, and Phoebe all her fair,
Python his voice, and Ceres all her grain,
The morn her locks and fingers did repair.
Young Love, his bow, and Thetis gave her feet;
Clio her praise, Pallas her science sweet.

XXXIV

I would in rich and golden-coloured rain,
With tempting showers in pleasant sort descend
Into fair Phillis' lap, my lovely friend,
When sleep her sense with slumber doth restrain.
I would be changed to a milk-white bull,
When midst the gladsome fields she should appear,
By pleasant fineness to surprise my dear,
Whilst from their stalks, she pleasant flowers did pull.
I were content to weary out my pain,
To be Narsissus so she were a spring,
To drown in her those woes my heart do wring.
And more; I wish transformed to remain,
That whilst I thus in pleasure's lap did lie,
I might refresh desire, which else would die.

XXXV

I hope and fear, I pray and hold my peace,
Now freeze my thoughts and straight they fry again,
I now admire and straight my wonders cease,
I loose my bonds and yet myself restrain;
This likes me most that leaves me discontent,
My courage serves and yet my heart doth fail,
My will doth climb whereas my hopes are spent,
I laugh at love, yet when he comes I quail;
The more I strive, the duller bide I still.
I would be thralled, and yet I freedom love,
I would redress, yet hourly feed mine ill,
I would repine, and dare not once reprove;
And for my love I am bereft of power,
And strengthless strive my weakness to devour.

XXXVI

If so I seek the shades, I presently do see
The god of love forsakes his bow and sit me by;
If that I think to write, his Muses pliant be
If so I plain my grief, the wanton boy will cry,
If I lament his pride, he doth increase my pain;
If tea