rs my cheeks attaint, his cheeks are moist with moan;
If I disclose the wounds the which my heart hath slain,
He takes his fascia off, and wipes them dry anon.
If so I walk the woods, the woods are his delight;
If I myself torment, he bathes him in my blood;
He will my soldier be if once I wend to fight,
If seas delight, he steers my bark amidst the hood.
In brief, the cruel god doth never from me go,
But makes my lasting love eternal with my woe.

XXXVII

These fierce incessant waves that stream along my face,
Which show the certain proof of my ne'er-ceasing pains,
Fair Phillis, are no tears that trickle from my brains;
For why? Such streams of ruth within me find no place.
These floods that wet my cheeks are gathered from thy grace
And thy perfections, and from hundred thousand flowers
Which from thy beauties spring; whereto I medley showers
Of rose and lilies too, the colours of thy face.
My love doth serve for fire, my heart the furnace is,
The aperries of my sighs augment the burning flame,
The limbec is mine eye that doth distil the same;
And by how much my fire is violent and sly,
By so much doth it cause the waters mount on high,
That shower from out mine eyes, for to assuage my miss.

XXXVIII

Who lives enthralled to Cupid and his flame,
From day to day is changed in sundry sort;
The proof whereof myself may well report,
Who oft transformed by him may teach the same.
I first was turned into a wounded hart,
That bare the bloody arrow in my side;
Then to a swan that midst the waters glide,
With piteous voice presaged my deadly smart;
Eftsoons I waxed a faint and fading flower;
Then was I made a fountain sudden dry,
Distilling all my tears from troubled eye;
Now am I salamander by his power,
Living in flames, but hope ere long to be
A voice, to talk my mistress' majesty.

XXXIX

My matchless mistress, whose delicious eyes
Have power to perfect nature's privy wants,
Even when the sun in greatest pomp did rise,
With pretty tread did press the tender plants.
Each stalk whilst forth she stalks, to kiss her feet
Is proud with pomp, and prodigal of sweet.
Her fingers fair in favouring every flower
That wooed their ivory for a wished touch,
By chance--sweet chance!--upon a blessed hour
Did pluck the flo