the reason why the Italian commenters dissent so much in the exposition
thereof_

Miracle of the world! I never will deny
That former poets praise the beauty of their days;
But all those beauties were but figures of thy praise,
And all those poets did of thee but prophesy.
Thy coming to the world hath taught us to descry
What Petrarch's Laura meant, for truth the lip bewrays.
Lo, why th' Italians, yet which never saw thy rays,
To find out Petrarch's sense such forged glosses try!
The beauties which he in a veil enclosed beheld
But revelations were within his surest heart
By which in parables thy coming he foretold;
His songs were hymns of thee, which only now before
Thy image should be sung; for thou that goddess art
Which only we without idolatry adore.

VII

_Complaint of misfortune in love only_

Now, now I love indeed, and suffer more
In one day now then I did in a year;
Great flames they be which but small sparkles were,
And wounded now, I was but pricked before.
No marvel then, though more than heretofore
I weep and sigh; how can great wounds be there
Where moisture runs not out? and ever, where
The fire is great, of smoke there must be store.
My heart was hitherto but like green wood,
Which must be dried before it will burn bright;
My former love served but my heart to dry;
Now Cupid for his fire doth find it good:
For now it burneth clear, and shall give light
For all the world your beauty to espy.

VIII

_Complaint of his lady's melancholiness_

If that one care had our two hearts possessed,
Or you once (felt) what I long suffered,
Then should thy heart accuse in my heart's stead
The rigour of itself for mine unrest.
Then should thine arm upon my shoulder rest,
And weight of grief sway down thy troubled head;
Then should thy tears upon my sheet be shed,
And then thy heart should pant upon my breast.
But when that other cares thy heart do seize,
Alas, what succour gain I then by this,
But double grief for thine and mine unease?
Yet when thou see'st thy hurts to wound my heart,
And so art taught by me what pity is,
Perhaps thy heart will learn to feel my smart.

IX

Dear, though from me your gratious looks depart,
And of that comfort do myself bereave,