If chaste and pure deuotion of my youth, Or glorie of my Aprill-springing yeeres, Vnfained loue in naked simple truth, A thousand vowes, a thousand sighes and teares; Or if a world of faithful seruice done, Words, thoughts, and deeds deuoted to her honor, Or eyes that haue beheld her as theyr sunne, With admiration euer looking on her: A lyfe that neuer ioyd but in her loue, A soule that euer hath ador'd her name, A fayth that time nor fortune could not moue, A Muse that vnto heauen hath raised her fame. Though these, nor these deserue to be imbraced, Yet, faire vnkinde, too good to be disgraced.
Die, die, my soule, and neuer taste of ioy, If sighes, nor teares, nor vowes, nor prayers can moue; If fayth and zeale be but esteemd a toy, And kindnes be vnkindnes in my loue. Then, with vnkindnes, Loue, reuenge thy wrong: O sweet'st reuenge that ere the heauens gaue! And with the swan record thy dying song, And praise her still to thy vntimely graue. So in loues death shall loues perfection proue That loue diuine which I haue borne to you, By doome concealed to the heauens aboue, That yet the world vnworthy neuer knew; Whose pure _Idea_ neuer tongue exprest: I feele, you know, the heauens can tell the rest.
O thou vnkindest fayre! most fayrest shee, In thine eyes tryumph murthering my poore hart, Now doe I sweare by heauens, before we part, My halfe-slaine hart shall take reuenge on thee. Thy mother dyd her lyfe to death resigne, And thou an Angell art, and from aboue; Thy father was a man, that will I proue, Yet thou a Goddesse art, and so diuine. And thus, if thou be not of humaine kinde, A Bastard on both sides needes must thou be; Our Lawes allow no land to basterdy: By natures Lawes we thee a bastard finde. Then hence to heauen, vnkind, for thy childs part: Goe bastard goe, for sure of thence thou art.
Rare of-spring of my thoughts, my dearest Loue, Begot by fancy on sweet hope exhortiue, In whom all purenes with perfection stroue, Hurt in the Embryon makes my ioyes abhortiue. And you, my sighes, Symtomas of my woe, The dolefull Anthems of my endelesse care, Lyke idle Ecchoes euer answering; so, The mournfull accents of my loues dispayre. And thou, Conceite, the shadow of my blisse, Declyning with the setting of my sunne, Springing with that, and fading straight with this, Now hast thou end, and now thou wast begun: Now was thy pryme, and loe! is now thy waine; Now wast thou borne, now in thy cradle slayne.