Three sorts of serpents doe resemble thee; That daungerous eye-killing Cockatrice, Th' inchaunting Syren, which doth so entice, The weeping Crocodile; these vile pernicious three. The Basiliske his nature takes from thee, Who for my life in secret wait do'st lye, And to my heart send'st poyson from thine eye: Thus do I feele the paine, the cause yet cannot see. Faire-mayd no more, but Mayr-maid be thy name, Who with thy sweet aluring harmony Hast playd the thiefe, and stolne my hart from me, And, like a Tyrant, mak'st my griefe thy game. The Crocodile, who, when thou hast me slaine, Lament'st my death with teares of thy disdaine.
Sitting alone, loue bids me goe and write; Reason plucks backe, commaunding me to stay, Boasting that shee doth still direct the way, Els senceles loue could neuer once indite. Loue, growing angry, vexed at the spleene, And scorning Reasons maymed Argument, Straight taxeth Reason, wanting to invent Where shee with Loue conuersing hath not beene. Reason, reproched with this coy disdaine, Dispighteth Loue, and laugheth at her folly, And Loue, contemning Reasons reason wholy, Thought her in weight too light by many a graine. Reason, put back, doth out of sight remoue, And Loue alone finds reason in my loue.
Those teares, which quench my hope, still kindle my desire, Those sighes, which coole my hart, are coles vnto my loue, Disdayne, Ice to my life, is to my soule a fire: With teares, sighes, and disdaine, this contrary I proue. Quenchles desire makes hope burne, dryes my teares, Loue heats my hart, my hart-heat my sighes warmeth; With my soules fire my life disdaine out-weares, Desire, my loue, my soule, my hope, hart, and life charmeth. My hope becomes a friend to my desire, My hart imbraceth Loue, Loue doth imbrace my hart; My life a Phoenix is in my soules fire, From thence (they vow) they neuer will depart. Desire, my loue, my soule, my hope, my hart, my life, With teares, sighes, and disdaine, shall haue immortal strife.
Whilst thus mine eyes doe surfet with delight, My wofull hart, imprisond in my breast, Wishing to be trans-formd into my sight, To looke on her by whom mine eyes are blest; But whilst mine eyes thus greedily doe gaze, Behold! their obiects ouer-soone depart, And treading in this neuer-ending maze, Wish now to be trans-formd into my hart: My hart, surcharg'd with thoughts, sighes in abundance raise, My eyes, made dim with lookes, poure down a flood of tears; And whilst my hart and eye enuy each others praise, My dying lookes and thoughts are peiz'd in equall feares: And thus, whilst sighes and teares together doe contende, Each one of these doth ayde vnto the other lende.