Ah hair! how many days My Dian made me show, With thousand pretty childish plays, If I ware you or no: Alas, how oft with tears,— O tears of guileful breast!— She seeméd full of jealous fears, Whereat I did but jest.
Tell me, O hair of gold, If I then faulty be, That trust those killing eyes I would, Since they did warrant me? Have you not seen her mood, What streams of tears she spent, ’Till that I sware my faith so stood, As her words had it bent?
Who hath such beauty seen In one that changeth so? Or where one’s love so constant been, Who ever saw such woe? Ah, hair! are you not grieved To come from whence you be, Seeing how once you saw I lived, To see me as you see?
On sandy bank of late, I saw this woman sit; Where, “Sooner die than change my state,” She with her finger writ: Thus my belief was staid, Behold Love’s mighty hand On things were by a woman said, And written in the sand.
_The same Sireno in_ “_Monte-Mayor_,” _holding his mistress’s glass before her_, _and looking upon her while she viewed herself_, _thus sang_:—
Of this high grace, with bliss conjoined, No farther debt on me is laid, Since that in self-same metal coined, Sweet lady, you remain well paid;
For if my place give me great pleasure, Having before my nature’s treasure, In face and eyes unmatchéd being, You have the same in my hands, seeing What in your face mine eyes do measure.
Nor think the match unevenly made, That of those beams in you do tarry, The glass to you but gives a shade, To me mine eyes the true shape carry; For such a thought most highly prized, Which ever hath Love’s yoke despised, Better than one captived perceiveth, Though he the lively form receiveth, The other sees it but disguised.
THE dart, the beams, the sting, so strong I prove, Which my chief part doth pass through, parch, and tie, That of the stroke, the heat, and knot of love, Wounded, inflamed, knit to the death, I die.
Hardened and cold, far from affection’s snare Was once my mind, my temper, and my life; While I that sight, desire, and vow forbare, Which to avoid, quench, lose, nought boasted strife.
Yet will not I grief, ashes, thraldom change For others’ ease, their fruit, or free estate; So brave a shot, dear fire, and beauty strange, Bid me pierce, burn, and bind, long time and late, And in my wounds, my flames, and bonds, I find A salve, fresh air, and bright contented mind.