XLI

THE prison I am in is thy fair face,

Wherein my liberty enchainèd lies;

My thoughts, the bolts that hold me in the

place;

My food, the pleasing looks of thy fair eyes.

Deep is the prison where I lie enclosed,

Strong are the bolts that in this cell contain

me;

Sharp is the food necessity imposed,

When hunger makes me feed on that which pains me.

Yet do I love, embrace, and follow fast,

That holds, that keeps, that discontents me

most;

And list not break, unlock, or seek to waste

The place, the bolts, the food, though I be

lost;

Better in prison ever to remain,

Than being out to suffer greater pain.

XLII

WHEN never-speaking silence proves a wonder, When ever-flying flame at home remaineth, When all-concealing night keeps darkness under,

When men-devouring wrong true glory gaineth, When soul-tormenting grief agrees with joy, When Lucifer foreruns the baleful night, When Venus doth forsake her little boy, When her untoward boy obtaineth sight, When Sisyphus doth cease to roll his stone, When Otus shaketh off his heavy chain, When beauty, queen of pleasure, is alone, When love and virtue quiet peace disdain ;

When these shall be, and I not be,

Then will Fidessa pity me.

XLIII

TELL me of love, sweet Love, who is thy sire,
Or if thou mortal or immortal be?

Some say thou art begotten by desire,
Nourished with hope, and fed with fantasy,
Engendered by a heavenly goddess' eye,
Lurking most sweetly in an angel's face.
Others, that beauty thee doth deify ;-

O sovereign beauty, full of power and grace!But I must be absurd all this denying,

Because the fairest fair alive ne'er knew thee.

Now, Cupid, comes thy godhead to the trying; 'Twas she alone-such is her power-that slew

me;

She shall be Love, and thou a foolish boy,

Whose virtue proves thy power is but a toy.

XLIV

No choice of change can ever change my

mind;

Choiceless my choice, the choicest choice alive;

Wonder of women, were she not unkind,

The pitiless of pity to deprive.

Yet she, the kindest creature of her kind,
Accuseth me of self-ingratitude,

And well she may, sith by good proof I find
Myself had died, had she not helpful stood.
For when my sickness had the upper hand,
And death began to show his awful face,
She took great pains my pains for to withstand,
And eased my heart that was in heavy case.
But cruel now, she scorneth what it craveth;
Unkind in kindness, murdering while she saveth.

XLV

MINE eye bewrays the secrets of my heart,
My heart unfolds his grief before her face;
Her face-bewitching pleasure of my smart!
Deigns not one look of mercy and of grace.
My guilty eye of murder and of treason,—
Friendly conspirator of my decay,

Dumb eloquence, the lover's strongest reason!—
Doth weep itself for anger quite away,
And chooseth rather not to be, than be
Disloyal, by too well discharging duty;
And being out, joys it no more can see
The sugared charms of all deceiving beauty.
But, for the other greedily doth eye it,
I pray you
tell me, what do I get by it?