If what is heavie craves the Center base,
(The earth below) as nature willes the same,
Heavie the wofull griefes are in this case,
Which inward in my heart I do sustaine.
And if what's light, by kinde aloft doth mount,
Then light's my Love with thee, of light account.
So that in doubtfull dangerous extreame,
Wretch that I am, my selfe am sore afraide
And doubt of thee, so farre from golden meane,
Nor know I wel out of this depth to wade,
Lest that my life be shortned, or I die,
Whether it heavy, falles; or light, ascends on hie.

Shoot forth no more those darts from lightning eyes,
(Unkinde) why seekst to stop my fainting breath?
Goe, and invent some new kinde exercise,
Play the right Tyrant, choyces use in death:
New weapons seeke wherewith mee to offend;
Whereby I dying, content may rest thy will.
But tell me? wouldst so faine my life should end?
And knowst not, sweet extreames doo sudden kill?
Cruell, kisse me but once, and thou shalt see
Ended my life with that same Kisse to bee.

Marvel I do not, though thou doest not see
My griefes, and martires, which I still sustaine,
For thou the Mole of love doest seeme to me;
But if a Mole, th'art onely to my paine.
How comes it then that seeing thou art blinde,
Thou me consumst, as if thou hadst thy sight?
Why, as thy nature by instinct doth bind
Stayest not below? packe hence, and leave this light,
Either those eies stil shut, not me to grieve.
Or under ground, in darkenes alwayes live.

If I somewhile looke up into the skies,
I see (faire Lady) that same cheerfull light
Which like to you doth shine, in glorious wise:
And if on th'earth I chance to cast my sight,
The moovelesse Centre firme to me doth show,
The hardnesse which within your hart doth grow.
If seas I view the flowing waves most plaine
Your fickle faith do represent to mee:
So as I still behold you to my paine,
When as the skies, or th'earth, or seas I see:
For in your seemely selfe doth plaine appeare,
Like faith, like hardnesse, and like brightnes cleare.

Seated on marble was my Ladie blythe,
Holding in hand a christall looking Glasse,
Marking of Lovers thousands (who alive
Thankes onely to her Beautie rare did passe).
To prie in glass likes her: but afterward
Shee takes the nature of the stone most hard.
For whilst she cherefully doth fixe her eyes
Gazing upon the brightnes of the one,
Her hart by th'other's made (in strangie wise)
Hard as a rocke, and senselesse as a stone:
So that if Love this breaketh not in twaine,
It will a flint become, to others paine.

Even as the lampe goeth out that oyle doth want,
Or as the Sunne doth fall in th'occident,
So did my hart within me gin to pant,
My vitall spirites away by little went:
When (taking on me pittie) graciously
My Mistres hem of garment trailing downe
Toucht mee, and mee revived suddenly:
Then if such vertue be within her gowne,
Imagin what doth stay her corps within,
Which who seeth, through sweetnes needs must sin.

Sweet sung thy Bird in Ebon cage shut fast,
And did delight thy daintie eares so much,
As thou vouchsafdst to give him meate at last,
And gently didst his fethers stroke and tuch:
So Ladie, I likewise in th'Ebonie
Of thy bright eyes am prisoner, and doo sing
Thy Beauties praise; and yet not fed am I
By thee, yet live through thee: a wondrous thing.
Love to my hart thy Beautie doth supplie
For food, which els (throgh famine starvd) would die.

Since thou hast changde thy gowne and thine attire,
Ah change thy thoughts, not alwayes cruel be:
And with new clothes, put on a new Desire,
That new in every point I may thee see.
And if thou heretofore unkinde hast beene,
Be curteous now, and gentle be thou seene.
Thy glory great, thy praise more shalt thou finde,
If, of unconstant, constant thou become,
And of a foe, a faithfull friend and kinde,
Then change henceforth thy thoughts, else I undone:
Give me that colour which so likes mine eine,
If death, then blacke, if life, then Carnatine.

Thou, merry laughst, and pleasantly dost smile,
I wofull weepe, and (mestfull) sorrow still,
Lest this thy mirth encreasing, me beguile,
And weave a webbe for me of greater ill:
Too well perceive I, this thy deepe disdaine,
By this thy fained lookes, and cloaked glee,
Thou of disaster mine art glad and faine,
And faine my death as Basiliske wouldst see,
Since that of warre and bate this laughter is,
And not of gentle peace or calmy blisse.

Unto thy favour (which when Nature formd,
She went beyond her selfe with cunning hand)
I may compare what is in world adornd
With beautie most, and with most grace doth stand:
But everie mortall whitenes nere so white,
The yvorie white of thy white hand exceeds.
So that my Sowle (which doth faire whitenes like)
Rests on faire whitenes, and on whitenes feeds:
For this is thought and hoped of from thee,
White as thy hands, so white thy faith shalbee.