Michael Drayton

The glorious sunne went blushing to his bed, / When my soules sunne, from her fayre Cabynet, / Her golden beames had now discouered,

Cupid, dumbe-Idoll, peeuish Saint of loue, / No more shalt thou nor Saint nor Idoll be; / No God art thou, a Goddesse shee doth proue,

My Loue makes hote the fire whose heat is spent, / The water moisture from my teares deriueth, / And my strong sighes the ayres weake force reuiueth:

Some wits there be which lyke my method well, / And say my verse runnes in a lofty vayne; / Some say, I haue a passing pleasing straine,

O eyes! behold your happy Hesperus, / That luckie Load-starre of eternall light, / Left as that sunne alone to comfort vs,

My thoughts bred vp with Eagle-birds of loue, / And, for their vertues I desiered to know, / Vpon the nest I set them forth, to proue

Three sorts of serpents doe resemble thee; / That daungerous eye-killing Cockatrice, / Th' inchaunting Syren, which doth so entice,

Sitting alone, loue bids me goe and write; / Reason plucks backe, commaunding me to stay, / Boasting that shee doth still direct the way,

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:

Whilst thus mine eyes doe surfet with delight, / My wofull hart, imprisond in my breast, / Wishing to be trans-formd into my sight,