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 VI.

Some lovers speak, when they their Muses entertain, Of hopes begot by fear, of wot not what desires, Of force of heavenly beams infusing hellish pain, Of living deaths, dear wounds, fair storms, and freezing fires. Some one his song, in JOVE and JOVE's strange tales attires; Bordered with bulls and swans, powdered with golden rain: Another humbler wit to shepherd's pipe retires, Yet hiding royal blood full oft in rural vein. To some a sweetest plaint, a sweetest style affords; While tears pour out his ink, and sighs breathe out his words: His paper, pale despair; and pain, his pen doth move. I can speak what I feel, and feel as much as they; But think that all the map of my state I display, When trembling voice brings forth, that I do STELLA love.

VII.

When Nature made her chief work—STELLA's eyes; In colour black, why wrapt she beams so bright? Would she in beamy black, like painter wise, Frame daintiest lustre, mixed of shades and light? Or did she else that sober hue devise, In object best to knit and strength our sight? Lest if no veil these brave gleams did disguise, They sun-like should more dazzle than delight. Or would she her miraculous power show? That whereas black seems beauty's contrary; She, even in black, doth make all beauties flow! But so and thus, she minding LOVE should be Placed ever there, gave him this mourning weed; To honour all their deaths, which for her bleed.