Page:An English Garner Ingatherings from Our History and Literature (Volume 1 1877).pdf/518

 XIV.

Alas! Have I not pain enough? my friend! Upon whose breast, a fiercer gripe doth tire, Than did on him who first stole down the fire; While LOVE on me, doth all his quiver spend: But with your rhubarb words ye must contend To grieve me worse in saying, "That Desire Doth plunge my well-formed soul even in the mire Of sinful thoughts, which do in ruin end." If that be sin, which doth the manners frame Well stayed with truth in word, and faith of deed; Ready of wit, and fearing nought but shame: If that be sin, which in fixt hearts doth breed A loathing of all loose unchastity: Then love is sin, and let me sinful be!

XV.

You that do search for every purling spring Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows; And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows Near thereabouts, into your poesy wring: You that do dictionary's method bring Into your rhymes running in rattling rows; You that poor PETRARCH'S long deceasèd woes, With newborn sighs and denizened wit do sing: You take wrong ways! Those far-fet helps be such As do bewray a want of inward touch; And sure at length, stolen goods do come to light. But if (both for your love and skill) your name You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame: STELLA behold! and then begin to endite.