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.
