XXXIV.
Come, let me write. "And to what end?" To ease
A burthened heart. "How can words ease, which are
The glasses of thy daily vexing care?"
Oft, cruel fights well pictured forth do please.
"Art not ashamed to publish thy disease?"
Nay that may breed my fame. It is so rare.
"But will not wise men think thy words fond ware?"
Then be they close, and so none shall displease.
"What idler thing, than speak and not be heard?"
What harder thing, than smart and not to speak?
"Peace! foolish wit!" With wit, my wit is marred.
Thus write I, while I doubt to write; and wreak
My harms on ink's poor loss. Perhaps some find
STELLA'S great powers, that so confuse my mind.
XXXV.
What may words say, or what may words not say;
Where truth itself must speak like flattery?
Within what bounds, can one his liking stay;
Where Nature doth with infinite agree?
What NESTOR'S counsel can my flames allay,
Since REASON'S self doth blow the coal in me?
And ah! what hope that hope should once see day,
Where CUPID is sworn page to CHASTITY?
HONOUR is honoured, that thou dost possess
Him as thy slave; and now long needy FAME
Doth even grow rich, naming my STELLA'S name.
WIT learns in thee perfection to express;
Not thou by praise, but PRAISE in thee is raised.
It is a praise to praise, where thou art praised.
