XLIV.
My words, I know, do well set forth my mind;
My mind bemoans his sense of inward smart:
Such smart may pity claim of any heart;
Her heart, sweet heart! is of no tigress kind:
And yet she hears, and yet no pity I find;
But more I cry, less grace she doth impart.
Alas, what cause is there, so overthwart,
That Nobleness itself makes thus unkind?
I much do guess, yet find no truth save this;
That when the breath of my complaints do touch
Those dainty doors unto the Court of Bliss,
The heavenly nature of that place is such,
That once come there, the sobs of my annoys
Are metamorphosed straight to tunes of joys.
XLV.
STELLA oft sees the very face of woe
Painted in my beclouded stormy face;
But cannot skill to pity my disgrace,
Not, though thereof the cause herself she know:
Yet hearing late a fable which did show
Of lovers never known, a piteous case;
Pity thereof gat in her breast such place
That from that sea derived, tears' spring did flow.
Alas, if Fancy drawn by imaged things,
Though false, yet with free scope more grace doth breed
Than servant's wrack, where new doubts honour brings;
Then think, my Dear! that you in me do read
Of lovers' ruin, some sad tragedy.
I am not I, pity the tale of me!
