LXX. </poem> My muse may well grudge at my heavenly joy, If still I force her in sad rhymes to creep; She oft hath drunk my tears, now hopes t'enjoy Nectar of mirth, since I, JOVE'S cup do keep.
Sonnets be not bound 'prentice to ANNOY:
Trebles sing high, as well as basses deep: Grief, but LOVE'S winter livery is: the boy Hath cheeks to smile as well as eyes to weep.
Come then, my Muse! show thou height of delight
In well-raised notes: my pen, the best it may Shall paint out joy, though but in black and white.
"Cease! eager Muse!" "Peace! pen! For my sake, stay!"
I give you here my hand for truth of this: "Wise silence is best music unto bliss." </poem>
LXXI.
Who will in fairest book of Nature know
How virtue may best lodged in beauty be;
Let him but learn of love to read in thee!
STELLA! those fair lines which true goodness show.
There, shall he find all vices' overthrow;
Not by rude force, but sweetest sovereignty
Of REASON: from whose light those night birds fly.
That inward sun in thine eyes shineth so.
And not content to be perfection's heir,
Thyself dost strive all minds that way to move;
Who mark in thee, what is in thee most fair:
So while thy beauty draws the heart to love,
As fast thy virtue bends that love to good.
But ah! DESIRE still cries, "Give me some food!"
