XC.
Stella! Think not that I by verse seek fame; Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee. Thine eyes my pride; thy lips mine history: If thou praise not, all other praise is shame. Not so ambitious am I as to frame A nest for my young praise in laurel tree: In truth I swear, I wish not there should be Graved in my epitaph, a Poet's name. Ne if I would, I could just title make That any laud to me thereof should grow, Without my plumes from others' wings I take. For nothing from my wit or will doth flow: Since all my words, thy beauty doth indite; And love doth hold my hand and makes me write.
XCI.
Stella! While now, by honour's cruel might, I am from you—light of my life misled! And that fair you, my sun, thus overspread, With absence veil; I live in sorrow's night. If this dark place yet show, like candlelight, Some beauty's piece, as amber-coloured head, Milk hands, rose cheeks, or lips more sweet, more red Or seeing gets black, but in blackness bright: They please, I do confess, they please mine eyes. But why? Because of you they models be. Models! Such be wood globes of glistering skies. Dear! Therefore be not jealous over me, If you hear that they seem my heart to move. Not them, O no! but you in them I love.
