C.
O tears! No tears but rain from beauty's skies
Making those lilies and those roses grow;
Which aye most fair, now more than most fair show;
While graceful pity, beauty beautifies.
O honeyed Sighs! which from that breast do rise,
Whose pants do make unspilling cream to flow:
Winged with whose breath, so pleasing zephyrs blow
As can refresh the hell where my soul fries.
O Plaints! conserved in such a sugared phrase.
That eloquence itself envies your praise.
While sobbed out words a perfect music give.
Such Tears, Sighs, Plaints, no sorrow are but joy:
Or if such heavenly signs must prove annoy;
All mirth, farewell! Let me in sorrow live!
CI.
STELLA is sick, and in that sick bed lies
SWEETNESS, which breathes and pants, as oft as she;
And GRACE, sick too, such fine conclusions tries,
That Sickness brags itself best graced to be.
BEAUTY is sick, but sick in such fair guise
That in that paleness BEAUTY'S white we see;
And JOY, which is inseparate from those eyes.
STELLA now learns—strange case!—to weep in thee.
LOVE moves thy pain, and like a faithful page,
As thy looks stir, comes up and down to make
All folks prest at thy will, thy pain to assuage.
Nature with care sweats for her darling's sake:
Knowing worlds pass ere she enough can find
Of such heaven stuff, to clothe so heavenly a mind.
