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XLI
Fair shepherdess, when as these rustic lines
Comes to thy sight, weigh but with what affection
Thy servile doth depaint his sad designs,
Which to redress of thee he makes election.
If so you scorn, you kill; if you seem coy,
You wound poor Corin to the very heart;
If that you smile, you shall increase his joy;
If these you like, you banish do all smart.
And this I do protest, most fairest fair,
My muse shall never cease that hill to climb,
To which the learnèd Muses do repair,
And all to deify thy name in rime;
And never none shall write with truer mind,
As by all proof and trial you shall find.
