LVIII.
Doubt there hath been—when, with his golden chain,
The Orator so far men's hearts doth bind;
That no pace else their guided steps can find,
But as he them more short or slack doth rein—
Whether with words, this sovereignty he gain;
Clothed with fine tropes, with strongest reasons lined:
Or else pronouncing grace, wherewith his mind
Prints his own lively form in rudest brain?
Now judge by this. In piercing phrases, late,
The anatomy of all my woes I wrote.
STELLA'S sweet breath the same to me did read.
O voice! O face! maugre my speeches' might
Which wooed woe: most ravishing delight,
Even those sad words, even in sad me, did breed.
LIX.
Dear! Why make you more of a dog, than me?
If he do love; I burn, I burn in love!
If he wait well; I never thence would move!
If he be fair; yet but a dog can be.
Little he is, so little worth is he.
He barks; my songs, thine own voice oft doth prove.
Bidden perhaps, he fetcheth thee a glove;
But I unbid, fetch even my soul to thee!
Yet while I languish; him, that bosom clips,
That lap doth lap, nay, lets in spite of spite,
This sour-breathed mate taste of those sugared lips.
Alas, if you grant only such delight
To witless things; then LOVE I hope (since wit
Becomes a clog) will soon ease me of it.
