LXXV.

One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away: Agayne I wrote it with a second hand; But came the tyde, and made my paynes his pray. “Vayne man,” sayd she, “that doest in vaine assay A mortall thing so to immortalize; For I my selve shall lyke to this decay, And eke my name bee wyped out lykewize.” “Not so,” quod I; “let baser things devize To dy in dust, but you shall live by fame: My verse your vertues rare shall eternize, And in the hevens wryte your glorious name. Where, when as death shall all the world subdew, Our love shall live, and later life renew.”

LXXVI

Fayre bosome! fraught with vertues richest tresure, The neast of love, the lodging of delight, The bowre of blisse, the paradice of pleasure, The sacred harbour of that hevenly spright, How was I ravisht with your lovely sight, And my frayle thoughts too rashly led astray, Whiles diving deepe through amorous insight, On the sweet spoyle of beautie they did pray, And twixt her paps, like early fruit in May, Whose harvest seemd to hasten now apace, They loosely did theyr wanton winges display, And there to rest themselves did boldly place. Sweet thoughts! I envy your so happy rest, Which oft I wisht, yet never was so blest.