LXXXII.

Ioy of my life! full oft for loving you I blesse my lot, that was so lucky placed: But then the more your owne mishap I rew, That are so much by so meane love embased. For had the equall hevens so much you graced In this as in the rest, ye mote invent* Some hevenly wit, whose verse could have enchased Your glorious name in golden moniment. But since ye deignd so goodly to relent To me your thrall, in whom is little worth, That little that I am shall all be spent In setting your immortal prayses forth: Whose lofty argument, uplifting me, Shall lift you up unto an high degree. [* _Invent_, light upon, find.]

LXXXIII

Let not one sparke of filthy lustfull fyre Breake out, that may her sacred peace molest; Ne one light glance of sensuall desyre Attempt to work her gentle mindes unrest: But pure affections bred in spotlesse brest, And modest thoughts breathd from well-tempred spirits, Goe visit her in her chaste bowre of rest, Accompanyde with ángelick delightes. There fill your selfe with those most ioyous sights, The which my selfe could never yet attayne: But speake no word to her of these sad plights, Which her too constant stiffnesse doth constrayn. Onely behold her rare perfection, And blesse your fortunes fayre election.