Astrophel and Stella: III

Let dainty wits cry on the sisters nine,That, bravely mask'd, their fancies may be told;Or, Pindar's apes, flaunt they in phrases fine,Enam'ling with pied flowers their thoughts of gold.Or else let them in statelier glory shine,Ennobling newfound tropes with problems old;Or with strange similes enrich each line,Of herbs or beasts which Ind or Afric hold.For me, in sooth, no Muse but one I know;

My True Love Hath My Heart, And I Have His

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,By just exchange, one for the other giv'n.I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;There never was a better bargain driv'n.His heart in me keeps me and him in one,My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;He loves my heart, for once it was his own;I cherish his, because in me it bides.His heart his wound received from my sight:My heart was wounded

To The Sad Moon

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!How silently, and with how wan a face!What! May it be that even in heavenly placeThat busy archer his sharp arrows tries?Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyesCan judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case:I read it in thy looks; thy languished graceTo me, that feel the like, thy state descries.Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,Is