The Poems of Henry Howard :: :: University of Virginia Library

Syns fortunes wrath enuieth the welth
Wherein I raygned, by the sight
Of that, that fed mine eyes by stelth
With sower, swete, dreade, and delight,
Let not my griefe moue you to mone,
For I will wepe and wayle alone.

Spite draue me into Borias raigne,
Where hory frostes the frutes do bite,
When hilles were spred and euery playne
With stormy winters mantle white;
And yet, my deare, such was my heate,
When others frese then did I swete.

And now, though on the sunne I driue,
Whose feruent flame all thinges decaies,
His beames in brightnesse may not striue
With light of your swete golden rayes,
Nor from my brest this heate remoue
The frosen thoughtes grauen by loue.

Ne may the waues of the salt floode
Quenche that your beauty set on fire,
For though mine eyes forbere the fode
That did releue the hot desire,
Such as I was, such will I be,—
Your owne. What would ye more of me!