SONNET LXI

CAELICA, while you doe sweare you loue me best, And euer lovèd onely me, I feele that all powers are opprest By loue, and loue by Destinie.      For as the child in swadlin-bands, When it doth see the nurse come nigh, With smiles and crowes doth lift the hands, Yet still must in the cradle lie:      So in the boate of fate I rowe,      And looking to you, from you goe. When I see in thy once-belouèd browes, The heauy marks of constant loue, I call to minde my broken vowes, And child-like to the nurse would moue; ' But Loue is of the phoenix-kind, ' And burnes itselfe, in self-made fire, ' To breed still new birds in the minde, ' From ashes of the old desire:      ' And hath his wings from constancy,      ' As mountaines call'd of mouing be. Then Caelica lose not heart-eloquence, Loue vnderstands not, 'come againe:' Who changes in her own defence, Needs not cry to the deafe in vaine. Loue is no true made looking-glasse, Which perfect yeelds the shape we bring; It vgly showes vs all that was, And flatters euery future thing.      When Phoebus' beames no more appeare,      'Tis darker that the day was here. Change I confesse it is a hatefull power, To them that all at once must thinke; Yet Nature made both sweet and sower, She gaue the eye a lid to winke: And though the youth that are estrang'd From mother's lap to other skyes, Doe thinke that Nature there is chang'd, Because at home their knowledge lyes;      Yet shall they see who farre haue gone,      That Pleasure speaks more tongues than one. The leaues fall off, when sap goes to the root, The warmth doth clothe the bough againe; But to the dead tree what doth boot, The silly man's manuring paine? Vnkindnesse may peece vp againe, But kindnesse either chang'd or dead, Selfe-pittie may in fooles complaine; Put thou thy hornes on others' head:      For constant faith is made a drudge:      But when requiting Loue is iudge.