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To CYNTHIA.
HAdst thou been blacke, or yet had I been blind,
my muse had slept, & none had known my mind
Or yet couldst thou as thou art faire, be kind,
I had not thus with sighs increast the wind:
But loe these frowning fauours which I find,
To which allace thou art too much inclind,
By which thy poore afflicted man is pind,
Haue broke the heart, which beautie first did bind:
Smile then faire dame, & some time cease to frown
For smiles please mee, and do become thee best:
And since thou sees how I am sworne thine owne,
Smile still on him who loues thee by the rest,
So neither shall I wish thee to be blacke,
Nor curse my eyes, the causers of my wrecke.
Nam si quem placidis facilis dignaris ocellis,Nectaris huic fontes, ambrosia{que} fluunt.