LIKE MEMNON's rock, touched with the rising sun,
Which yields a sound, and echoes forth a voice:
But when it's drowned in western seas is dumb;
And drowsy-like, leaves off to make a noise.
So I, my Love, enlightened with your shine,
A Poet's skill within my soul I shroud;
Not rude, like that which finer wits decline;
But such as Muses, to the best allowed.
But when your figure and your shape is gone;
I speechless am, like as I was before:
Or if I write, my verse is filled with moan;
And blurred with tears, by falling in such store.
Then muse not, LICIA, if my Muse be slack:
For when I wrote, I did thy beauty lack.