“O Thou mocked heart that cowerest by the door

And durst not honour hope with welcoming,

How shall one bid thee for her honour sing,

When song would but show forth thy sorrow’s store?

What things are gold and ivory unto thee?

Go forth, thou pauper fool! Are these for naught?

Is heaven in lotus leaves? What hast thou wrought,

Or brought, or sought, wherewith to pay the fee?”

“If naught I give, naught do I take return.

’Ronsard me celebroit!’ behold I give

The age-old, age-old fare to fairer fair

And I fare forth into more bitter air;

Though mocked I go, yet shall her beauty live

Till rimes unrime and Truth shall truth unlearn.”