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Poem
Ah, God, the way your little finger moved 
As you thrust a bare arm backward 
And made play with your hair 
And a comb a silly gilt comb 
Ah, God—that I should suffer 
Because of the way a little finger moved.
  
Dear, I to thee this diamond commend, 
In which a model of thyself I send. 
How just unto thy joints this circlet sitteth, 
So just thy face and shape my fancy fitteth. 
The touch will try this ring of purest gold, 
My touch tries thee, as pure though softer mold. 
That metal precious is, the stone is true, 
As true, and then how much more precious you. 
The gem is clear, and hath nor needs no foil, 
Thy face, nay more, thy fame is free from soil. 
You\\\'ll deem this dear, because from me you have it, 
I deem your faith more dear, because you gave it. 
This pointed diamond cuts glass and steel, 
Your love\\\'s like force in my firm heart I feel. 
     But this, as all things else, time wastes with wearing, 
     Where you my jewels multiply with bearing.
My lady\\\'s presence makes the roses red,
Because to see her lips they blush for shame.
The lily\\\'s leaves, for envy, pale became,
And her white hands in them this envy bred.
The marigold the leaves abroad doth spread,
Because the sun\\\'s and her power is the same.
The violet of purple colour came.
Dyed in the blood she made my heart to shed.
In brief: all flowers from her their virtue take;
From her sweet breath their sweet smells do proceed;
The living heat which her eyebeams doth make
Warmeth the ground and quickeneth the seed.
The rain, wherewith she watereth the flowers,
Falls from mine eyes, which she dissolves in showers

One day I wrote her name upon the strand, 
But came the waves and washed it away: 
Again I wrote it with a second hand, 
But came the tide, and made my pains his prey. 
Vain man, said she, that dost in vain assay 
A mortal thing so to immortalize! 
For I myself shall like to this decay, 
And eek my name be wiped out likewise. 
Not so (quoth I), let baser things devise 
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame: 
My verse your virtues rare shall eternize, 
And in the heavens write your glorious name; 
Where, whenas death shall all the world subdue, 
Our love shall live, and later life renew.
Diaphenia, like the daffadowndilly, 
White as the sun, fair as the lily, 
          Heigh ho, how I do love thee! 
I do love thee as my lambs 
Are belovëd of their dams—
          How blest were I if thou wouldst prove me!
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