From “Amoretti.” Sonnet LXXV.
ONE day I wrote her name upon the strand,
But came the waves, and washèd it away:
Agayne, I wrote it with a second hand;
But came the tyde, and made my paynes his prey.
Vayne man, say’d she, that doest in vayne assay
A mortall thing so to immortalize;
For I my selve shall like to this decay,
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Did not my muse (what can she less?)
Perceive her own unworthiness,
Could she by some well chosen theme,
But hope to merit your esteem,
She would not thus conceal her lays,
Ambitious to deserve your praise.
But should my Delia take offence,
And frown on her impertinence,
In...