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