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 done, 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.