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.