university library. html version by al haines. the sonnets by william shakespeare i from fairest creatures we desire increase, that thereby beauty's rose might never die, but as the riper should by time decease, his tender heir might bear his memory: but thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, making a famine where abundance lies, thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel: thou that art now the world's fresh ornament, and only herald to the gaudy spring, within thine own bud buriest thy content, and tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding: pity the world, or else this glutton be, to eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. ii when forty winters shall besiege thy brow, and dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now, will be a tatter'd weed of small worth held: then being asked, where all thy beauty lies, where all the treasure of thy lusty days; to say, within thine own deep sunken eyes, were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise. how much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use, if thou couldst answer 'this fair child of mine shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,' proving his beauty by succession thine! this were to be new made when thou art old, and see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. iii look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest now is the time that face should form another; whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. for where is she so fair whose unear'd womb disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? or who is he so fond will be the tomb, of his self-love to stop posterity? thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee calls back the lovely april of her prime; so thou through windows of thine age shalt see, despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. but if thou live, remember'd not to be, die single and thine image dies with thee. iv unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend upon thy self thy beauty's legacy? nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend, and being frank she lends to those are free: then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse the bounteous largess given thee to give? profitless usurer, why dost thou use so great a sum of sums, yet canst not live? for having traffic with thy self alone, thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive: then how when nature calls thee to be gone, what acceptable audit canst thou leave? thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee, which, used, lives th' executor to be. v those hours, that with gentle work did frame the lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, will play the tyrants to the very same and that unfair which fairly doth excel; for never-resting time leads summer on to hideous winter, and confounds him there; sap checked with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone, beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where: then were not summer's distillation left, a liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, nor it, nor no remembrance what it was: but flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet, leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet. vi then let not winter's ragged hand deface, in thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd: make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place with beauty's treasure ere it be self-kill'd. that use is not forbidden usury, which happies those that pay the willing loan; that's for thy self to breed another thee, or ten times happier, be it ten for one; ten times thy self were happier than thou art, if ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee: then what could death do if thou shouldst depart, leaving thee living in posterity? be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair to be death's conquest and make worms thine heir. vii lo! in the orient when the gracious light lifts up his burning head, each under eye doth homage to his new-appearing sight, serving with looks his sacred majesty; and having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill, resembling strong youth in his middle age, yet mortal looks adore his beauty still, attending on his golden pilgrimage: but when from highmost pitch, with weary car, like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, the eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are from his low tract, and look another way: so thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon: unlook'd, on diest unless thou get a son. viii music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy: why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly, or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy? if the true concord of well-tuned sounds, by unions married, do offend thine ear, they do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds in singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear. mark how one string, sweet husband to another, strikes each in each by mutual ordering; resembling sire and child and happy mother, who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing: whose speechless song being many, seeming one, sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.' ix is it for fear to wet a widow's eye, that thou consum'st thy self in single life? ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die, the world will wail thee like a makeless wife; the world will be thy widow and still weep that thou no form of thee hast left behind, when every private widow well may keep by children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind: look! what an unthrift in the world doth spend shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it; but beauty's waste hath in the world an end, and kept unused the user so destroys it. no love toward others in that bosom sits that on himself such murd'rous shame commits. x for shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any, who for thy self art so unprovident. grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many, but that thou none lov'st is most evident: for thou art so possess'd with murderous hate, that 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not to conspire, seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate which to repair should be thy chief desire. o! change thy thought, that i may change my mind: shall hate be fairer lodg'd than gentle love? be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind, or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove: make thee another self for love of me, that beauty still may live in thine or thee. xi as fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st, in one of thine, from that which thou departest; and that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st, thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest, herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase; without this folly, age, and cold decay: if all were minded so, the times should cease and threescore year would make the world away. let those whom nature hath not made for store, harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish: look, whom she best endow'd, she gave thee more; which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish: she carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby, thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die. xii when i do count the clock that tells the time, and see the brave day sunk in hideous night; when i behold the violet past prime, and sable curls, all silvered o'er with white; when lofty trees i see barren of leaves, which erst from heat did canopy the herd, and summer's green all girded up in sheaves, borne on the bier with white and bristly beard, then of thy beauty do i question make, that thou among the wastes of time must go, since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake and die as fast as they see others grow; and nothing 'gainst time's scythe can make defence save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. xiii o! that you were your self; but, love you are no longer yours, than you your self here live: against this coming end you should prepare, and your sweet semblance to some other give: so should that beauty which you hold in lease find no determination; then you were yourself again, after yourself's decease, when your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. who lets so fair a house fall to decay, which husbandry in honour might uphold, against the stormy gusts of winter's day and barren rage of death's eternal cold? o! none but unthrifts. dear my love, you know, you had a father: let your son say so. xiv not from the stars do i my judgement pluck; and yet methinks i have astronomy, but not to tell of good or evil luck, of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality; nor can i fortune to brief minutes tell, pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind, or say with princes if it shall go well by oft predict that i in heaven find: but from thine eyes my knowledge i derive, and constant stars in them i read such art as 'truth and beauty shall together thrive, if from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert'; or else of thee this i prognosticate: 'thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.' xv when i consider every thing that grows holds in perfection but a little moment, that this huge stage presenteth nought but shows whereon the stars in secret influence comment; when i perceive that men as plants increase, cheered and checked even by the self-same sky, vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, and wear their brave state out of memory; then the conceit of this inconstant stay sets you most rich in youth before my sight, where wasteful time debateth with decay to change your day of youth to sullied night, and all in war with time for love of you, as he takes from you, i engraft you new. xvi but wherefore do not you a mightier way make war upon this bloody tyrant, time? and fortify your self in your decay with means more blessed than my barren rhyme? now stand you on the top of happy hours, and many maiden gardens, yet unset, with virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, much liker than your painted counterfeit: so should the lines of life that life repair, which this, time's pencil, or my pupil pen, neither in inward worth nor outward fair, can make you live your self in eyes of men. to give away yourself, keeps yourself still, and you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. xvii who will believe my verse in time to come, if it were fill'd with your most high deserts? though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb which hides your life, and shows not half your parts. if i could write the beauty of your eyes, and in fresh numbers number all your graces, the age to come would say 'this poet lies; such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.' so should my papers, yellow'd with their age, be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue, and your true rights be term'd a poet's rage and stretched metre of an antique song: but were some child of yours alive that time, you should live twice,--in it, and in my rhyme. xviii shall i compare thee to a summer's day? thou art more lovely and more temperate: rough winds do shake the darling buds of may, and summer's lease hath all too short a date: sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimm'd, and every fair from fair sometime declines, by chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd: but thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, when in eternal lines to time thou grow'st, so long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee. xix devouring time, blunt thou the lion's paws, and make the earth devour her own sweet brood; pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, and burn the long-liv'd phoenix, in her blood; make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets, and do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed time, to the wide world and all her fading sweets; but i forbid thee one most heinous crime: o! carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen; him in thy course untainted do allow for beauty's pattern to succeeding men. yet, do thy worst old time: despite thy wrong, my love shall in my verse ever live young. xx a woman's face with nature's own hand painted, hast thou, the master mistress of my passion; a woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted with shifting change, as is false women's fashion: an eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; a man in hue all 'hues' in his controlling, which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth. and for a woman wert thou first created; till nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, and by addition me of thee defeated, by adding one thing to my purpose nothing. but since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure. xxi so is it not with me as with that muse, stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse, who heaven itself for ornament doth use and every fair with his fair doth rehearse, making a couplement of proud compare. with sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, with april's first-born flowers, and all things rare, that heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. o! let me, true in love, but truly write, and then believe me, my love is as fair as any mother's child, though not so bright as those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air: let them say more that like of hearsay well; i will not praise that purpose not to sell. xxii my glass shall not persuade me i am old, so long as youth and thou are of one date; but when in thee time's furrows i behold, then look i death my days should expiate. for all that beauty that doth cover thee, is but the seemly raiment of my heart, which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me: how can i then be elder than thou art? o! therefore love, be of thyself so wary as i, not for myself, but for thee will; bearing thy heart, which i will keep so chary as tender nurse her babe from faring ill. presume not on thy heart when mine is slain, thou gav'st me thine not to give back again. xxiii as an unperfect actor on the stage, who with his fear is put beside his part, or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; so i, for fear of trust, forget to say the perfect ceremony of love's rite, and in mine own love's strength seem to decay, o'ercharg'd with burthen of mine own love's might. o! let my looks be then the eloquence and dumb presagers of my speaking breast, who plead for love, and look for recompense, more than that tongue that more hath more express'd. o! learn to read what silent love hath writ: to hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. xxiv mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd, thy beauty's form in table of my heart; my body is the frame wherein 'tis held, and perspective it is best painter's art. for through the painter must you see his skill, to find where your true image pictur'd lies, which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, that hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done: mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me are windows to my breast, where-through the sun delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art, they draw but what they see, know not the heart. xxv let those who are in favour with their stars of public honour and proud titles boast, whilst i, whom fortune of such triumph bars unlook'd for joy in that i honour most. great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread but as the marigold at the sun's eye, and in themselves their pride lies buried, for at a frown they in their glory die. the painful warrior famoused for fight, after a thousand victories once foil'd, is from the book of honour razed quite, and all the rest forgot for which he toil'd: then happy i, that love and am belov'd, where i may not remove nor be remov'd. xxvi lord of my love, to whom in vassalage thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, to thee i send this written embassage, to witness duty, not to show my wit: duty so great, which wit so poor as mine may make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, but that i hope some good conceit of thine in thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it: till whatsoever star that guides my moving, points on me graciously with fair aspect, and puts apparel on my tatter'd loving, to show me worthy of thy sweet respect: then may i dare to boast how i do love thee; till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me. xxvii weary with toil, i haste me to my bed, the dear respose for limbs with travel tir'd; but then begins a journey in my head to work my mind, when body's work's expired: for then my thoughts--from far where i abide- intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, and keep my drooping eyelids open wide, looking on darkness which the blind do see: save that my soul's imaginary sight presents thy shadow to my sightless view, which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, makes black night beauteous, and her old face new. lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, for thee, and for myself, no quiet find. xxviii how can i then return in happy plight, that am debarre'd the benefit of rest? when day's oppression is not eas'd by night, but day by night and night by day oppress'd, and each, though enemies to either's reign, do in consent shake hands to torture me, the one by toil, the other to complain how far i toil, still farther off from thee. i tell the day, to please him thou art bright, and dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven: so flatter i the swart-complexion'd night, when sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even. but day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, and night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger. xxix when in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes i all alone beweep my outcast state, and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, and look upon myself, and curse my fate, wishing me like to one more rich in hope, featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd, desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, with what i most enjoy contented least; yet in these thoughts my self almost despising, haply i think on thee,-and then my state, like to the lark at break of day arising from sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; for thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings that then i scorn to change my state with kings. xxx when to the sessions of sweet silent thought i summon up remembrance of things past, i sigh the lack of many a thing i sought, and with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: then can i drown an eye, unused to flow, for precious friends hid in death's dateless night, and weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, and moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: then can i grieve at grievances foregone, and heavily from woe to woe tell o'er the sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, which i new pay as if not paid before. but if the while i think on thee, dear friend, all losses are restor'd and sorrows end. xxxi thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, which i by lacking have supposed dead; and there reigns love, and all love's loving parts, and all those friends which i thought buried. how many a holy and obsequious tear hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye, as interest of the dead, which now appear but things remov'd that hidden in thee lie! thou art the grave where buried love doth live, hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, who all their parts of me to thee did give, that due of many now is thine alone: their images i lov'd, i view in thee, and thou--all they--hast all the all of me. xxxii if thou survive my well-contented day, when that churl death my bones with dust shall cover and shalt by fortune once more re-survey these poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, compare them with the bett'ring of the time, and though they be outstripp'd by every pen, reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, exceeded by the height of happier men. o! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: 'had my friend's muse grown with this growing age, a dearer birth than this his love had brought, to march in ranks of better equipage: but since he died and poets better prove, theirs for their style i'll read, his for his love'. xxxiii full many a glorious morning have i seen flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, kissing with golden face the meadows green, gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; anon permit the basest clouds to ride with ugly rack on his celestial face, and from the forlorn world his visage hide, stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: even so my sun one early morn did shine, with all triumphant splendour on my brow; but out! alack! he was but one hour mine, the region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. xxxiv why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, and make me travel forth without my cloak, to let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? 'tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, to dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, for no man well of such a salve can speak, that heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace: nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; though thou repent, yet i have still the loss: the offender's sorrow lends but weak relief to him that bears the strong offence's cross. ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, and they are rich and ransom all ill deeds. xxxv no more be griev'd at that which thou hast done: roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud: clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, and loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. all men make faults, and even i in this, authorizing thy trespass with compare, myself corrupting, salving thy amiss, excusing thy sins more than thy sins are; for to thy sensual fault i bring in sense,- thy adverse party is thy advocate,- and 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence: such civil war is in my love and hate, that i an accessary needs must be, to that sweet thief which sourly robs from me. xxxvi let me confess that we two must be twain, although our undivided loves are one: so shall those blots that do with me remain, without thy help, by me be borne alone. in our two loves there is but one respect, though in our lives a separable spite, which though it alter not love's sole effect, yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. i may not evermore acknowledge thee, lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame, nor thou with public kindness honour me, unless thou take that honour from thy name: but do not so, i love thee in such sort, as thou being mine, mine is thy good report. xxxvii as a decrepit father takes delight to see his active child do deeds of youth, so i, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, take all my comfort of thy worth and truth; for whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, or any of these all, or all, or more, entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit, i make my love engrafted, to this store: so then i am not lame, poor, nor despis'd, whilst that this shadow doth such substance give that i in thy abundance am suffic'd, and by a part of all thy glory live. look what is best, that best i wish in thee: this wish i have; then ten times happy me! xxxviii how can my muse want subject to invent, while thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse thine own sweet argument, too excellent for every vulgar paper to rehearse? o! give thy self the thanks, if aught in me worthy perusal stand against thy sight; for who's so dumb that cannot write to thee, when thou thy self dost give invention light? be thou the tenth muse, ten times more in worth than those old nine which rhymers invocate; and he that calls on thee, let him bring forth eternal numbers to outlive long date. if my slight muse do please these curious days, the pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise. xxxix o! how thy worth with manners may i sing, when thou art all the better part of me? what can mine own praise to mine own self bring? and what is't but mine own when i praise thee? even for this, let us divided live, and our dear love lose name of single one, that by this separation i may give that due to thee which thou deserv'st alone. o absence! what a torment wouldst thou prove, were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave, to entertain the time with thoughts of love, which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive, and that thou teachest how to make one twain, by praising him here who doth hence remain. xl take all my loves, my love, yea take them all; what hast thou then more than thou hadst before? no love, my love, that thou mayst true love call; all mine was thine, before thou hadst this more. then, if for my love, thou my love receivest, i cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest; but yet be blam'd, if thou thy self deceivest by wilful taste of what thyself refusest. i do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief, although thou steal thee all my poverty: and yet, love knows it is a greater grief to bear love's wrong, than hate's known injury. lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, kill me with spites yet we must not be foes. xli those pretty wrongs that liberty commits, when i am sometime absent from thy heart, thy beauty, and thy years full well befits, for still temptation follows where thou art. gentle thou art, and therefore to be won, beauteous thou art, therefore to be assail'd; and when a woman woos, what woman's son will sourly leave her till he have prevail'd? ay me! but yet thou mightst my seat forbear, and chide thy beauty and thy straying youth, who lead thee in their riot even there where thou art forced to break a twofold truth:- hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee, thine by thy beauty being false to me. xlii that thou hast her it is not all my grief, and yet it may be said i loved her dearly; that she hath thee is of my wailing chief, a loss in love that touches me more nearly. loving offenders thus i will excuse ye: thou dost love her, because thou know'st i love her; and for my sake even so doth she abuse me, suffering my friend for my sake to approve her. if i lose thee, my loss is my love's gain, and losing her, my friend hath found that loss; both find each other, and i lose both twain, and both for my sake lay on me this cross: but here's the joy; my friend and i are one; sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone. xliii when most i wink, then do mine eyes best see, for all the day they view things unrespected; but when i sleep, in dreams they look on thee, and darkly bright, are bright in dark directed. then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright, how would thy shadow's form form happy show to the clear day with thy much clearer light, when to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so! how would, i say, mine eyes be blessed made by looking on thee in the living day, when in dead night thy fair imperfect shade through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay! all days are nights to see till i see thee, and nights bright days when dreams do show thee me. xliv if the dull substance of my flesh were thought, injurious distance should not stop my way; for then despite of space i would be brought, from limits far remote, where thou dost stay. no matter then although my foot did stand upon the farthest earth remov'd from thee; for nimble thought can jump both sea and land, as soon as think the place where he would be. but, ah! thought kills me that i am not thought, to leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone, but that so much of earth and water wrought, i must attend time's leisure with my moan; receiving nought by elements so slow but heavy tears, badges of either's woe. xlv the other two, slight air, and purging fire are both with thee, wherever i abide; the first my thought, the other my desire, these present-absent with swift motion slide. for when these quicker elements are gone in tender embassy of love to thee, my life, being made of four, with two alone sinks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy; until life's composition be recur'd by those swift messengers return'd from thee, who even but now come back again, assur'd, of thy fair health, recounting it to me: this told, i joy; but then no longer glad, i send them back again, and straight grow sad. xlvi mine eye and heart are at a mortal war, how to divide the conquest of thy sight; mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar, my heart mine eye the freedom of that right. my heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie,- a closet never pierc'd with crystal eyes- but the defendant doth that plea deny, and says in him thy fair appearance lies. to side this title is impannelled a quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart; and by their verdict is determined the clear eye's moiety, and the dear heart's part: as thus; mine eye's due is thy outward part, and my heart's right, thy inward love of heart. xlvii betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, and each doth good turns now unto the other: when that mine eye is famish'd for a look, or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother, with my love's picture then my eye doth feast, and to the painted banquet bids my heart; another time mine eye is my heart's guest, and in his thoughts of love doth share a part: so, either by thy picture or my love, thy self away, art present still with me; for thou not farther than my thoughts canst move, and i am still with them, and they with thee; or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight awakes my heart, to heart's and eye's delight. xlviii how careful was i when i took my way, each trifle under truest bars to thrust, that to my use it might unused stay from hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust! but thou, to whom my jewels trifles are, most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief, thou best of dearest, and mine only care, art left the prey of every vulgar thief. thee have i not lock'd up in any chest, save where thou art not, though i feel thou art, within the gentle closure of my breast, from whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part; and even thence thou wilt be stol'n i fear, for truth proves thievish for a prize so dear. xlix against that time, if ever that time come, when i shall see thee frown on my defects, when as thy love hath cast his utmost sum, call'd to that audit by advis'd respects; against that time when thou shalt strangely pass, and scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye, when love, converted from the thing it was, shall reasons find of settled gravity; against that time do i ensconce me here, within the knowledge of mine own desert, and this my hand, against my self uprear, to guard the lawful reasons on thy part: to leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws, since why to love i can allege no cause. l how heavy do i journey on the way, when what i seek, my weary travel's end, doth teach that ease and that repose to say, 'thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!' the beast that bears me, tired with my woe, plods dully on, to bear that weight in me, as if by some instinct the wretch did know his rider lov'd not speed, being made from thee: the bloody spur cannot provoke him on, that sometimes anger thrusts into his hide, which heavily he answers with a groan, more sharp to me than spurring to his side; for that same groan doth put this in my mind, my grief lies onward, and my joy behind. li thus can my love excuse the slow offence of my dull bearer when from thee i speed: from where thou art why should i haste me thence? till i return, of posting is no need. o! what excuse will my poor beast then find, when swift extremity can seem but slow? then should i spur, though mounted on the wind, in winged speed no motion shall i know, then can no horse with my desire keep pace; therefore desire, of perfect'st love being made, shall neigh--no dull flesh--in his fiery race; but love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade,- 'since from thee going, he went wilful-slow, towards thee i'll run, and give him leave to go.' lii so am i as the rich, whose blessed key, can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, the which he will not every hour survey, for blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, since, seldom coming in that long year set, like stones of worth they thinly placed are, or captain jewels in the carcanet. so is the time that keeps you as my chest, or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, to make some special instant special-blest, by new unfolding his imprison'd pride. blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope, being had, to triumph; being lacked, to hope. liii what is your substance, whereof are you made, that millions of strange shadows on you tend? since every one, hath every one, one shade, and you but one, can every shadow lend. describe adonis, and the counterfeit is poorly imitated after you; on helen's cheek all art of beauty set, and you in grecian tires are painted new: speak of the spring, and foison of the year, the one doth shadow of your beauty show, the other as your bounty doth appear; and you in every blessed shape we know. in all external grace you have some part, but you like none, none you, for constant heart. liv o! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem by that sweet ornament which truth doth give. the rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem for that sweet odour, which doth in it live. the canker blooms have full as deep a dye as the perfumed tincture of the roses. hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly when summer's breath their masked buds discloses: but, for their virtue only is their show, they live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade; die to themselves. sweet roses do not so; of their sweet deaths, are sweetest odours made: and so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, when that shall vade, by verse distills your truth. lv not marble, nor the gilded monuments of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; but you shall shine more bright in these contents than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time. when wasteful war shall statues overturn, and broils root out the work of masonry, nor mars his sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn the living record of your memory. 'gainst death, and all-oblivious enmity shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room even in the eyes of all posterity that wear this world out to the ending doom. so, till the judgment that yourself arise, you live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. lvi sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said thy edge should blunter be than appetite, which but to-day by feeding is allay'd, to-morrow sharpened in his former might: so, love, be thou, although to-day thou fill thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness, to-morrow see again, and do not kill the spirit of love, with a perpetual dulness. let this sad interim like the ocean be which parts the shore, where two contracted new come daily to the banks, that when they see return of love, more blest may be the view; or call it winter, which being full of care, makes summer's welcome, thrice more wished, more rare. lvii being your slave what should i do but tend, upon the hours, and times of your desire? i have no precious time at all to spend; nor services to do, till you require. nor dare i chide the world-without-end hour, whilst i, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, nor think the bitterness of absence sour, when you have bid your servant once adieu; nor dare i question with my jealous thought where you may be, or your affairs suppose, but, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought save, where you are, how happy you make those. so true a fool is love, that in your will, though you do anything, he thinks no ill. lviii that god forbid, that made me first your slave, i should in thought control your times of pleasure, or at your hand the account of hours to crave, being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure! o! let me suffer, being at your beck, the imprison'd absence of your liberty; and patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check, without accusing you of injury. be where you list, your charter is so strong that you yourself may privilage your time to what you will; to you it doth belong yourself to pardon of self-doing crime. i am to wait, though waiting so be hell, not blame your pleasure be it ill or well. lix if there be nothing new, but that which is hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd, which labouring for invention bear amiss the second burthen of a former child! o! that record could with a backward look, even of five hundred courses of the sun, show me your image in some antique book, since mind at first in character was done! that i might see what the old world could say to this composed wonder of your frame; wh'r we are mended, or wh'r better they, or whether revolution be the same. o! sure i am the wits of former days, to subjects worse have given admiring praise. lx like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, so do our minutes hasten to their end; each changing place with that which goes before, in sequent toil all forwards do contend. nativity, once in the main of light, crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, and time that gave doth now his gift confound. time doth transfix the flourish set on youth and delves the parallels in beauty's brow, feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, and nothing stands but for his scythe to mow: and yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand. praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. lxi is it thy will, thy image should keep open my heavy eyelids to the weary night? dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, while shadows like to thee do mock my sight? is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee so far from home into my deeds to pry, to find out shames and idle hours in me, the scope and tenure of thy jealousy? o, no! thy love, though much, is not so great: it is my love that keeps mine eye awake: mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, to play the watchman ever for thy sake: for thee watch i, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, from me far off, with others all too near. lxii sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye and all my soul, and all my every part; and for this sin there is no remedy, it is so grounded inward in my heart. methinks no face so gracious is as mine, no shape so true, no truth of such account; and for myself mine own worth do define, as i all other in all worths surmount. but when my glass shows me myself indeed beated and chopp'd with tanned antiquity, mine own self-love quite contrary i read; self so self-loving were iniquity. 'tis thee,--myself,--that for myself i praise, painting my age with beauty of thy days. lxiii against my love shall be as i am now, with time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn; when hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow with lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn hath travell'd on to age's steepy night; and all those beauties whereof now he's king are vanishing, or vanished out of sight, stealing away the treasure of his spring; for such a time do i now fortify against confounding age's cruel knife, that he shall never cut from memory my sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life: his beauty shall in these black lines be seen, and they shall live, and he in them still green. lxiv when i have seen by time's fell hand defac'd the rich-proud cost of outworn buried age; when sometime lofty towers i see down-raz'd, and brass eternal slave to mortal rage; when i have seen the hungry ocean gain advantage on the kingdom of the shore, and the firm soil win of the watery main, increasing store with loss, and loss with store; when i have seen such interchange of state, or state itself confounded, to decay; ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate- that time will come and take my love away. this thought is as a death which cannot choose but weep to have, that which it fears to lose. lxv since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, but sad mortality o'ersways their power, how with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, whose action is no stronger than a flower? o! how shall summer's honey breath hold out, against the wrackful siege of battering days, when rocks impregnable are not so stout, nor gates of steel so strong but time decays? o fearful meditation! where, alack, shall time's best jewel from time's chest lie hid? or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? o! none, unless this miracle have might, that in black ink my love may still shine bright. lxvi tired with all these, for restful death i cry, as to behold desert a beggar born, and needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, and purest faith unhappily forsworn, and gilded honour shamefully misplac'd, and maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, and right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd, and strength by limping sway disabled and art made tongue-tied by authority, and folly--doctor-like--controlling skill, and simple truth miscall'd simplicity, and captive good attending captain ill: tir'd with all these, from these would i be gone, save that, to die, i leave my love alone. lxvii ah! wherefore with infection should he live, and with his presence grace impiety, that sin by him advantage should achieve, and lace itself with his society? why should false painting imitate his cheek, and steel dead seeming of his living hue? why should poor beauty indirectly seek roses of shadow, since his rose is true? why should he live, now nature bankrupt is, beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins? for she hath no exchequer now but his, and proud of many, lives upon his gains. o! him she stores, to show what wealth she had in days long since, before these last so bad. lxviii thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, when beauty lived and died as flowers do now, before these bastard signs of fair were born, or durst inhabit on a living brow; before the golden tresses of the dead, the right of sepulchres, were shorn away, to live a second life on second head; ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay: in him those holy antique hours are seen, without all ornament, itself and true, making no summer of another's green, robbing no old to dress his beauty new; and him as for a map doth nature store, to show false art what beauty was of yore. lxix those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend; all tongues--the voice of souls--give thee that due, uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd; but those same tongues, that give thee so thine own, in other accents do this praise confound by seeing farther than the eye hath shown. they look into the beauty of thy mind, and that in guess they measure by thy deeds; then--churls--their thoughts, although their eyes were kind, to thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds: but why thy odour matcheth not thy show, the soil is this, that thou dost common grow. lxx that thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect, for slander's mark was ever yet the fair; the ornament of beauty is suspect, a crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air. so thou be good, slander doth but approve thy worth the greater being woo'd of time; for canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, and thou present'st a pure unstained prime. thou hast passed by the ambush of young days either not assail'd, or victor being charg'd; yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, to tie up envy, evermore enlarg'd, if some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show, then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe. lxxi no longer mourn for me when i am dead than you shall hear the surly sullen bell give warning to the world that i am fled from this vile world with vilest worms to dwell: nay, if you read this line, remember not the hand that writ it, for i love you so, that i in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, if thinking on me then should make you woe. o! if,--i say you look upon this verse, when i perhaps compounded am with clay, do not so much as my poor name rehearse; but let your love even with my life decay; lest the wise world should look into your moan, and mock you with me after i am gone. lxxii o! lest the world should task you to recite what merit lived in me, that you should love after my death,--dear love, forget me quite, for you in me can nothing worthy prove; unless you would devise some virtuous lie, to do more for me than mine own desert, and hang more praise upon deceased i than niggard truth would willingly impart: o! lest your true love may seem false in this that you for love speak well of me untrue, my name be buried where my body is, and live no more to shame nor me nor you. for i am shamed by that which i bring forth, and so should you, to love things nothing worth. lxxiii that time of year thou mayst in me behold when yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang upon those boughs which shake against the cold, bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. in me thou see'st the twilight of such day as after sunset fadeth in the west; which by and by black night doth take away, death's second self, that seals up all in rest. in me thou see'st the glowing of such fire, that on the ashes of his youth doth lie, as the death-bed, whereon it must expire, consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by. this thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, to love that well, which thou must leave ere long. lxxiv but be contented: when that fell arrest without all bail shall carry me away, my life hath in this line some interest, which for memorial still with thee shall stay. when thou reviewest this, thou dost review the very part was consecrate to thee: the earth can have but earth, which is his due; my spirit is thine, the better part of me: so then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, the prey of worms, my body being dead; the coward conquest of a wretch's knife, too base of thee to be remembered. the worth of that is that which it contains, and that is this, and this with thee remains. lxxv so are you to my thoughts as food to life, or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground; and for the peace of you i hold such strife as 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found. now proud as an enjoyer, and anon doubting the filching age will steal his treasure; now counting best to be with you alone, then better'd that the world may see my pleasure: sometime all full with feasting on your sight, and by and by clean starved for a look; possessing or pursuing no delight, save what is had, or must from you be took. thus do i pine and surfeit day by day, or gluttoning on all, or all away. lxxvi why is my verse so barren of new pride, so far from variation or quick change? why with the time do i not glance aside to new-found methods, and to compounds strange? why write i still all one, ever the same, and keep invention in a noted weed, that every word doth almost tell my name, showing their birth, and where they did proceed? o! know sweet love i always write of you, and you and love are still my argument; so all my best is dressing old words new, spending again what is already spent: for as the sun is daily new and old, so is my love still telling what is told. lxxvii thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, thy dial how thy precious minutes waste; these vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, and of this book, this learning mayst thou taste. the wrinkles which thy glass will truly show of mouthed graves will give thee memory; thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know time's thievish progress to eternity. look! what thy memory cannot contain, commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain, to take a new acquaintance of thy mind. these offices, so oft as thou wilt look, shall profit thee and much enrich thy book. lxxviii so oft have i invoked thee for my muse, and found such fair assistance in my verse as every alien pen hath got my use and under thee their poesy disperse. thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing and heavy ignorance aloft to fly, have added feathers to the learned's wing and given grace a double majesty. yet be most proud of that which i compile, whose influence is thine, and born of thee: in others' works thou dost but mend the style, and arts with thy sweet graces graced be; but thou art all my art, and dost advance as high as learning, my rude ignorance. lxxix whilst i alone did call upon thy aid, my verse alone had all thy gentle grace; but now my gracious numbers are decay'd, and my sick muse doth give an other place. i grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument deserves the travail of a worthier pen; yet what of thee thy poet doth invent he robs thee of, and pays it thee again. he lends thee virtue, and he stole that word from thy behaviour; beauty doth he give, and found it in thy cheek: he can afford no praise to thee, but what in thee doth live. then thank him not for that which he doth say, since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay. lxxx o! how i faint when i of you do write, knowing a better spirit doth use your name, and in the praise thereof spends all his might, to make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame! but since your worth--wide as the ocean is,- the humble as the proudest sail doth bear, my saucy bark, inferior far to his, on your broad main doth wilfully appear. your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride; or, being wrack'd, i am a worthless boat, he of tall building, and of goodly pride: then if he thrive and i be cast away, the worst was this,--my love was my decay. lxxxi or i shall live your epitaph to make, or you survive when i in earth am rotten; from hence your memory death cannot take, although in me each part will be forgotten. your name from hence immortal life shall have, though i, once gone, to all the world must die: the earth can yield me but a common grave, when you entombed in men's eyes shall lie. your monument shall be my gentle verse, which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read; and tongues to be, your being shall rehearse, when all the breathers of this world are dead; you still shall live,--such virtue hath my pen,- where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men. lxxxii i grant thou wert not married to my muse, and therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook the dedicated words which writers use of their fair subject, blessing every book. thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, finding thy worth a limit past my praise; and therefore art enforced to seek anew some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. and do so, love; yet when they have devis'd, what strained touches rhetoric can lend, thou truly fair, wert truly sympathiz'd in true plain words, by thy true-telling friend; and their gross painting might be better us'd where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abus'd. lxxxiii i never saw that you did painting need, and therefore to your fair no painting set; i found, or thought i found, you did exceed that barren tender of a poet's debt: and therefore have i slept in your report, that you yourself, being extant, well might show how far a modern quill doth come too short, speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow. this silence for my sin you did impute, which shall be most my glory being dumb; for i impair not beauty being mute, when others would give life, and bring a tomb. there lives more life in one of your fair eyes than both your poets can in praise devise. lxxxiv who is it that says most, which can say more, than this rich praise,--that you alone, are you? in whose confine immured is the store which should example where your equal grew. lean penury within that pen doth dwell that to his subject lends not some small glory; but he that writes of you, if he can tell that you are you, so dignifies his story, let him but copy what in you is writ, not making worse what nature made so clear, and such a counterpart shall fame his wit, making his style admired every where. you to your beauteous blessings add a curse, being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse. lxxxv my tongue-tied muse in manners holds her still, while comments of your praise richly compil'd, reserve their character with golden quill, and precious phrase by all the muses fil'd. i think good thoughts, whilst others write good words, and like unlettered clerk still cry 'amen' to every hymn that able spirit affords, in polish'd form of well-refined pen. hearing you praised, i say ''tis so, 'tis true,' and to the most of praise add something more; but that is in my thought, whose love to you, though words come hindmost, holds his rank before. then others, for the breath of words respect, me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect. lxxxvi was it the proud full sail of his great verse, bound for the prize of all too precious you, that did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write, above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? no, neither he, nor his compeers by night giving him aid, my verse astonished. he, nor that affable familiar ghost which nightly gulls him with intelligence, as victors of my silence cannot boast; i was not sick of any fear from thence: but when your countenance fill'd up his line, then lacked i matter; that enfeebled mine. lxxxvii farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, and like enough thou know'st thy estimate, the charter of thy worth gives thee releasing; my bonds in thee are all determinate. for how do i hold thee but by thy granting? and for that riches where is my deserving? the cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, and so my patent back again is swerving. thy self thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing, or me to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking; so thy great gift, upon misprision growing, comes home again, on better judgement making. thus have i had thee, as a dream doth flatter, in sleep a king, but waking no such matter. lxxxviii when thou shalt be dispos'd to set me light, and place my merit in the eye of scorn, upon thy side, against myself i'll fight, and prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn. with mine own weakness, being best acquainted, upon thy part i can set down a story of faults conceal'd, wherein i am attainted; that thou in losing me shalt win much glory: and i by this will be a gainer too; for bending all my loving thoughts on thee, the injuries that to myself i do, doing thee vantage, double-vantage me. such is my love, to thee i so belong, that for thy right, myself will bear all wrong. lxxxix say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, and i will comment upon that offence: speak of my lameness, and i straight will halt, against thy reasons making no defence. thou canst not love disgrace me half so ill, to set a form upon desired change, as i'll myself disgrace; knowing thy will, i will acquaintance strangle, and look strange; be absent from thy walks; and in my tongue thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell, lest i, too much profane, should do it wrong, and haply of our old acquaintance tell. for thee, against my self i'll vow debate, for i must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate. xc then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now; now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross, join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, and do not drop in for an after-loss: ah! do not, when my heart hath 'scap'd this sorrow, come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe; give not a windy night a rainy morrow, to linger out a purpos'd overthrow. if thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, when other petty griefs have done their spite, but in the onset come: so shall i taste at first the very worst of fortune's might; and other strains of woe, which now seem woe, compar'd with loss of thee, will not seem so. xci some glory in their birth, some in their skill, some in their wealth, some in their body's force, some in their garments though new-fangled ill; some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse; and every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, wherein it finds a joy above the rest: but these particulars are not my measure, all these i better in one general best. thy love is better than high birth to me, richer than wealth, prouder than garments' costs, of more delight than hawks and horses be; and having thee, of all men's pride i boast: wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take all this away, and me most wretchcd make. xcii but do thy worst to steal thyself away, for term of life thou art assured mine; and life no longer than thy love will stay, for it depends upon that love of thine. then need i not to fear the worst of wrongs, when in the least of them my life hath end. i see a better state to me belongs than that which on thy humour doth depend: thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind, since that my life on thy revolt doth lie. o! what a happy title do i find, happy to have thy love, happy to die! but what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? thou mayst be false, and yet i know it not. xciii so shall i live, supposing thou art true, like a deceived husband; so love's face may still seem love to me, though alter'd new; thy looks with me, thy heart in other place: for there can live no hatred in thine eye, therefore in that i cannot know thy change. in many's looks, the false heart's history is writ in moods, and frowns, and wrinkles strange. but heaven in thy creation did decree that in thy face sweet love should ever dwell; whate'er thy thoughts, or thy heart's workings be, thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell. how like eve's apple doth thy beauty grow, if thy sweet virtue answer not thy show! xciv they that have power to hurt, and will do none, that do not do the thing they most do show, who, moving others, are themselves as stone, unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow; they rightly do inherit heaven's graces, and husband nature's riches from expense; they are the lords and owners of their faces, others, but stewards of their excellence. the summer's flower is to the summer sweet, though to itself, it only live and die, but if that flower with base infection meet, the basest weed outbraves his dignity: for sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds. xcv how sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, doth spot the beauty of thy budding name! o! in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose. that tongue that tells the story of thy days, making lascivious comments on thy sport, cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise; naming thy name, blesses an ill report. o! what a mansion have those vices got which for their habitation chose out thee, where beauty's veil doth cover every blot and all things turns to fair that eyes can see! take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege; the hardest knife ill-us'd doth lose his edge. xcvi some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness; some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport; both grace and faults are lov'd of more and less: thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort. as on the finger of a throned queen the basest jewel will be well esteem'd, so are those errors that in thee are seen to truths translated, and for true things deem'd. how many lambs might the stern wolf betray, if like a lamb he could his looks translate! how many gazers mightst thou lead away, if thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state! but do not so; i love thee in such sort, as, thou being mine, mine is thy good report. xcvii how like a winter hath my absence been from thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! what freezings have i felt, what dark days seen! what old december's bareness everywhere! and yet this time removed was summer's time; the teeming autumn, big with rich increase, bearing the wanton burden of the prime, like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease: yet this abundant issue seem'd to me but hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit; for summer and his pleasures wait on thee, and, thou away, the very birds are mute: or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer, that leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near. xcviii from you have i been absent in the spring, when proud-pied april, dress'd in all his trim, hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, that heavy saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell of different flowers in odour and in hue, could make me any summer's story tell, or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: nor did i wonder at the lily's white, nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; they were but sweet, but figures of delight, drawn after you, you pattern of all those. yet seem'd it winter still, and you away, as with your shadow i with these did play. xcix the forward violet thus did i chide: sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, if not from my love's breath? the purple pride which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells in my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd. the lily i condemned for thy hand, and buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair; the roses fearfully on thorns did stand, one blushing shame, another white despair; a third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both, and to his robbery had annex'd thy breath; but, for his theft, in pride of all his growth a vengeful canker eat him up to death. more flowers i noted, yet i none could see, but sweet, or colour it had stol'n from thee. c where art thou muse that thou forget'st so long, to speak of that which gives thee all thy might? spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song, darkening thy power to lend base subjects light? return forgetful muse, and straight redeem, in gentle numbers time so idly spent; sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem and gives thy pen both skill and argument. rise, resty muse, my love's sweet face survey, if time have any wrinkle graven there; if any, be a satire to decay, and make time's spoils despised every where. give my love fame faster than time wastes life, so thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife. ci o truant muse what shall be thy amends for thy neglect of truth in beauty dy'd? both truth and beauty on my love depends; so dost thou too, and therein dignified. make answer muse: wilt thou not haply say, 'truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd; beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay; but best is best, if never intermix'd'? because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb? excuse not silence so, for't lies in thee to make him much outlive a gilded tomb and to be prais'd of ages yet to be. then do thy office, muse; i teach thee how to make him seem long hence as he shows now. cii my love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming; i love not less, though less the show appear; that love is merchandiz'd, whose rich esteeming, the owner's tongue doth publish every where. our love was new, and then but in the spring, when i was wont to greet it with my lays; as philomel in summer's front doth sing, and stops her pipe in growth of riper days: not that the summer is less pleasant now than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, but that wild music burthens every bough, and sweets grown common lose their dear delight. therefore like her, i sometime hold my tongue: because i would not dull you with my song. ciii alack! what poverty my muse brings forth, that having such a scope to show her pride, the argument, all bare, is of more worth than when it hath my added praise beside! o! blame me not, if i no more can write! look in your glass, and there appears a face that over-goes my blunt invention quite, dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace. were it not sinful then, striving to mend, to mar the subject that before was well? for to no other pass my verses tend than of your graces and your gifts to tell; and more, much more, than in my verse can sit, your own glass shows you when you look in it. civ to me, fair friend, you never can be old, for as you were when first your eye i ey'd, such seems your beauty still. three winters cold, have from the forests shook three summers' pride, three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd, in process of the seasons have i seen, three april perfumes in three hot junes burn'd, since first i saw you fresh, which yet are green. ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand, steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd; so your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd: for fear of which, hear this thou age unbred: ere you were born was beauty's summer dead. cv let not my love be call'd idolatry, nor my beloved as an idol show, since all alike my songs and praises be to one, of one, still such, and ever so. kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, still constant in a wondrous excellence; therefore my verse to constancy confin'd, one thing expressing, leaves out difference. 'fair, kind, and true,' is all my argument, 'fair, kind, and true,' varying to other words; and in this change is my invention spent, three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone, which three till now, never kept seat in one. cvi when in the chronicle of wasted time i see descriptions of the fairest wights, and beauty making beautiful old rime, in praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, i see their antique pen would have express'd even such a beauty as you master now. so all their praises are but prophecies of this our time, all you prefiguring; and for they looked but with divining eyes, they had not skill enough your worth to sing: for we, which now behold these present days, have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. cvii not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul of the wide world dreaming on things to come, can yet the lease of my true love control, supposed as forfeit to a confin'd doom. the mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd, and the sad augurs mock their own presage; incertainties now crown themselves assur'd, and peace proclaims olives of endless age. now with the drops of this most balmy time, my love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes, since, spite of him, i'll live in this poor rime, while he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes: and thou in this shalt find thy monument, when tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent. cviii what's in the brain, that ink may character, which hath not figur'd to thee my true spirit? what's new to speak, what now to register, that may express my love, or thy dear merit? nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine, i must each day say o'er the very same; counting no old thing old, thou mine, i thine, even as when first i hallow'd thy fair name. so that eternal love in love's fresh case, weighs not the dust and injury of age, nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, but makes antiquity for aye his page; finding the first conceit of love there bred, where time and outward form would show it dead. cix o! never say that i was false of heart, though absence seem'd my flame to qualify, as easy might i from my self depart as from my soul which in thy breast doth lie: that is my home of love: if i have rang'd, like him that travels, i return again; just to the time, not with the time exchang'd, so that myself bring water for my stain. never believe though in my nature reign'd, all frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, that it could so preposterously be stain'd, to leave for nothing all thy sum of good; for nothing this wide universe i call, save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all. cx alas! 'tis true, i have gone here and there, and made my self a motley to the view, gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear, made old offences of affections new; most true it is, that i have look'd on truth askance and strangely; but, by all above, these blenches gave my heart another youth, and worse essays prov'd thee my best of love. now all is done, save what shall have no end: mine appetite i never more will grind on newer proof, to try an older friend, a god in love, to whom i am confin'd. then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, even to thy pure and most most loving breast. cxi o! for my sake do you with fortune chide, the guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, that did not better for my life provide than public means which public manners breeds. thence comes it that my name receives a brand, and almost thence my nature is subdu'd to what it works in, like the dyer's hand: pity me, then, and wish i were renew'd; whilst, like a willing patient, i will drink, potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection; no bitterness that i will bitter think, nor double penance, to correct correction. pity me then, dear friend, and i assure ye, even that your pity is enough to cure me. cxii your love and pity doth the impression fill, which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow; for what care i who calls me well or ill, so you o'er-green my bad, my good allow? you are my all-the-world, and i must strive to know my shames and praises from your tongue; none else to me, nor i to none alive, that my steel'd sense or changes right or wrong. in so profound abysm i throw all care of others' voices, that my adder's sense to critic and to flatterer stopped are. mark how with my neglect i do dispense: you are so strongly in my purpose bred, that all the world besides methinks are dead. cxiii since i left you, mine eye is in my mind; and that which governs me to go about doth part his function and is partly blind, seems seeing, but effectually is out; for it no form delivers to the heart of bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch: of his quick objects hath the mind no part, nor his own vision holds what it doth catch; for if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight, the most sweet favour or deformed'st creature, the mountain or the sea, the day or night: the crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature. incapable of more, replete with you, my most true mind thus maketh mine untrue. cxiv or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you, drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery? or whether shall i say, mine eye saith true, and that your love taught it this alchemy, to make of monsters and things indigest such cherubins as your sweet self resemble, creating every bad a perfect best, as fast as objects to his beams assemble? o! 'tis the first, 'tis flattery in my seeing, and my great mind most kingly drinks it up: mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing, and to his palate doth prepare the cup: if it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser sin that mine eye loves it and doth first begin. cxv those lines that i before have writ do lie, even those that said i could not love you dearer: yet then my judgment knew no reason why my most full flame should afterwards burn clearer. but reckoning time, whose million'd accidents creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings, tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents, divert strong minds to the course of altering things; alas! why fearing of time's tyranny, might i not then say, 'now i love you best,' when i was certain o'er incertainty, crowning the present, doubting of the rest? love is a babe, then might i not say so, to give full growth to that which still doth grow? cxvi let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove: o, no! it is an ever-fixed mark, that looks on tempests and is never shaken; it is the star to every wandering bark, whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come; love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom. if this be error and upon me prov'd, i never writ, nor no man ever lov'd. cxvii accuse me thus: that i have scanted all, wherein i should your great deserts repay, forgot upon your dearest love to call, whereto all bonds do tie me day by day; that i have frequent been with unknown minds, and given to time your own dear-purchas'd right; that i have hoisted sail to all the winds which should transport me farthest from your sight. book both my wilfulness and errors down, and on just proof surmise, accumulate; bring me within the level of your frown, but shoot not at me in your waken'd hate; since my appeal says i did strive to prove the constancy and virtue of your love. cxviii like as, to make our appetite more keen, with eager compounds we our palate urge; as, to prevent our maladies unseen, we sicken to shun sickness when we purge; even so, being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness, to bitter sauces did i frame my feeding; and, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness to be diseas'd, ere that there was true needing. thus policy in love, to anticipate the ills that were not, grew to faults assur'd, and brought to medicine a healthful state which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cur'd; but thence i learn and find the lesson true, drugs poison him that so fell sick of you. cxix what potions have i drunk of siren tears, distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within, applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears, still losing when i saw myself to win! what wretched errors hath my heart committed, whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never! how have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted, in the distraction of this madding fever! o benefit of ill! now i find true that better is, by evil still made better; and ruin'd love, when it is built anew, grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. so i return rebuk'd to my content, and gain by ill thrice more than i have spent. cxx that you were once unkind befriends me now, and for that sorrow, which i then did feel, needs must i under my transgression bow, unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel. for if you were by my unkindness shaken, as i by yours, you've pass'd a hell of time; and i, a tyrant, have no leisure taken to weigh how once i suffer'd in your crime. o! that our night of woe might have remember'd my deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, and soon to you, as you to me, then tender'd the humble salve, which wounded bosoms fits! but that your trespass now becomes a fee; mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me. cxxi 'tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd, when not to be receives reproach of being; and the just pleasure lost, which is so deem'd not by our feeling, but by others' seeing: for why should others' false adulterate eyes give salutation to my sportive blood? or on my frailties why are frailer spies, which in their wills count bad what i think good? no, i am that i am, and they that level at my abuses reckon up their own: i may be straight though they themselves be bevel; by their rank thoughts, my deeds must not be shown; unless this general evil they maintain, all men are bad and in their badness reign. cxxii thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain full character'd with lasting memory, which shall above that idle rank remain, beyond all date; even to eternity: or, at the least, so long as brain and heart have faculty by nature to subsist; till each to raz'd oblivion yield his part of thee, thy record never can be miss'd. that poor retention could not so much hold, nor need i tallies thy dear love to score; therefore to give them from me was i bold, to trust those tables that receive thee more: to keep an adjunct to remember thee were to import forgetfulness in me. cxxiii no, time, thou shalt not boast that i do change: thy pyramids built up with newer might to me are nothing novel, nothing strange; they are but dressings of a former sight. our dates are brief, and therefore we admire what thou dost foist upon us that is old; and rather make them born to our desire than think that we before have heard them told. thy registers and thee i both defy, not wondering at the present nor the past, for thy records and what we see doth lie, made more or less by thy continual haste. this i do vow and this shall ever be; i will be true despite thy scythe and thee. cxxiv if my dear love were but the child of state, it might for fortune's bastard be unfather'd, as subject to time's love or to time's hate, weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd. no, it was builded far from accident; it suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls under the blow of thralled discontent, whereto th' inviting time our fashion calls: it fears not policy, that heretic, which works on leases of short-number'd hours, but all alone stands hugely politic, that it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers. to this i witness call the fools of time, which die for goodness, who have lived for crime. cxxv were't aught to me i bore the canopy, with my extern the outward honouring, or laid great bases for eternity, which proves more short than waste or ruining? have i not seen dwellers on form and favour lose all and more by paying too much rent for compound sweet; forgoing simple savour, pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent? no; let me be obsequious in thy heart, and take thou my oblation, poor but free, which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art, but mutual render, only me for thee. hence, thou suborned informer! a true soul when most impeach'd, stands least in thy control. cxxvi o thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power dost hold time's fickle glass, his fickle hour; who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow'st. if nature, sovereign mistress over wrack, as thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back, she keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill may time disgrace and wretched minutes kill. yet fear her, o thou minion of her pleasure! she may detain, but not still keep, her treasure: her audit (though delayed) answered must be, and her quietus is to render thee. cxxvii in the old age black was not counted fair, or if it were, it bore not beauty's name; but now is black beauty's successive heir, and beauty slander'd with a bastard shame: for since each hand hath put on nature's power, fairing the foul with art's false borrowed face, sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower, but is profan'd, if not lives in disgrace. therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black, her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem at such who, not born fair, no beauty lack, sland'ring creation with a false esteem: yet so they mourn becoming of their woe, that every tongue says beauty should look so. cxxviii how oft when thou, my music, music play'st, upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds with thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st the wiry concord that mine ear confounds, do i envy those jacks that nimble leap, to kiss the tender inward of thy hand, whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap, at the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand! to be so tickled, they would change their state and situation with those dancing chips, o'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, making dead wood more bless'd than living lips. since saucy jacks so happy are in this, give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. cxxix the expense of spirit in a waste of shame is lust in action: and till action, lust is perjur'd, murderous, bloody, full of blame, savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight; past reason hunted; and no sooner had, past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait, on purpose laid to make the taker mad: mad in pursuit and in possession so; had, having, and in quest, to have extreme; a bliss in proof,-and prov'd, a very woe; before, a joy propos'd; behind a dream. all this the world well knows; yet none knows well to shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. cxxx my mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; coral is far more red, than her lips red: if snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; if hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. i have seen roses damask'd, red and white, but no such roses see i in her cheeks; and in some perfumes is there more delight than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. i love to hear her speak, yet well i know that music hath a far more pleasing sound: i grant i never saw a goddess go,- my mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: and yet by heaven, i think my love as rare, as any she belied with false compare. cxxxi thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, as those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; for well thou know'st to my dear doting heart thou art the fairest and most precious jewel. yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold, thy face hath not the power to make love groan; to say they err i dare not be so bold, although i swear it to myself alone. and to be sure that is not false i swear, a thousand groans, but thinking on thy face, one on another's neck, do witness bear thy black is fairest in my judgment's place. in nothing art thou black save in thy deeds, and thence this slander, as i think, proceeds. cxxxii thine eyes i love, and they, as pitying me, knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, have put on black and loving mourners be, looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. and truly not the morning sun of heaven better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, nor that full star that ushers in the even, doth half that glory to the sober west, as those two mourning eyes become thy face: o! let it then as well beseem thy heart to mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace, and suit thy pity like in every part. then will i swear beauty herself is black, and all they foul that thy complexion lack. cxxxiii beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan for that deep wound it gives my friend and me! is't not enough to torture me alone, but slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be? me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken, and my next self thou harder hast engross'd: of him, myself, and thee i am forsaken; a torment thrice three-fold thus to be cross'd: prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward, but then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail; whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard; thou canst not then use rigour in my jail: and yet thou wilt; for i, being pent in thee, perforce am thine, and all that is in me. cxxxiv so, now i have confess'd that he is thine, and i my self am mortgag'd to thy will, myself i'll forfeit, so that other mine thou wilt restore to be my comfort still: but thou wilt not, nor he will not be free, for thou art covetous, and he is kind; he learn'd but surety-like to write for me, under that bond that him as fast doth bind. the statute of thy beauty thou wilt take, thou usurer, that putt'st forth all to use, and sue a friend came debtor for my sake; so him i lose through my unkind abuse. him have i lost; thou hast both him and me: he pays the whole, and yet am i not free. cxxxv whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy 'will,' and 'will' to boot, and 'will' in over-plus; more than enough am i that vex'd thee still, to thy sweet will making addition thus. wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine? shall will in others seem right gracious, and in my will no fair acceptance shine? the sea, all water, yet receives rain still, and in abundance addeth to his store; so thou, being rich in 'will,' add to thy 'will' one will of mine, to make thy large will more. let no unkind 'no' fair beseechers kill; think all but one, and me in that one 'will.' cxxxvi if thy soul check thee that i come so near, swear to thy blind soul that i was thy 'will', and will, thy soul knows, is admitted there; thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil. 'will', will fulfil the treasure of thy love, ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one. in things of great receipt with ease we prove among a number one is reckon'd none: then in the number let me pass untold, though in thy store's account i one must be; for nothing hold me, so it please thee hold that nothing me, a something sweet to thee: make but my name thy love, and love that still, and then thou lov'st me for my name is 'will.' cxxxvii thou blind fool, love, what dost thou to mine eyes, that they behold, and see not what they see? they know what beauty is, see where it lies, yet what the best is take the worst to be. if eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks, be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride, why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks, whereto the judgment of my heart is tied? why should my heart think that a several plot, which my heart knows the wide world's common place? or mine eyes, seeing this, say this is not, to put fair truth upon so foul a face? in things right true my heart and eyes have err'd, and to this false plague are they now transferr'd. cxxxviii when my love swears that she is made of truth, i do believe her though i know she lies, that she might think me some untutor'd youth, unlearned in the world's false subtleties. thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, although she knows my days are past the best, simply i credit her false-speaking tongue: on both sides thus is simple truth suppressed: but wherefore says she not she is unjust? and wherefore say not i that i am old? o! love's best habit is in seeming trust, and age in love, loves not to have years told: therefore i lie with her, and she with me, and in our faults by lies we flatter'd be. cxxxix o! call not me to justify the wrong that thy unkindness lays upon my heart; wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue: use power with power, and slay me not by art, tell me thou lov'st elsewhere; but in my sight, dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside: what need'st thou wound with cunning, when thy might is more than my o'erpress'd defence can bide? let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows her pretty looks have been mine enemies; and therefore from my face she turns my foes, that they elsewhere might dart their injuries: yet do not so; but since i am near slain, kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain. cxl be wise as thou art cruel; do not press my tongue-tied patience with too much disdain; lest sorrow lend me words, and words express the manner of my pity-wanting pain. if i might teach thee wit, better it were, though not to love, yet, love to tell me so;- as testy sick men, when their deaths be near, no news but health from their physicians know;- for, if i should despair, i should grow mad, and in my madness might speak ill of thee; now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad, mad slanderers by mad ears believed be. that i may not be so, nor thou belied, bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide. cxli in faith i do not love thee with mine eyes, for they in thee a thousand errors note; but 'tis my heart that loves what they despise, who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote. nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted; nor tender feeling, to base touches prone, nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited to any sensual feast with thee alone: but my five wits nor my five senses can dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man, thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be: only my plague thus far i count my gain, that she that makes me sin awards me pain. cxlii love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving: o! but with mine compare thou thine own state, and thou shalt find it merits not reproving; or, if it do, not from those lips of thine, that have profan'd their scarlet ornaments and seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine, robb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents. be it lawful i love thee, as thou lov'st those whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee: root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows, thy pity may deserve to pitied be. if thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, by self-example mayst thou be denied! cxliii lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch one of her feather'd creatures broke away, sets down her babe, and makes all swift dispatch in pursuit of the thing she would have stay; whilst her neglected child holds her in chase, cries to catch her whose busy care is bent to follow that which flies before her face, not prizing her poor infant's discontent; so runn'st thou after that which flies from thee, whilst i thy babe chase thee afar behind; but if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me, and play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind; so will i pray that thou mayst have thy 'will,' if thou turn back and my loud crying still. cxliv two loves i have of comfort and despair, which like two spirits do suggest me still: the better angel is a man right fair, the worser spirit a woman colour'd ill. to win me soon to hell, my female evil, tempteth my better angel from my side, and would corrupt my saint to be a devil, wooing his purity with her foul pride. and whether that my angel be turn'd fiend, suspect i may, yet not directly tell; but being both from me, both to each friend, i guess one angel in another's hell: yet this shall i ne'er know, but live in doubt, till my bad angel fire my good one out. cxlv those lips that love's own hand did make, breathed forth the sound that said 'i hate', to me that languish'd for her sake: but when she saw my woeful state, straight in her heart did mercy come, chiding that tongue that ever sweet was us'd in giving gentle doom; and taught it thus anew to greet; 'i hate' she alter'd with an end, that followed it as gentle day, doth follow night, who like a fiend from heaven to hell is flown away. 'i hate', from hate away she threw, and sav'd my life, saying 'not you'. cxlvi poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, my sinful earth these rebel powers array, why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, painting thy outward walls so costly gay? why so large cost, having so short a lease, dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? shall worms, inheritors of this excess, eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end? then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, and let that pine to aggravate thy store; buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; within be fed, without be rich no more: so shall thou feed on death, that feeds on men, and death once dead, there's no more dying then. cxlvii my love is as a fever longing still, for that which longer nurseth the disease; feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, the uncertain sickly appetite to please. my reason, the physician to my love, angry that his prescriptions are not kept, hath left me, and i desperate now approve desire is death, which physic did except. past cure i am, now reason is past care, and frantic-mad with evermore unrest; my thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are, at random from the truth vainly express'd; for i have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night. cxlviii o me! what eyes hath love put in my head, which have no correspondence with true sight; or, if they have, where is my judgment fled, that censures falsely what they see aright? if that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, what means the world to say it is not so? if it be not, then love doth well denote love's eye is not so true as all men's: no, how can it? o! how can love's eye be true, that is so vexed with watching and with tears? no marvel then, though i mistake my view; the sun itself sees not, till heaven clears. o cunning love! with tears thou keep'st me blind, lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find. cxlix canst thou, o cruel! say i love thee not, when i against myself with thee partake? do i not think on thee, when i forgot am of my self, all tyrant, for thy sake? who hateth thee that i do call my friend, on whom frown'st thou that i do fawn upon, nay, if thou lour'st on me, do i not spend revenge upon myself with present moan? what merit do i in my self respect, that is so proud thy service to despise, when all my best doth worship thy defect, commanded by the motion of thine eyes? but, love, hate on, for now i know thy mind; those that can see thou lov'st, and i am blind. cl o! from what power hast thou this powerful might, with insufficiency my heart to sway? to make me give the lie to my true sight, and swear that brightness doth not grace the day? whence hast thou this becoming of things ill, that in the very refuse of thy deeds there is such strength and warrantise of skill, that, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds? who taught thee how to make me love thee more, the more i hear and see just cause of hate? o! though i love what others do abhor, with others thou shouldst not abhor my state: if thy unworthiness rais'd love in me, more worthy i to be belov'd of thee. cli love is too young to know what conscience is, yet who knows not conscience is born of love? then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss, lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove: for, thou betraying me, i do betray my nobler part to my gross body's treason; my soul doth tell my body that he may triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason, but rising at thy name doth point out thee, as his triumphant prize. proud of this pride, he is contented thy poor drudge to be, to stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. no want of conscience hold it that i call her 'love,' for whose dear love i rise and fall. clii in loving thee thou know'st i am forsworn, but thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing; in act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torn, in vowing new hate after new love bearing: but why of two oaths' breach do i accuse thee, when i break twenty? i am perjur'd most; for all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee, and all my honest faith in thee is lost: for i have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness, oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy; and, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness, or made them swear against the thing they see; for i have sworn thee fair; more perjur'd i, to swear against the truth so foul a lie! cliii cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep: a maid of dian's this advantage found, and his love-kindling fire did quickly steep in a cold valley-fountain of that ground; which borrow'd from this holy fire of love, a dateless lively heat, still to endure, and grew a seeting bath, which yet men prove against strange maladies a sovereign cure. but at my mistress' eye love's brand new-fired, the boy for trial needs would touch my breast; i, sick withal, the help of bath desired, and thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest, but found no cure, the bath for my help lies where cupid got new fire; my mistress' eyes. cliv the little love-god lying once asleep, laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand, whilst many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keep came tripping by; but in her maiden hand the fairest votary took up that fire which many legions of true hearts had warm'd; and so the general of hot desire was, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarm'd. this brand she quenched in a cool well by, which from love's fire took heat perpetual, growing a bath and healthful remedy, for men diseas'd; but i, my mistress' thrall, came there for cure and this by that i prove, love's fire heats water, water cools not love. poems by robert lovell, and robert southey. price 3s. 6d. poems: containing the retrospect, odes, elegies, sonnets, &c. by robert lovell, and robert southey, of baliol college, oxford. * * * * * ........... "minuentur atræ carmine curæ." hor. * * * * * bath, printed by r. cruttwell, and sold by c. dilly, poultry, london. mdccxcv. contents. preface the retrospect romance to urban the miser's mansion elegy. the decayed farm-house epitaph elegy. the decayed monastery to hymen hospitality sonnet 1. to ariste sonnet 2. sonnet 3. sonnet 4. sonnet 5. dunnington-castle sonnet 6. sonnet 7. written on a journey sonnet 8. to happiness sonnet 9. sonnet 10. to fame sonnet 11. to the fire sonnet 12. the faded flower sonnet 13. to sensibility sonnet 14. to health sonnet 15. to the nightingale sonnet 16. to reflection the wish. to a friend to lycon to lycon rosamund to henry; written after she had taken the veil the race of odin the death of odin the death of moses the death of mattathias * * * * * preface. a quaint author of the year 1633, in his pithy proeme to a book, entituled the philosophers banqvet, newly furnished and decked forth with much variety of many severall dishes, aptly sayeth "to the iuditious reader, "_him that will buy this booke_; thus in the commendation and use thereof. "good reader, many things hath beene written by many men, and the over-cloying humor of this age hath so overburdened the world with multiplicity of al kinds, that scarce there is one subject left upon the head whereof a hundred have not trampled over: amongst which impartial handling, it may bee possible that some one corner hath escaped this scrutenous search, and beene raked over with a lighter hand than other." we feel the justice of this remark as applicable to modern poetry. much novelty cannot be expected. in submitting the following volume to the public, we attempt neither to prejudice them in its favour, or supplicate them in behalf of its faults. the signature of _bion_ distinguishes the pieces of r. southey; _moschus_, r. lovell. * * * * * the retrospect. ................ "on life's wide plain cast friendless, where unheard some sufferer cries hourly, and oft our road is lone and long, twere not a crime, should we awhile delay amid the sunny field; and happier they, who, as they wander, woo the charm of song to cheer their path, 'till they forget to weep, and the tired sense is husht and sinks to sleep." bowles. as on i journey through the vale of years, cheer'd by fond hopes, and chill'd by doubtful fears; allow me, memory, in thy treasur'd store, to view those days that will return no more: oh! let thy vivid pencil call to view each distant scene, each long-past hour anew, ere yet my bosom knew the touch of grief, ere yet my bosom lov'd the lyre's relief. yes, as thou dart'st thine intellectual ray, the clouds of mental darkness melt away: so when, at earliest day's awaking dawn, the hovering mists obscure the dewy lawn, o'er all the champain spread their influence chill, hang o'er the vale, and hide the lofty hill; anon, slow rising, beams the orb of day, slow melt the shadowy mists, and fade away; the vapours vanish at the view of morn, and hang in dew-drops on the glistening thorn; the prospect opens on the pilgrim's sight, and hills, and vales, and woods, reflect the beam of light. o thou! the mistress of my future days, accept thy minstrel's retrospective lays; to whom the minstrel and the lyre belong, accept, ariste, memory's pensive song! for memory on thine image loves to hang, heave the sad sigh, and point the piercing pang. of long-past days i sing, ere yet i knew or grief and care, or happiness and you; ere yet my infant bosom learnt to prove the pangs of absence, and the hopes of love. so when the pilgrim, on his journey bent, with upward toil creeps on the steep ascent; ere yet his feet the destin'd height attain, oft will he pause, and gaze the journey'd plain; oft pause again, the valley to survey, where food or slumber sooth'd his wand'ring way. alston! twelve years, in various business fled, have wing'd their restless flight o'er bion's head; twelve years have taught his opening mind to know the smiles of pleasure, and the frowns of woe; since in thy vale, beneath the master's rule, he roam'd an inmate of the village school: yet still will memory's busy eye retrace each well-known vestige of the oft-trod place; each wonted haunt, each scene of youthful joy, where merriment has cheer'd the careless boy: well pleas'd will memory still the spot survey, where once he triumph'd in the infant play, without one care where every morn he rose, where every evening sunk to calm repose. large was the mansion, fall'n by varying fate from lordly grandeur and manorial state; where once the manor's lord supreme had rule, now reign'd the master of the village school: no more was heard around, at earliest morn, the echoing clangor of the huntsman's horn; no more the eager hounds, with deep'ning cry, yell'd in the exulting hope of pastime nigh; the squire no more obey'd the morning call, nor favourite spaniels fill'd the sportsman's hall; for he, the last descendant of his race, slept with his fathers, and forgot the chace. fall'n was the mansion: o'er the village poor the lordly landlord tyrannized no more; for now, in petty greatness o'er the school, the mighty master held despotic rule: with trembling silence all his deeds we saw, his look a mandate, and his word a law; severe his voice, severely grave his mien, and wond'rous strict he was, and wond'rous wise, i ween. even now, thro' many a long long year, i trace the hour when first in awe i view'd his face; even now recall my entrance at the dome, 'twas the first day i ever left my home! years intervening have not worn away the deep remembrance of that distant day; effac'd the vestige of my earliest fears, a mother's fondness, and a mother's tears; when close she prest me to her sorrowing heart, as loath as even i myself to part. but time to youthful sorrow yields relief, each various object weans the child from grief: like april showers the tears of youth descend, sudden they fall, and suddenly they end; serener pleasure gilds the following hour, as brighter gleams the sun when past the april shower. methinks ev'n now the interview i see, recall the mistress' smile, the master's glee: much of my future happiness they said, much of the easy life the scholars led; of spacious play-ground, and of wholsome air, the best instruction, and the tenderest care; and when i follow'd from the garden door my father, 'till with tears i saw no more, how civilly they eas'd my parting pain, and never spake so civilly again! why loves the soul on earlier years to dwell, when memory spreads around her saddening spell; when discontent, with sullen gloom o'ercast, loaths at the present, and prefers the past? why calls reflection to my pensive view each trifling act of infancy anew- each trifling act with pleasure pondering o'er, even at the time when trifles please no more! day follows day, yet leaves no trace behind, when one sole thought engrosses all the mind; when anxious reason claims her painful sway, and for to-morrow's prospect glooms to-day! ill fares the wanderer in this vale of life, when each new stage affords succeeding strife; in every stage he feels supremely curst, yet still the present evil seems the worst: on as he goes the vision'd prospect flies, and, grasping still at bliss, unblest at last he dies. yet is remembrance sweet; though well i know the days of childhood are but days of woe; some rude restraint, some petty tyrant sours the tranquil calm of childhood's easy hours; some trifling fault committed calls the tear, some trifling task neglected prompts to fear: yet is it sweet to call to mind the hour, ere searching reason gain'd her saddening power; ere future prospects could the soul distress, when even ignorance was happiness. such was my state in those remember'd years, when one small acre bounded all my fears: and even now with pleasure i recall the tapestry'd school, the bright-brown boarded hall; the murmuring brook, that every morning saw the due observance of the cleanly law; the walnuts, where, when favour would allow, full oft i wont to search each well-stript bough; the crab-tree, whence we hid the secret hoard, with roasted crabs to deck the wintry board. these trifling pastimes then my soul possest, these trifling objects still remain imprest: so when, with unskill'd hand, the rustic hind carves the rude legend on the growing rind, in after years the peasant lives to see the expanded legend grow as grows the tree. though every winter's desolating sway shake the hoarse grove, and sweep the leaves away; deep in its trunk the legend still will last, defy the storm, and brave the wintry blast. whilst letter'd travellers delight to roam the time-torn temple and demolish'd dome; stray with the arab o'er the wreck of time, where erst palmyra's towers arose sublime; or mark the lazy turk's lethargic pride, and grecian slavery on ilyssus' side: oh! be it mine to flee from empire's strife, and mark the changes of domestic life; see the fall'n scenes where once i bore my part, where every change of fortune strikes the heart; as when the merry bells' responsive sound proclaim the news of victory around; when eager patriots fly the news to spread of glorious conquest, and of thousands dead; all feel the mighty glow of victor joy, exult in blood, and triumph to destroy: but if extended on the gory plain, and, snatch'd in conquest, some lov'd friend be slain, affection's tears will dim the sorrowing eye, and suffering nature grieve that one should die. oft have my footsteps roam'd the sacred spot, where heroes, kings, and minstrels, sleep forgot; oft traced the mouldering castle's ivy'd wall, or ruin'd convent tottering to its fall; whilst sad reflection lov'd the solemn gloom, paus'd o'er the pile, and ponder'd on the tomb: yet never had my bosom felt such pain as, alston, when i saw thy scenes again! for every long-lost pleasure rush'd to view, for every long-past sorrow rose anew; where whilome all were friends, i stood alone, unknowing all i saw, of all i saw unknown. alston! no pilgrim ever crept around with more emotion sion's sacred ground, than fill'd my heart as slow i saunter'd o'er those fields my infant steps had trod of yore; where i had loiter'd out the summer hour, chas'd the gay butterfly, and cull'd the flower; sought the swift arrow's erring course to trace, or with mine equals vied amid the chace. cold was the morn, and bleak the wintry blast howl'd o'er the meadow, when i view'd thee last; my bosom bounded, as i wander'd round each well-known field, each long-remember'd ground. i saw the church where i had slept away the tedious service of the summer-day; or, listening sad to all the preacher told, in winter wak'd, and shiver'd with the cold; and, as i pass'd along the well-trod way, where whilome two by two we walk'd to pray, i saw the garden ground as usual rail'd, a fence, to fetch my ball, i oft had scal'd: oh! it recall'd a thousand scenes to view, a thousand joys to which i long had bid adieu. silent and sad the scene: i heard no more mirth's honest cry, and childhood's cheerful roar, no longer echo'd round the shout of glee- it seem'd as tho' the world were chang'd, like me! there, where my little hands were wont to rear with pride the earliest sallad of the year; where never idle weed to grow was seen, there the rank nettle rear'd its head obscene. i too have felt the hand of fate severe- in those calm days i never knew to fear; no future views alarm'd my gloomy breast, no anxious pangs my sickening soul possest; no grief consum'd me, for i did not know increase of reason was increase of woe. silent and sad awhile i paus'd, to gaze on the fall'n dwelling of my earlier days; long dwelt the eye on each remember'd spot, each long-left scene, long left, but not forgot: once more my soul delighted to survey the brook that murmured on its wonted way; obedient to the master's dread commands, where every morn we wash'd our face and hands; where, when the tempest raged along the air, i wont to rear the dam with eager care; and eft and aye return'd with joy to find the neighbouring orchard's fruit shook down by warring wind. how art thou chang'd! at first the stately pile, where pride, and pomp, and pleasure, wont to smile, lord of the manor, where the jovial squire call'd all his tenants round the crackling fire; where, whilst the glow of fame o'erspread his face, he told his ancient exploits in the chace; and, proud his rival sportsmen to surpass, he lit again the pipe, and fill'd again the glass. past is thy day of glory: past the day when here the man of learning held his sway: no more, when howl the wintry storms around, within thy hall is heard the mirthful sound; no more disport around the infant crew, and high in health the mimic game pursue; no more to strike the well-aim'd ball delight, or rear aloft with joy the buoyant kite. true, thou art fallen: thy day of glory past, long may thy day of honest comfort last! long may the farmer from his toil retire to joys domestic round thy evening fire; where boisterous riot once supreme has reign'd, where discipline his sway severe maintain'd; may heaven the industrious farmer's labour bless, and crown his honest toil with happiness. seat of my earlier, happier years, farewell! thy memory still in bion's breast shall dwell: still as he journeys life's rough road along, or sojourns sad, this college gloom among, will fond remembrance paint those careless days, when all he wish'd was speedy holydays! alston, how many a pang has wrung my heart, since from thy scenes in youth i joy'd to part! how often has my bosom shrunk to know the sigh of sorrow, and the weight of woe i knew not even the comfort of a tear o'er a beloved father's timeless bier; his clay-cold limbs i saw the grave inclose, and blest that fate which snatch'd him from his woes. why wilt thou, memory, still recall to view each long-past joy, each long-lost friend anew? paint not the scenes that pleas'd my soul of yore, those friends are gone, those long-past joys no more; cease to torment me, busy torturer, cease, let cold oblivion's touch benumb my soul to peace! so when the morning smiles serene and mild, the cheerful pilgrim wanders o'er the wild; soft through the bowering wood the breezes blow, and bubbling fountains sparkle as they flow; sweet is to him the woodland's secret glade, sweet the deep shelter of the dingle's shade: and oft he stops, delighted to survey the high hill's top reflect the lucid ray; anon the face of heaven is overcast, hoarse groan the woods responsive to the blast; the wild winds howl, the torrents thunder down, with darker hues the sullen mountains frown; all that the pilgrim, late with joy possest, o'ercast by horror now, englooms his shrinking breast. yet, as the mariner, when tempest tost, aghast he stands, and gives up all for lost; if at that moment, when with faultering breath he calls to heaven, and waits the rushing death; if then he sees the twin-born lights descend, his bosom brightens, and his terrors end. ariste! so when memory's painful sway recalls the sorrow of the distant day; when the soft soother turns at length to thee, the gloom disperses, and the shadows flee; grief's cankering pangs no more my bosom move, that beating bosom only bounds to love. bion. * * * * * romance. what wildly-beauteous form, high on the summit of yon bicrown'd hill, lovely in horror, takes her dauntless stand? tho' speds the thunder there its deep'ning way, tho' round her head the lightnings play, undaunted she abides the storm; she waves her magic wand, the clouds retire, the storm is still; bright beams the sun unwonted light around, and many a rising flower bedecks the enchanted ground. romance! i know thee now, i know the terrors of thy brow; i know thine aweful mien, thy beaming eye; and lo! whilst mists arise around yon car that cleaves the pregnant ground! two fiery dragons whirl her through the sky; her milder sister loves to rove amid parnassus' laurell'd grove, on helicon's harmonious side, to mark the gurgling streamlet glide; meantime, thro' wilder scenes and sterner skies, from clime to clime the ardent genius flies. she speeds to yonder shore,[1] where ruthless tempests roar, where sturdy winter holds his northern reign, nor vernal suns relax the ice-pil'd plain: dim shadows circle round her secret seat, where wandering, who approach shall hear the wild wolf rend the air; thro' the cloudy-mantled sky shall see the imps of darkness fly, and hear the sad scream from the grim retreat; around her throne ten thousand dangers lurk, most fearful, most unknown. yet lovelier oft in milder sway, she wends abroad her magic way; the holy prelate owns her power; in soft'ning tale relates the snowy ethiop's matchless charms, the outlaw's den, the clang of arms, and love's too-varying fates; the storms of persecution lower, austere devotion gives the stern command, "commit yon impious legend to the fires;"- calm in his conscious worth, the sage retires, and saves the invalu'd work, and quits the thankless land; high tow'rs his name the sacred list above, and ev'n the priest[2] is prais'd who wrote of blameless love. around the tower, whose wall infolds young thora's blooming charms, romance's serpent winds his glittering folds; the warrior clasps his shaggy arms, the monster falls, the damsel is the spoil, matchless reward of regner's[3] matchless toil. around the patriot board, the knights[4] attend their lord; the martial sieges hov'ring o'er, enrapt the genius views the dauntless band; still prompt for innocence to fight, or quell the pride of proud oppression's might, they rush intrepid o'er the land; she gives them to the minstrel lore, hands down her launcelot's peerless name, repays her tristram's woes with fame; borne on the breath of song, to future times descends the memory of the throng. foremost mid the peers of france,[5] orlando hurls the death-fraught lance; where durlindana aims the blow, to darkness sinks the faithless foe; the horn with magic sound spreads deep dismay around; unborn to bleed, the chieftain goes, and scatters wide his paynim foes; the genius hovers o'er the purple plain where olivero tramples on the slain; bayardo speeds his furious course, high towers rogero in his matchless force. romance the heighten'd tale has caught, forth from the sad monastic cell, where fiction with devotion loves to dwell, the sacred legend[6] flies with many a wonder fraught; deep roll the papal[7] thunders round, and everlasting wrath to rebel reason sound. hark! superstition sounds to war's alarms, war stalks o'er palestine with scorching breath, and triumphs in the feast of death; all europe flies to arms: enthusiast courage spreads her piercing sound, devotion caught the cry, and woke the echo around. romance[8] before the army flies, new scenes await her wondering eyes; awhile she firms her godfrey's throne, and makes arabia's magic lore her own. and hark! resound, in mingled sound, the clang of arms, the shriek of death; each streaming gash bedews the ground, and deep and hollow groans load the last struggling breath: wide thro' the air the arrows fly, darts, shields, and swords, commix'd appear; deep is the cry, when thousands die, when coeur de lion's arm constrains to fear: aloft the battle-axe in air whirls around confus'd despair; nor acre's walls can check his course, nor sarzin millions stay his force. indignant, firm the warrior stood, the hungry lion gapes for food; his fearless eye beheld him nigh, unarm'd, undaunted, saw the beast proceed: romance, o'erhovering, saw the monster die, and scarce herself believ'd the more than wond'rous deed. and now, with more terrific mien, she quits the sad degenerate scene; with many a talisman of mightiest pow'r, borne in a rubied car, sublime she flies, fire-breathing griffins waft her thro' the skies; around her head the innocuous tempest lowers, to gallia's favour'd realm she goes, and quits her magic state, and plucks her lovely rose.[9] imagination waves her wizard wand, dark shadows mantle o'er the land; the lightnings flash, the thunders sound, convulsive throbs the labouring ground;[10] what fiends, what monsters, circling round, arise! high towers of fire aloft aspire, deep yells resound amid the skies, yclad in arms, to fame's alarms her magic warrior flies. by fiction's shield secure, for many a year o'er cooler reason held the genius rule; but lo! cervantes waves his pointed spear, nor fiction's shield can stay the spear of ridicule. the blameless warrior comes; he first to wield his fateful weapon in the martial field; by him created on the view, arcadia's vallies bloom anew, and many a flock o'erspreads the plain, and love, with innocence, assumes his reign: protected by a warrior's name, the kindred warriors live to fame: sad is the scene, where oft from pity's eye descends the sorrowing tear, as high the unheeding chieftain lifts the spear, and gives the deadly blow, and sees parthenia die! where, where such virtues can we see, or where such valour, sidney, but in thee? o, cold of heart, shall pride assail thy shade, whom all romance could fancy nature made? sound, fame, thy loudest blast, for spenser pours the tender strain, and [11]shapes to glowing forms the motley train; the elfin tribes around await his potent sound, and o'er his head romance her brightest splendors cast. deep thro' the air let sorrow's banner wave! for penury o'er spenser's friendless head her chilling mantle spread; for genius cannot save! virtue bedews the blameless poet's dust; but fame, exulting, clasps her favorite's laurel'd bust. fain would the grateful muse, to thee, rousseau, pour forth the energic thanks of gratitude; fain would the raptur'd lyre ecstatic glow, to whom romance and nature form'd all good: guide of my life, too weak these lays, to pour the unutterable praise; thine aid divine for ever lend, still as my guardian sprite attend; unmov'd by fashion's flaunting throng, let my calm stream of life smooth its meek course along; let no weak vanity dispense her vapors o'er my better sense; but let my bosom glow with fire, let me strike the soothing lyre, altho' by all unheard the melodies expire. bion. footnotes: [1] fictions of romance, popular in scandinavia at an early period. [2] heliodorus chose rather to be deprived of his see than burn his ethiopics. the bishop's name would have slept with his fathers, the romancer is remembered. [3] first exploit of the celebrated regner lodbrog. [4] knights of the round table. [5] the paladines of france. [6] instead of forging the life of a saint, archbishop turpin was better employed in falsifying the history of charlemagne. [7] a bull was issued, commanding all good citizens to believe ariosto's poem, founded upon turpin's history. [8] arabian fictions ingrafted on the gothic romance. [9] romance of the rose, written soon after the crusades. [10] early prose romances, originally spanish. [11] fictions of romance, allegorized by spenser. * * * * * to urban. lo! where the livid lightning flies with transient furious force, a moment's splendour streaks the skies, where ruin marks its course: then see how mild the font of day expands the stream of light; whilst living by the genial ray, all nature smiles delight. so boisterous riot, on his course uncurb'd by reason, flies; and lightning, like its fatal force, soon lightning-like it dies: whilst sober temperance, still the same, shall shun the scene of strife; and, like the sun's enlivening flame, shall beam the lamp of life. let noise and folly seek the reign where senseless riot rules; let them enjoy the pleasures vain enjoy'd alone by fools. urban! those better joys be ours, which virtuous science knows, to pass in milder bliss the hours, nor fear the future woes. so when stern time their frames shall seize, when sorrow pays for sin; when every nerve shall feel disease, and conscience shrink within; shall health's best blessings all be ours, the soul serene at ease, whilst science gilds the passing hours, and every hour shall please. even now from solitude they fly, to drown each thought in noise; even now they shun reflection's eye, depriv'd of man's best joys. so, when time's unrelenting doom shall bring the seasons' course, the busy monitor shall come with aggravated force. friendship is ours: best friend, who knows each varied hour to employ; to share the lighted load of woes, and double every joy: and science too shall lend her aid, the friend that never flies, but shines amid misfortune's shade as stars in midnight skies. each joy domestic bliss can know shall deck the future hour; or if we taste the cup of woe, the cup has lost its power: thus, may we live, 'till death's keen spear, unwish'd, unfear'd, shall come; then sink, without one guilty fear, to slumber in the tomb. bion. * * * * * the miser's mansion. thou mouldering mansion, whose embattled side shakes as about to fall at every blast; once the gay pile of splendor, wealth, and pride, but now the monument of grandeur past. fall'n fabric! pondering o'er thy time-trac'd walls, thy mouldering, mighty, melancholy state; each object, to the musing mind, recalls the sad vicissitudes of varying fate. thy tall towers tremble to the touch of time, the rank weeds rustle in thy spacious courts; fill'd are thy wide canals with loathly slime, where battening, undisturb'd, the foul toad sports. deep from her dismal dwelling yells the owl, the shrill bat flits around her dark retreat; and the hoarse daw, when loud the tempests howl, screams as the wild winds shake her secret seat. 'twas here avaro dwelt, who daily told his useless heaps of wealth in selfish joy; who lov'd to ruminate o'er hoarded gold, and hid those stores he dreaded to employ. in vain to him benignant heaven bestow'd the golden heaps to render thousands blest; smooth aged penury's laborious road, and heal the sorrows of affliction's breast. for, like the serpent of romance, he lay sleepless and stern to guard the golden sight; with ceaseless care he watch'd his heaps by day, with causeless fears he agoniz'd by night. ye honest rustics, whose diurnal toil enrich'd the ample fields this churl possest; say, ye who paid to him the annual spoil, with all his riches, was avaro blest? rose he, like you, at morn devoid of fear, his anxious vigils o'er his gold to keep? or sunk he, when the noiseless night was near, as calmly on his couch of down to sleep? thou wretch! thus curst with poverty of soul, what boot to thee the blessings fortune gave? what boots thy wealth above the world's controul, if riches doom their churlish lord a slave? chill'd at thy presence grew the stately halls, nor longer echo'd to the song of mirth; the hand of art no more adorn'd thy walls, nor blaz'd with hospitable fires the hearth. on well-worn hinges turns the gate no more, nor social friendship hastes the friend to meet; nor when the accustom'd guest draws near the door, run the glad dogs, and gambol round his feet. sullen and stern avaro sat alone in anxious wealth amid the joyless hall, nor heeds the chilly hearth with moss o'ergrown, nor sees the green slime mark the mouldering wall. for desolation o'er the fabric dwells, and time, on restless pinion, hurried by; loud from her chimney'd seat the night-bird yells, and thro' the shatter'd roof descends the sky. thou melancholy mansion! much mine eye delights to wander o'er thy sullen gloom, and mark the daw from yonder turret fly, and muse how man himself creates his doom. for here had justice reign'd, had pity known with genial power to sway avaro's breast, these treasur'd heaps which fortune made his own, by aiding misery might himself have blest. and charity had oped her golden store to work the gracious will of heaven intent, fed from her superflux the craving poor, and paid adversity what heaven had lent. then had thy turrets stood in all their state, then had the hand of art adorn'd thy wall, swift on its well-worn hinges turn'd the gate, and friendly converse cheer'd the echoing hall. then had the village youth at vernal hour hung round with flowery wreaths thy friendly gate, and blest in gratitude that sovereign power that made the man of mercy good as great. the traveller then to view thy towers had stood, whilst babes had lispt their benefactor's name, and call'd on heaven to give thee every good, and told abroad thy hospitable fame. in every joy of life the hours had fled, whilst time on downy pinions hurried by, 'till age with silver hairs had grac'd thy head, wean'd from the world, and taught thee how to die. and, as thy liberal hand had shower'd around the ample wealth by lavish fortune given, thy parted spirit had that justice found, and angels hymn'd the rich man's soul to heaven. bion. * * * * * elegy. the decayed farm-house. 'mid mighty ruins mould'ring to decay, the letter'd traveller delights to roam; the antique pile or column to survey, and trace faint legends on the crumbling dome. they court proud cities of historic name, by desolation's giant arm subdu'd, and meditate the spot once dear to fame, where balbec flourish'd, or palmyra stood. the muse delights to court a lone retreat, and far from these illustrious scenes to stray; uprear'd by folly for ambition's seat, by vice and folly fall'n, now tottering to decay. she loves to meditate the humbler spot, where untrick'd nature pours the rude sublime; where rural hands have rear'd the rural cot, decaying now beneath the touch of time. "yon farm-house totters, by the tempest beat, the marks of age its antique chimnies bear; sure no sad master owns the cheerless seat, say, passing shepherd, who has sojourn'd there?" 'forgive the sigh,' the rustic swain reply'd, 'these desert scenes my happier days recall; forgive the tears which down my cheeks yglide, for when i view this spot, my tears will fall. 'stranger!' said he, 'here late did gratio dwell, hast thou not heard of good old gratio's fame? through all our village he was known full well, and even lisping infants spoke his name. 'twice twenty years i serv'd him as his hind, twice twenty years for him i till'd the soil; i lov'd my master, for i found him kind, my task was easy, and i blest my toil. 'he seem'd not master, but an equal friend; he join'd our labours in the field by day, and when the evening bade our labours end, he mingled freely in our rustic play. 'ah! well i knew him from his mother's arms, no youth so fair, so innocent, as he; his spring of life was deck'd with spring's best charms, his opening mind was like the blossom'd tree. 'his riper years with riper fruits were crown'd, his mellow autumn blest with genial skies; his age, like winter's frost-ymantled ground, where vigour still beneath the hoary surface lies. 'for wealth or pow'r he breath'd no prayer to heav'n, life's every blessing industry supplied; to him health, peace, and competence, were giv'n, and say, can virtue form a wish beside? 'this once-lov'd spot recalls full many a joy, what cheer'd in youth old age will ne'er forget; but still must doat on memory's fond employ, and what it lov'd the most, the most regret. 'the spreading elm that shadows o'er the yard, its parted master to my view can call; and every object claims a soft regard, since gratio's memory sanctifies them all. 'the shady bower in yonder elmy meads, the vocal thicket where the throstle sung, the little gate that through the garden leads, the fork now useless where the milk-pail hung. 'but gratio's dead, and desert is the scene, gratio's no more, and every charm's decay'd; those joys are fled which gladden'd once the green; but still fond fancy courts the fleeting shade, 'still dwells tenacious on those happier hours, when this lov'd spot with social joys was crown'd; when health, content, and innocence were ours, and pour'd the song of happiness around. 'then the glad houshold his return would greet, and winning welcome smil'd with accents bland; the faithful house-dog gambol'd round his feet, to court attention from his master's hand. 'to clasp his knees the prattling infants ran, proud from their sire to catch the earliest kiss; oh! i have seen the parent bless the man, when only tears could speak his secret bliss. 'but now he's dead, the thought demands a tear, i saw the good man yield his latest breath; he fell full ripen'd as the autumnal ear, swept by the sickle of relentless death.' "shepherd," said he, "my day of life is flown;" 'methinks ev'n now the faultering sound i hear:' "lay my cold corse beneath some humble stone, and let no useless pomp attend my bier." 'we try'd each healing art, but could not save; we bore his bier, the last sad debt to pay; no plumy hearse bore gratio to the grave, no pompous pile was rear'd around his clay. 'all the sad village followed in the train, we laid his bones beneath yon yew-tree's shade; our village curate grav'd the elegiac strain, and lo! the stone, the spot in which he's laid.' * * * * * epitaph. here gratio mingles with his kindred clay, who liv'd contented, and who died resign'd; he let no slavish rules his actions sway, but the warm impulse of an honest mind. of heav'n's free blessings he bestow'd a part, and open'd wide his hospitable gate; he fed the poor, for gen'rous was his heart; he sooth'd the sad, for pity was his mate. to him the boon of good old age was giv'n, and now, when parted from this world of woe, he rests in holy faith of god and heav'n, to meet that mercy which he gave below. moschus. * * * * * elegy. the decayed monastery. how loves the mind to muse o'er long-past hours, while o'er the scene the swift ideas dance; how sweet absorb'd in memory's pleasing pow'rs, to wing the soul in retrospective glance! but nought avails the retrospective view, if calm reflection turn it not to good; in vain shall thought the backward theme pursue, if mind not profit by the theme pursu'd. thus o'er some antique ruin, time-defac'd, the sons of science oft delight to stray, to trace the inscription on the desert waste, and pierce time's dark veil by its lucid ray. but vain the labours of the enquiring sage, if thence the mind no moral truth sublimes; nor learns from heroes of a distant age, to love their virtues, and to shun their crimes. beneath yon hillock, by the embow'ring grove, the once-fam'd convent's mouldering walls arise; come, pensive muse, that lov'st these scenes to rove, now rising vesper rules the evening skies! explore the gloom with silent step, and slow, while musing melancholy hovers near; haply from hence some moral truth may flow, and frame a song that virtue's self may hear. this sacred pile, for solitude design'd, to pious age might form a still retreat; but bigot zeal here rankled in the mind, and superstition fix'd her baneful seat. yon pending column, moss ygrown and rude, now torn by time, and faithless to its trust; once mark'd the proud spot where a temple stood, and mystic rites made consecrate its dust. 'twere impious thought these cloister'd shades to roam, or wake dull echo with one cheerful sound; no stranger eye might meditate the dome, no foot unhallow'd tread the sacred ground. but now ev'n here the slimy serpent crawls, and hence the gloom-born owlet wheels her way; loud shrieks the hoarse bat from the hollow walls, and the gaunt night-wolf meditates his prey. as o'er the mind these varied visions steal, they speak instruction to the musing bard; from these vain efforts of religious zeal, how clear the moral, yet how few regard. in vain may priests their mystic rites repeat, the dome still moulders with th' unhallow'd dust; for virtue only consecrates her seat, her sacred temple is the heart that's just. how dark the times when wily monks combin'd, and shrouded truth in superstitious gloom; represt the noblest energies of mind, prescrib'd man's path, and fix'd his final doom. if crimes untold some parting spirit felt, persuasive gold to holy friar was giv'n; low at the altar brib'd devotion knelt, and mammon wing'd the venal pray'r to heav'n. succeeding ages saw their wealth increase, while self-denying poverty they feign'd; secure they liv'd in luxury and ease, nor kept those vigils which themselves ordain'd. now the eighth henry rul'd our rising isle, he saw their treasure, and he burnt t' enjoy; destruction rag'd o'er each devoted pile, and wealth, that rais'd them, serv'd but to destroy. thus burst one link of superstition's chain, the mind unfetter'd dar'd a nobler flight; fair truth and reason reassum'd their reign, and pour'd a flood of intellectual light. how blest were man, had this diffusive beam spread o'er the general world its lambent ray; illum'd the shores where volga pours its stream, and where the classic tiber rolls its way. for there no gleam shot through th' impervious night, and there their seat the monkish zealots made; as the dull earth-worm shuns the realms of light, and courts in gloom obscure its native shade. still in those regions superstition sways, in cloister'd shades see youth and beauty shrin'd; there unexcited energy decays, and genius dies that might have blest mankind. but soon ev'n here the illusive shade shall fail, and truth omnipotent assert its power; how joys the muse the coming dawn to hail, oh! might her line facilitate the hour. say, what is virtue, sages? is it this? to quit the public weal, and guard our own: is life's sole object individual bliss? does man exist to bless himself alone? have we no duties of a social kind? is self-regard creation's noblest end? how then shall age its wonted succour find; the blind a leader, and the poor a friend? say, ye recluse, who shun life's public road, have ye not powers to mitigate distress; to ease affliction's bosom of its load, and make the sum of human misery less? this duty teaches to the human breast, and virtue bids us still her fires relume; nor waste the flame, unblessing and unblest, as lamps that glimmer in sepulchral gloom. who hides those talents bounteous heav'n bestow'd in lone retreat, perverts great nature's plan, the path of duty is the social road, the sphere for action is the sphere for man. moschus. * * * * * to hymen. god of the torch, whose soul-illuming flame beams brightest radiance o'er the human heart; of every woe the cure, of every joy the source; to thee i sing: if haply may the muse pour forth the song unblam'd from these dull haunts, where never beams thy torch to cheer the sullen scene; from these dull haunts, where monkish science holds, in sullen gloom her solitary reign; and spurns the reign of love, and spurns thy genial sway. god of the ruddy cheek and beaming eye, whose soft sweet gaze thrills thro' the bounding heart, with no unholy joy i pour the lay to thee. i pour the lay to thee, though haply doom'd in solitary woe to waste my years; though doom'd perchance to die unlov'd and unbewail'd. yet will the lark, in iron cage inthrall'd, chaunt forth her hymn to greet the morning sun, as wide his brilliant beam illumes the landskip round; as distant 'mid the woodland haunts is heard the feather'd quire, she chaunts her prison'd hymn, and hails the beam of joy, of joy to her denied. friend to each noblest feeling of the soul, to thee i hymn, for every joy is thine; and every virtue comes to join thy generous train. lur'd by the splendor of thy beamy torch, beacon of bliss, young love expands his plumes, and leads his willing slaves to wear thy flowery bands; and then he yields the follies of his reign, throws down the torch that scorches up the soul, and lights the purer flame that glows serene with thee. and chasten'd friendship comes, whose mildest sway shall cheer the hour of age, when fainter beam the fading flame of love, the fading flame of life. parent of every bliss! the busy soul of fancy oft will paint, in brightest hues, how calm, how clear, thy torch illumes the wintry hour; will paint the wearied labourer, at that hour when friendly darkness yields a pause to toil, returning blithely home to each domestic joy; will paint the well-trimm'd fire, the frugal meal prepar'd by fond solicitude to please, the ruddy children round that climb the father's knee: and oft will fancy rise above the lot of honest poverty, oft paint the state where happiest man is blest with mediocrity; when toil, no longer irksome and constrain'd by hard necessity, but comes to please, to vary the still hour of tranquil happiness. why, fancy, wilt thou, o'er the lovely scene pouring thy vivid hues, why, sorceress sweet! soothe sad reality with visionary bliss? ah! rather gaze where science' hallow'd light resplendent shines: ah! rather lead thy son through all her mystic paths to drink the sacred spring. let calm philosophy supply the void, and fill the vacant heart; lead calmly on along the unvaried path, to age's drear abode; and teach how dreadful death to happiness, what thousand horrors wait the last adieu, when every tie is broke, and every charm dissolv'd. then only dreadful; friendly to the wretch who wanes in solitary listlessness, nor knows the joys of life, nor knows the dread of death. bion. * * * * * hospitality. "lay low yon impious trappings on the ground, bend, superstition, bend thy haughty head, be mine supremacy, and mine alone:" thus from his firm-establish'd throne, replete with vengeful fury, henry said. high reformation lifts her iron rod, but lo! with stern and threatful mien, fury and rancour desolate the scene, beneath their rage the gothic structures nod. ah! hold awhile your angry hands; ah! here delay your king's commands, for hospitality will feel the wound! in vain the voice of reason cries, whilst uncontroul'd the regal mandate flies. thou, avalon! in whose polluted womb the patriot monarch found his narrow tomb; where now thy solemn pile, whose antique head with niche-fraught turrets awe-inspiring spread, stood the memorial of the pious age? where wont the hospitable fire in cheering volumes to aspire, and with its genial warmth the pilgrim's woes assuage. low lie thy turrets now, the desart ivy clasps the joyless hearth; the dome which luxury yrear'd, though hospitality was there rever'd, now, from its shatter'd brow, with mouldering ruins loads the unfrequented earth. ye minstrel throng, in whose bold breasts once glow'd the tuneful fire, no longer struck by you shall breathe the plaintive lyre: the walls, whose trophied sides along once rung the harp's energic sound, now damp and moss-ymantled load the ground; no more the bold romantic lore shall spread from thule's distant shore; no more intrepid cambria's hills among, in hospitable hall, shall rest the child of song. ah, hospitality! soft pity's child, where shall we seek thee now? genius! no more thy influence mild shall gild affliction's clouded brow; no more thy cheering smiles impart one ray of joy to sorrow's heart; no more within the lordly pile wilt thou bestow the bosom-warming smile. whilst haughty pride his gallery displays, where hangs the row in sullen show of heroes and of chiefs of ancient days, the gaudy toil of turkish loom shall decorate the stately room; yet there the traveller, with wistful eye, beholds the guarded door, and sighs, and passes by. not so where o'er the desart waste of sand speds the rude arab wild his wandering way; leads on to rapine his intrepid band, and claims the wealth of india for his prey; there, when the wilder'd traveller distrest holds to the robber forth the friendly hand, the generous arab gives the tent of rest, guards him as the fond mother guards her child, relieves his every want, and guides him o'er the wild. not so amid those climes where rolls along the oroonoko deep his mighty flood; where rove amid their woods the savage throng, nurs'd up in slaughter, and inur'd to blood; fierce as their torrents, wily as the snake that sharps his venom'd tooth in every brake, aloft the dreadful tomahawk they rear; patient of hunger, and of pain, close in their haunts the chiefs remain, and lift in secret stand the deadly spear. yet, should the unarm'd traveller draw near, and proffering forth the friendly hand, claim their protection from the warrior band; the savage indians bid their anger cease, lay down the ponderous spear, and give the pipe of peace. such virtue nature gives: when man withdraws to fashion's circle, far from nature's laws, how chang'd, how fall'n the human breast! cold prudence comes, relentless foe! forbids the pitying tear to flow, and steels the soul of apathy to rest; mounts in relentless state her stubborn throne, and deems of other bosoms by her own. bion. * * * * * sonnets. * * * * * sonnet i. _to ariste._ ariste! soon to sojourn with the crowd, in soul abstracted must thy minstrel go; mix in the giddy, fond, fantastic show, mix with the gay, the envious, and the proud. i go: but still my soul remains with thee, still will the eye of fancy paint thy charms, still, lovely maid, thy imaged form i see, and every pulse will vibrate with alarms. when scandal spreads abroad her odious tale, when envy at a rival's beauty sighs, when rancour prompts the female tongue to rail, and rage and malice fire the gamester's eyes, i turn my wearied soul to her for ease, who only names to praise, who only speaks to please. bion. * * * * * sonnet ii. be his to court the muse, whose humble breast the glow of genius never could inspire; who never, by the future song possest, struck the bold strings, and waked the daring lyre. let him invoke the muses from their grove, who never felt the inspiring touch of love. if i would sing how beauty's beamy blaze thrills through the bosom at the lightning view, or harp the high-ton'd hymn to virtue's praise, where only from the minstrel praise is due, i would not court the muse to prompt my lays, my muse, ariste, would be found in you! and need i court the goddess when i move the warbling lute to sound the soul of love? bion. * * * * * sonnet iii. let ancient stories sound the painter's art, who stole from many a maid his venus' charms, 'till warm devotion fir'd each gazer's heart, and every bosom bounded with alarms. he cull'd the beauties of his native isle, from some the blush of beauty's vermeil dyes, from some the lovely look, the winning smile, from some the languid lustre of the eyes. low to the finish'd form the nations round in adoration bent the pious knee; with myrtle wreaths the artist's brow they crown'd, whose skill, ariste, only imaged thee. ill-fated artist, doom'd so wide to seek the charms that blossom on ariste's cheek! bion. * * * * * sonnet iv. i praise thee not, ariste, that thine eye knows each emotion of the soul to speak; that lillies with thy face might fear to vie, and roses can but emulate thy cheek. i praise thee not because thine auburn hair in native tresses wantons on the wind; nor yet because that face, surpassing fair, bespeaks the inward excellence of mind: 'tis that soft charm thy minstrel's heart has won, that mild meek goodness that perfects the rest; soothing and soft it steals upon the breast, as the soft radiance of the setting sun, when varying through the purple hues of light, the fading orbit smiles serenely bright. bion. * * * * * sonnet v. _dunnington-castle._ thou ruin'd relique of the ancient pile, rear'd by that hoary bard, whose tuneful lyre first breath'd the voice of music on our isle; where, warn'd in life's calm evening to retire, old chaucer slowly sunk at last to night; still shall his forceful line, his varied strain, a firmer, nobler monument remain, when the high grass waves o'er thy lonely site; and yet the cankering tooth of envious age has sapp'd the fabric of his lofty rhyme; though genius still shall ponder o'er the page, and piercing through the shadowy mist of time, the festive bard of edward's court recall, as fancy paints the pomp that once adorn'd thy wall. bion. * * * * * sonnet vi. as slow and solemn yonder deepening knell tolls through the sullen evening's shadowy gloom, alone and pensive, in my silent room, on man and on mortality i dwell. and as the harbinger of death i hear frequent and full, much do i love to muse on life's distemper'd scenes of hope and fear; and passion varying her camelion hues, and man pursuing pleasure's empty shade, 'till death dissolves the vision. so the child in youth's gay morn with wondering pleasure smil'd, as with the shining ice well-pleas'd he play'd; nor, as he grasps the crystal in his play, heeds how the faithless bauble melts away. bion. * * * * * sonnet vii. _written on a journey._ as o'er the lengthen'd plain the traveller goes, weary and sad, his wayward fancy strays to scenes which late he pass'd, haply to raise the transient joy which memory bestows; and oft, while hope dispels the gathering gloom, he paints the approaching scene in colours gay: so i, to cheer me in life's rugged way, or glance o'er pleasures past, or think of bliss to come. but ah! reflection vainly we employ on pleasures past, and fugitive the joy when the mind rests on hope's delusive power; blest only they who present joys can taste, nor fear the future, nor regret the past, but happy, as it flies, enjoy the present hour. moschus. * * * * * sonnet viii. _to happiness._ say, lovely fugitive, where dost thou dwell? desir'd of all, and sought through every scene, in pomp of courts, and in the rural green, life's public walk, and hermit's lonely cell. thee, goddess! sought of all, but found by few, we seek in vain, bewilder'd as we go; tir'd of the chace, man ceases to pursue, and sighing, says, thou dwellest not below. does he not after fairy shadows run? follows he not some wild illusive dream, like children who would catch the radiant sun, grasp at its image in the glittering stream? if right he sought, then man would meet success, for surely "virtue leads to happiness." moschus. * * * * * sonnet ix. mark'st thou yon streamlet in its onward course? mark'st thou the reed that on its surface floats? lightly it drifts along, and well denotes the light impression on the youthful breast, which, in life's summer, transiently imprest, glides o'er the mind, unfix'd by stable force: but o'er the fading year, when winter reigns, chill sleeps the stream, its wonted current stay'd, and on its bosom, where of late it play'd, frolic and light the reed infix'd remains. thus, when life's wintry season, cold and hoar, freezes the genial flow of mental power, the mind, tenacious of its gather'd store, detains each thought belov'd, conceiv'd in vernal hour. moschus. * * * * * sonnet x. _to fame._ on the high summit of yon rocky hill, proud fame! thy temple stands, and see around what thronging thousands press; and hark! the sound that fires ambition: 'tis thy clarion shrill. amid thy path the deadly thorn is strew'd, and oft intwin'd around the wreath they claim; and many spurn at justice' sacred name, and "wade to glory through a sea of blood." be mine to leave thy path, thy motley crowd, and, while to hear their names proclaim'd aloud upon the brazen trump, the throng rejoice, i'll court fair virtue in her humbler sphere, more pleas'd in calm reflection's hour to hear the approving whispers of her still small voice. moschus. * * * * * sonnet xi. _to the fire._ my friendly fire, thou blazest clear and bright, nor smoke nor ashes soil thy grateful flame; thy temperate splendour cheers the gloom of night, thy genial heat enlivens the chill'd frame. i love to muse me o'er the evening hearth, i love to pause in meditation's sway; and whilst each object gives reflection birth, mark thy brisk rise, and see thy slow decay: and i would wish, like thee, to shine serene, like thee, within mine influence, all to cheer; and wish at last, in life's declining scene, as i had beam'd as bright, to fade as clear: so might my children ponder o'er my shrine, and o'er my ashes muse, as i will muse over thine. bion. * * * * * sonnet xii. _the faded flower._ ungrateful he who pluckt thee from thy stalk, poor faded flow'ret! on his careless way, inhal'd awhile thine odours on his walk, then past along, and left thee to decay. thou melancholy emblem! had i seen thy modest beauties dew'd with evening's gem, i had not rudely cropt thy parent stem, but left thy blossom still to grace the green; and now i bend me o'er thy wither'd bloom, and drop the tear, as fancy, at my side deep-sighing, points the fair frail emma's tomb; "like thine, sad flower! was that poor wanderer's pride! o, lost to love and truth! whose selfish joy tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy." bion. * * * * * sonnet xiii. _to sensibility._ i'll court thy lone bow'r, sensibility! and mark thy lovely form, wild waving hair, thy loosely flowing robe, thy languid eye, and all those charms which blend to make thee fair. far from the madding crowd thou lov'st to stray recluse, and listen at the silent hour, when wildly warbling from her secret bow'r the pensive night-bird pours her evening lay. 'tis thine own minstrel's melody is heard, and as her sad song, by the moon's still beam, dies softly on mine ear, more sweet i deem her mournful note than song of blither bird; so more than beauty's cheek of vermeil dye charms thy soft downcast mein and tear-dew'd eye. moschus. * * * * * sonnet xiv. _to health._ nymph of the splendent eye and rosy cheek, who erst from courts and luxury didst speed, and with thine elder sister, temperance, seek the woodbin'd cottage on the daisied mead; there will i woo thee, for thou dwellest there amid the sons of industry; thy smile soothes every sorrow, cheers the hour of toil, and, blest by thee, sweet is their frugal fare. when the woods echo with the early horn thou trip'st the wild heath, clad in flowing vest, (while youthful zephyr wantons o'er thy breast) and, with blithe song, dost greet the blushing morn; the airy sprite, who o'er thy fair form roves, thy beauty tastes, and, as he tastes, improves. moschus. * * * * * sonnet xv. _to the nightingale._ sad songstress of the night, no more i hear thy soften'd warblings meet my pensive ear, as by thy wonted haunts again i rove; why art thou silent? wherefore sleeps thy lay? for faintly fades the sinking orb of day, and yet thy music charms no more the grove. the shrill bat flutters by; from yon dark tower the shrieking owlet hails the shadowy hour; hoarse hums the beetle as he drones along, the hour of love is flown! thy full-fledg'd brood no longer need thy care to cull their food, and nothing now remains to prompt the song: but drear and sullen seems the silent grove, no more responsive to the lay of love. bion. * * * * * sonnet xvi. _to reflection._ hence, busy torturer, wherefore should mine eye revert again to many a sorrow past? hence, busy torturer, to the happy fly, those who have never seen the sun o'ercast by one dark cloud, thy retrospective beam, serene and soft, may on their bosoms gleam, as the last splendour of the summer sky. let them look back on pleasure, ere they know to mourn its absence; let them contemplate the thorny windings of our mortal state, ere unexpected bursts the cloud of woe; stream not on me thy torch's baneful glow, like the sepulchral lamp's funereal gloom, in darkness glimmering to disclose a tomb. bion. * * * * * the wish. _to a friend._ the muse who struck to moral strains the lyre, now turns to court a visionary theme, to frame the wish which flattering hopes inspire, when fancy revels in her golden dream. i ask no lone retreat, no shady grove, nor grove nor bower can boast a charm for me; i muse on justice, liberty, and love, and, need i, orson! tell my wish to thee? i bend, great justice! at thine awful throne, eternal arbiter of good and ill, the sons of soul shall make thy laws their own, and form their dictates by thy sov'reign will. but oft perverted is thy high behest, and oft i'm doom'd oppression's rod to see; i see wealth triumph, and the poor opprest, and, need i, orson! tell my wish to thee? how bounds the soul at freedom's sacred call? how shrinks from slavery's heart-appalling train? but still her victims avarice will inthral, afric's sad sons still wear the accursed chain. still, power despotic, with ambition join'd, would crush the soul determin'd to be free; i see debas'd man's dignity of mind, and, need i, orson! tell my wish to thee? were justice follow'd, then would man be good, were freedom guarded, then would man be blest; no generous impulse of the soul subdu'd, but love, unfraught with anguish, fill the breast. i felt the magic of lucinda's eye, i thought her charms were of no mean degree; lucinda's name inspir'd the secret sigh, and, need i, orson! tell my wish to thee? one only wish remain'd! oh! might i find, amid this scene of danger and of strife, some kindred spirit, some congenial mind, to cheer my journey through the vale of life. indulgent heav'n vouchsafed the boon to send, a youth i found, and just and mild was he; my heart sprang mutual to embrace its friend, and, need i, orson! name that friend to thee? moschus. * * * * * to lycon. on yon wild waste of ruin thron'd, what form beats her swoln breast, and tears her unkempt hair? why seems the spectre thus to court the storm? why glare her full-fix'd eyes in stern despair? the deep dull groan i hear, i see her rigid eye refuse the soothing tear. ah! fly her dreadful reign, for desolation rules o'er all the lifeless plain; for deadliest nightshade forms her secret bower, for oft the ill-omen'd owl yells loud the dreadful howl, and the night spectres shriek amid the midnight hour. pale spectre, grief! thy dull abodes i know, i know the horrors of thy barren plain, i know the dreadful force of woe, i know the weight of thy soul-binding chain; but i have fled thy drear domains, have broke thy agonizing chains, drain'd deep the poison of thy bowl, yet wash'd in science' stream the poison from my soul. fair smiles the morn along the azure sky, calm and serene the zephyrs whisper by, and many a flow'ret gems the painted plain; as down the dale, with perfumes sweet, the cheerful pilgrim turns his feet, his thirsty ear imbibes the throstle's strain; and every bird that loves to sing the choral song to coming spring, tunes the wild lay symphonious through the grove, heaven, earth, and nature, all incite to love. ah, pilgrim! stay thy heedless feet, distrust each soul-subduing sweet, dash down alluring pleasure's deadly bowl, for thro' thy frame the venom'd juice will creep, lull reason's powers to sombrous sleep, and stain with sable hue the spotless soul; for soon the valley's charms decay, in haggard griefs ill omen'd sway, and barren rocks shall hide the cheering light of day: then reason strives in vain, extinguish'd hope's enchanting beam for aye, and virtue sinks beneath the galling chain, and sorrow deeply drains her lethal bowl, and sullen fix'd despair benumbs the nerveless soul. yet on the summit of yon craggy steep stands hope, surrounded with a blaze of light; she bids the wretch no more despondent weep, or linger in the loathly realms of night; and science comes, celestial maid! as mild as good she comes to aid, to smooth the rugged steep with magic power, and fill with many a wile the longly-lingering hour. fair smiles the morn, in all the hues of day array'd, the wide horizon streams with light; anon the dull mists blot the living ray, and darksome clouds presage the stormy night: yet may the sun anew extend his ray, anew the heavens may shine in splendour bright; anew the sunshine gild the lucid plain, and nature's frame reviv'd, may thank the genial rain. and what, my friend, is life? what but the many weather'd april day! now darkly dimm'd by clouds of strife, now glowing in propitious fortune's ray; let the reed yielding bend its weakly form, for, firm in rooted strength, the oak defies the storm. if thou hast plann'd the morrow's dawn to roam o'er distant hill or plain, wilt thou despond in sadness at thy home, whilst heaven drops down the rain? or will thy hope expect the coming day, when bright the sun may shine with unremitted ray? wilt thou float careless down the stream of time, in sadness borne to dull oblivion's shore, or shake off grief, and "build the lofty rhyme," and live 'till time himself shall be no more? if thy light bark have met the storm, if threatening clouds the sky deform, let honest truth be vain; look back on me, have i been "sailing on a summer's sea?" have only zephyrs fill'd my swelling sails, as smooth the gentle vessel glides along? lycon, i met unscar'd the wintry gales, and sooth'd the dangers with the song: so shall the vessel sail sublime, and reach the port of fame adown the stream of time. bion. * * * * * to lycon. and does my friend again demand the strain, still seek to list the sorrow-soothing lay? still would he hear the woe-worn heart complain, when melancholy loads the lingering day? shall partial friendship turn the favouring eye, no fault behold, but every charm descry; and shall the thankless bard his honour'd strain deny? "no single pleasure shall your pen bestow:" ah, lycon! 'tis that thought affords delight; 'tis that can soothe the wearying weight of woe, when memory reigns amid the gloom of night: for fancy loves the distant scene to see, far from the gloom of solitude to flee, and think that absent friends may sometimes think of me. oft when my steps have trac'd the secret glade, what time the pale moon glimmering on the plain just mark'd where deeper darkness dyed the shade, has contemplation lov'd the night-bird's strain: still have i stood, or silent mov'd and slow, whilst o'er the copse the thrilling accents flow, nor deem'd the pensive bird might pour the notes of woe. yet sweet and lovely is the night-bird's lay, the passing pilgrim loves her notes to hear, when mirth's rude reign is sunk with parted day, and silence sleeps upon the vacant ear; for staid reflection loves the doubtful light, when sleep and stillness lull the noiseless night, and breathes the pensive song a soothing sad delight. fearful the blast, and loud the torrent's roar, and sharp and piercing drove the pelting rain, when wildly wandering on the volga's shore, the exil'd ovid pour'd his plaintive strain; he mourn'd for ever lost the joys of rome, he mourn'd his widow'd wife, his distant home, and all the weight of woe that load the exile's doom. oh! could my lays, like sulmo's minstrel, flow, eternity might love her bion's name; the muse might give a dignity to woe, and grief's steep path should prove the path to fame: but i have pluck'd no bays from phoebus' bower, my fading garland, form'd of many a flower, may haply smile and bloom to last one little hour. to please that little hour is all i crave, lov'd by my friends, i spurn the love of fame; high let the grass o'erspread my lonely grave, let cankering moss obscure the rough-hewn name: there never may the pensive pilgrim go, nor future minstrel drop the tear of woe, for all would fail to wake the slumbering earth below. be mine, whilst journeying life's rough road along o'er hill and dale the wandering bard shall go, to hail the hour of pleasure with the song, or soothe with sorrowing strains the hour of woe; the song each passing moment shall beguile, perchance too, partial friendship deigns to smile, let fame reject the lay, i sleep secure the while. be mine to taste the humbler joys of life, lull'd in oblivion's lap to wear away, and flee from grandeur's scenes of vice and strife, and flee from fickle fashion's empty sway: be mine, in age's drooping hour, to see the lisping children climb their grandsire's knee, and train the future race to live and act like me. then, when the inexorable hour shall come to tell my death, let no deep requiem toll, no hireling sexton dig the venal tomb, nor priest be paid to hymn my parted soul; but let my children, near their little cot, lay my old bones beneath the turfy spot: so let me live unknown, so let me die forgot. bion. * * * * * _rosamund to henry._ written after she had taken the veil. henry, 'tis past! each painful effort o'er, thy love, thy rosamund, exists no more: she lives, but lives no longer now for you; she writes, but writes to bid the last adieu. why bursts the big tear from my guilty eye? why heaves my love-lorn breast the impious sigh? down, bosom! down, and learn to heave in prayer; flow, flow, my tears, and wash away despair: ah, no! still, still the lurking sin i see, my heart will heave, my tears will fall for thee. yes, henry! through the vestal's guilty veins, with burning sway the furious passion reigns; for thee, seducer, still the tear will fall, and love torment in godstow's hallow'd wall. yet virtue from her deathlike sleep awakes, remorse comes on, and rears her whip of snakes. ah, henry! fled are all those fatal charms that led their victim to the monarch's arms; no more responsive to the evening air in wanton ringlets waves my golden hair; no more amid the dance my footsteps move, no more the languid eye dissolves with love; fades on the cheek of rosamund the rose, and penitence awakes from sin's repose. harlot! adultress! henry! can i bear such aggravated guilt, such full despair! by me the marriage-bed defil'd, by me the laws of heaven forsook, defied for thee! dishonour fix'd on clifford's ancient name, a father sinking to the grave with shame; these are the crimes that harrow up my heart, these are the crimes that poison memory's dart; for these each pang of penitence i prove, yet these, and more than these, are lost in love. yes, even here amid the sacred pile, the echoing cloister, and the long-drawn aisle; even here, when pausing on the silent air, the midnight bell awakes and calls to prayer; as on the stone i bend my clay-cold knee, love heaves the sigh, and drops the tear for thee: all day the penitent but wakes to weep, 'till nature and the woman sink in sleep; nightly to thee the guilty dreams repair, and morning wakes to sorrow and despair! lov'd of my heart, the conflict soon must cease, soon must this harrow'd bosom rest in peace; soon must it heave the last soul-rending breath, and sink to slumber in the arms of death. to slumber! oh, that i might slumber there! oh, that that dreadful thought might lull despair! that death's chill dews might quench this vital flame, and life lie mouldering with this lifeless frame! then would i strike with joy the friendly blow, then rush to mingle with the dead below. oh, agonizing hour! when round my head dark-brow'd despair his shadowing wings shall spread; when conscience from herself shall seek to fly, and, loathing life, still more shall loath to die! already vengeance lifts his iron rod, already conscience sees an angry god! no virtue now to shield my soul i boast, no hope protects, for innocence is lost! oh, i was cheerful as the lark, whose lay trills through the ether, and awakes the day! mine was the heartfelt smile, when earliest light shot through the fading curtain of the night; mine was the peaceful heart, the modest eye that met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why. at evening hour i struck the melting lyre, whilst partial wonder fill'd my doating sire, 'till he would press me to his aged breast, and cry, "my child, in thee my age is blest! oh! may kind heaven protract my span of life to see my lovely rosamund a wife; to view her children climb their grandsire's knee, to see her husband love, and love like me! then, gracious heaven, decree old clifford's end, let his grey hairs in peace to death descend." the dreams of bliss are vanish'd from his view, the buds of hope are blasted all by you; thy child, o clifford! bears a mother's name, a mother's anguish, and a harlot's shame; even when her darling children climb her knee feels the full force of guilt and infamy! wretch, most unhappy! thus condemn'd to know, even in her dearest bliss, her keenest woe; curst be this form, accurst these fatal charms that buried virtue in seduction's arms; or rather curst that sad, that fatal hour, when henry first beheld and felt their power; when my too-partial brother's doating tongue on each perfection of a sister hung; told of the graceful form, the rose-red cheek, the ruby lip, the eye that knew to speak, the golden locks, that shadowing half the face display'd their charms, and gave and hid a grace: 'twas at that hour when night's englooming sway steals on the fiercer glories of the day; sad all around, as silence stills the whole, and pensive fancy melts the softening soul; these hands upon the pictur'd arras wove the mournful tale of edwy's hapless love; when the fierce priest, inflam'd with savage pride, from the young monarch tore his blushing bride: loud rung the horn, i heard the coursers' feet, my brothers came, o'erjoy'd i ran to meet; but when my sovereign met my wandering eye, i blush'd, and gaz'd, and fear'd, yet knew not why; o'er all his form with wistful glance i ran, nor knew the monarch, 'till i lov'd the man: pleas'd with attention, overjoy'd i saw each look obey'd, and every word a law; too soon i felt the secret flame advance, drank deep the poison of the mutual glance; and still i ply'd my pleasing task, nor knew in shadowing edwy i had pourtray'd you. thine, henry, is the crime! 'tis thine to bear the aggravated weight of full despair; to wear the day in woe, the night in tears, and pass in penitence the joyless years: guiltless in ignorance, my love-led eyes knew not the monarch in the knight's disguise; fraught with deceit th' insidious monarch came to blast his faithful subject's spotless name; to pay each service of old clifford's race with all the keenest anguish of disgrace! of love he talk'd; abash'd my down-cast eye nor seem'd to seek, nor yet had power to fly; still, as he urg'd his suit, his wily art told not his rank 'till victor o'er my heart: ah, known too late! in vain my reason strove, fame, honour, reason, all were lost in love. how heav'd thine artful breast the deep-drawn sigh? how spoke thy looks? how glow'd thine ardent eye? when skill'd in guile, that soft seductive tongue talk'd of its truth, and clifford was undone. oh, cursed hour of passion's maddening sway, guilt which a life of tears must wash away! gay as the morning lark no more i rose, no more each evening sunk to calm repose; no more in fearless innocence mine eye, or met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why; no more my fingers struck the trembling lyre, no more i ran with joy to meet my sire; but guilt's deep poison ran through every vein, but stern reflection claim'd his ruthless reign; still vainly seeking from myself to fly, in anxious guilt i shunn'd each friendly eye; a thousand torments still my steps pursue, and guilt, still lovely, haunts my soul with you. harlot, adultress, each detested name, stamps everlasting blots on clifford's fame! how can this wretch prefer the prayer to heaven? how, self-condemn'd, expect to be forgiven? and yet, fond hope, with self-deluding art, still sheds her opiate poison o'er my heart; paints thee most wretched in domestick strife, curst with a kingdom, and a royal wife; and vainly whispers comfort to my breast- "i curst myself that henry might be blest." too fond deluder! impotent thy power to whisper comfort in the mournful hour; weak, vain seducer, hope! thy balmy breath to soothe reflection on the bed of death; to calm stern conscience' self-afflicting care, or ease the raging pangs of wild despair. why, nature, didst thou give this fatal face? why heap with charms to load me with disgrace? why bid mine eyes two stars of beauty move? why form the melting soul too apt for love? thy last best blessing meant, the feeling breast, gave way to guilt, and poison'd all the rest; now bound in sin's indissoluble chains, fled are the charms, the guilt alone remains! oh! had fate plac'd amidst earl clifford's hall of menial vassals, me most mean of all; low in my hopes, and homely rude my face, nor form, nor wishes, rais'd above my place; how happy, rosamund, had been thy lot, in peace to live unknown, and die forgot! guilt had not then infix'd her piercing sting, nor scorn revil'd the harlot of a king; contempt had not revil'd my fallen fame, nor infamy debas'd a clifford's name. oh, clifford! oh, my sire! thy honours now thy child has blasted on thine ancient brow; fallen is that darling child from virtue's name, and thy grey hairs sink to the grave with shame! still busy fancy bids the scene arise, still paints the father to these wretched eyes; methinks i see him now, with folded arms, think of his child, and curse her fatal charms; those charms, her ruin! that in happier days, with all a father's love, he lov'd to praise: unkempt his hoary locks, his head hung low in all the silent energy of woe; yet still the same kind parent, still all mild, he prays forgiveness for his sinful child. and yet i live! if this be life, to know the agonizing weight of hopeless woe: thus far, remote from every friendly eye, to drop the tear, and heave the ceaseless sigh; each dreadful pang remorse inflicts to prove, to weep and pray, yet still to weep and love: scorn'd by the virgins of this holy dome, a living victim in the cloyster'd tomb, to pray, though hopeless, justice should forgive, scorn'd by myself--if this be life--i live! oft will remembrance, in her painful hour, cast the keen glance to woodstock's lovely bower: recal each sinful scene of bliss to view, and give the soul again to guilt and you. oh! i have seen thee trace the bower around, and heard the forest echo rosamund; have seen thy frantick looks, thy wildering eye, heard the deep groan and bosom-rending sigh; vain are the searching glance, the love-lorn groan, i live--but live to penitence alone; depriv'd of every joy which life can give, most vile, most wretched, most despis'd, i live. too well thy deep regret, thy grief, are known, too true i judge thy sorrows by my own! oh! thou hast lost the dearest charm of life, the fondest, tenderest, loveliest, more than wife; one who, with every virtue, only knew the fault, if fault it be, of loving you; one whose soft bosom seem'd as made to share thine every joy, and solace every care; for crimes like these secluded, doom'd to know the aggravated weight of guilt and woe. still dear, still lov'd, i learnt to sin of thee, learn, thou seducer, penitence from me! oh! that my soul this last pure joy may know, sometimes to soothe the dreadful hour of woe: henry! by all the love my life has shown, by all the sinful raptures we have known, by all the parting pangs that rend my breast, hear, my lov'd lord, and grant my last request; and, when the last tremendous hour shall come, when all my woes are buried in the tomb, then grant the only boon this wretch shall crave- drop the sad tear to dew my humble grave; pause o'er the turf in fullness bent of woe, and think who lies so cold and pale below! think from the grave she speaks the last decree, "what i am now--soon, henry, thou must be!" then be this voice of wonted power possest, to melt thy heart, and triumph in thy breast: so should my prayers with just success be crown'd, should henry learn remorse from rosamund; then shall thy sorrow and repentance prove, that even death was weak to end our love. bion. * * * * * _the race of odin._ loud was the hostile clang of arms, and hoarse the hollow sound, when pompey scatter'd wild alarms the ravag'd east around, the crimson deluge dreadful dy'd the ground: an iron forest of destructive spears rear'd their stern stems, where late the bending harvest wav'd its rustling ears: rome, through the swarming gate, pour'd her ambitious hosts to slaughter forth: such was the will of fate! from the cold regions of the north, at length, on raven wings, shall vengeance come, and justice pour the urn of bitterness on rome. "_roman_! ('twas thus the chief of asgard cry'd) ambitious _roman_! triumph for a while; trample on freedom in thy victor pride; yet, though now thy fortune smile, though mithridates fly forlorn, once thy dread, but now thy scorn, odin will never live a shameful slave; some region will he yet explore, beyond the reach of rome; where, upon some colder shore, freedom yet thy force shall brave, freedom yet shall find a home: there, where the eagle dares not soar, soon shall the raven find a safe retreat. asgard, farewell! farewell my native seat! farewell for ever! yet, whilst life shall roll her warm tide thro' thine injur'd chieftain's breast, oft will he to thy memory drop the tear: never more shall odin rest, never quaff the sportive bowl, or soothe in peace his slothful soul, whilst rome triumphant lords it here. triumph in thy victor might, mock the chief of asgard's flight; but soon the seeds of vengeance shall be sown, and odin's race hurl down thy blood-cemented throne." nurtur'd by scandinavia's hardy soil, strong grew the vigorous plant; danger could ne'er the nation daunt, for war, to other realms a toil, was but the pastime here; skill'd the bold youth to hurl the unerring spear, to wield the falchion, to direct the dart, firm was each warrior's frame, yet gentle was his heart. freedom, with joy, beheld the noble race, and fill'd each bosom with her vivid fire; nor vice, nor luxury, debase the free-born offspring of the free-born sire; there genuine poesy, in freedom bright, diffus'd o'er all her clear, her all-enlivening light. from helicon's meandering rills the inspiring goddess fled; amid the scandinavian hills in clouds she hid her head; there the bold, the daring muse, every daring warrior wooes; the sacred lust of deathless fame burnt in every warrior's soul: "whilst future ages hymn my name, (the son of odin cries) i shall quaff the foaming bowl with my forefathers in yon azure skies; methinks i see my foeman's skull with the mantling beverage full; i hear the shield-roof'd hall resound to martial music's echoing sound; i see the virgins, valour's meed,- death is bliss--i rush to bleed." see where the murderer egill stands, he grasps the harp with skilful hands, and pours the soul-emoving tide of song; mute admiration holds the listening throng: the royal sire forgets his murder'd son; eric forgives; a thousand years their swift revolving course have run, since thus the bard could check the father's tears, could soothe his soul to peace, and never shall the fame of egill cease. dark was the dungeon, damp the ground, beneath the reach of cheering day, where regner dying lay; poisonous adders all around on the expiring warrior hung, yet the full stream of verse flow'd from his dauntless tongue: "we fought with swords," the warrior cry'd, "we fought with swords," he said--he dy'd. jomsburg lifts her lofty walls, sparta revives on scandinavia's shore; undismay'd each hero falls, and scorns his death in terror to deplore. "strike, thorchill, strike! drive deep the blow, jomsburg's sons shall not complain, never shall the brave appear bound in slavery's shameful chain, freedom ev'n in death is dear. strike, thorchill, strike! drive deep the blow, we joy to quit this world of woe; we rush to seize the seats above, and gain the warrior's meed of happiness and love." the destin'd hour at length is come, and vengeful heaven decrees the queen of cities' doom; no longer heaven withholds the avenging blow from those proud domes whence brutus fled; where just cherea bow'd his head, and proud oppression laid the gracchi low: in vain the timid slaves oppose, for freedom led their sinewy foes, for valour fled with liberty: rome bows her lofty walls, the imperial city falls, "she falls--and lo, the world again is free!" bion. * * * * * _the death of odin._ soul of my much-lov'd freya! yes, i come! no pale disease's slow-consuming power has hasten'd on thy husband's hour; nor pour'd by victor's thirsty hand has odin's life bedew'd the land: i rush to meet thee by a self-will'd doom. no more my clattering iron car shall rush amid the throng of war; no more, obedient to my heavenly cause, shall crimson conquest stamp his odin's laws. i go--i go; yet shall the nations own my sway far as yon orb shall dart his all-enlivening ray: big is the death-fraught cloud of woe that hangs, proud rome, impending o'er thy wall, for odin shall avenge his asgard's fall. thus burst from odin's lips the fated sound, as high in air he rear'd the gleaming blade; his faithful friends around in silent wonder saw the scene, affray'd: he, unappall'd, towards the skies uplifts his death-denouncing eyes; "ope wide valhalla's shield-roof'd hall, virgins of bliss! obey your master's call; from these injurious realms below the sire of nations hastes to go." say, faulters now your chieftain's breath? or chills pale terror now his death-like face? then weep not, thor, thy friend's approaching death, let no unmanly tears disgrace the first of mortal's valiant race: dauntless heimdal, mourn not now, balder! clear thy cloudy brow; i go to happier realms above, to realms of friendship and of love. this unmanly grief dispelling, list to glory's rapturous call; so with odin ever dwelling, meet him in the shield-roof'd hall: still shall odin's fateful lance before his daring friends advance; when the bloody fight beginning, helms and shields, and hauberks ringing, streaming life each fatal wound pours its current on the ground; still in clouds portentous riding o'er his comrade host presiding. odin, from the stormy air, o'er your affrighted foes shall scatter wild despair. 'mid the mighty din of battle, whilst conflicting chariots rattle, floods of purple slaughter streaming, fate-fraught falchions widely gleaming; when mista marks her destin'd prey, when dread and death deform the day; happy he amid the strife, who pours the current of his life; every toil and trouble ending, odin from his hall descending, shall bear him to his blest retreat, shall place him in the warrior's seat. not such the destin'd joys that wait the wretched dastard's future fate: wild shrieks shall yell in every breath,- the agonizing shrieks of death. adown his wan and livid face big drops their painful way shall trace; each limb in that tremendous hour shall quiver in disease's power. grim hela o'er his couch shall hang, scoff at his groans, and point each pang; no virgin goddess him shall call to join you in the shield-roof'd hall; no valkery for him prepare the smiling mead with lovely care: sad and scorn'd the wretch shall lie, despairing shriek--despairing die! no scald in never-dying lays shall rear the temple of his praise; no virgin in her vernal bloom bedew with tears his high-rear'd tomb; no soldier sound his honor'd name; no song shall hand him down to fame; but rank weeds o'er the inglorious grave shall to the blast their high heads wave; and swept by time's strong stream away, he soon shall sink--oblivion's prey; and deep in niflehim--dreary cell, aye shall his sprite tormented dwell, where grim remorse for ever wakes, where anguish feeds her torturing snakes, where disappointment and delay for ever guard the doleful way; amid the joyless land of woe keen and bleak the chill blasts blow; drives the tempest, pours the rain, showers the hail with force amain; yell the night-birds as they fly flitting in the misty sky; glows the adder, swells the toad, for sad is hela's cold abode. spread then the gothic banners to the sky, lift your sable banners high; yoke your coursers to the car, strike the sounding shield of war; go, my lov'd companions, go trample on the opposing foe; be like the raging torrent's force, that, rushing from the hills, speds on its foaming course. haste, my sons, to war's alarms, triumph in the clang of arms; joy amid the warlike toil, feed the raven with your spoil; go, prepare the eagle's food, go, and drench the wolf with blood, 'till ye shall hear dark hela's call, and virgins waft ye to my hall; there, wrapt in clouds, the shadowy throng to airy combat glide along; 'till wearied with the friendly fight, serimner's flesh recruits their might; there, whilst i grasp the roman skull, with hydromel sweet-smiling full, the festive song shall echo round, the scald repeat the deathless sound: then, thor, when thou from fight shall cease, when death shall lay that arm in peace, still shall the nations fear thy nod, the first of warriors now, and then their god; but be each heart with rage possest, let vengeance glow in every breast; let conquest fell the roman wall, revenge on rome my asgard's fall. the druid throng shall fall away, and sink beneath your victor sway; no more shall nations bow the knee, vanquish'd taranis, to thee; no more upon the sacred stone, tentates, shall thy victims groan; the vanquish'd odin, rome, shall cause thy fall, and his destruction shake thy proud imperial wall. yet, my faithful friends, beware luxury's enerving snare; 'twas this that shook our asgard's dome, that drove us from our native home; 'twas this that smooth'd the way for victor rome: gaul's fruitful plains invite your sway, conquest points the destin'd way; conquest shall attend your call, and your success shall gild still more valhalla's hall. so spake the dauntless chief, and pierc'd his breast, then rush'd to seize the seat of endless rest. bion. * * * * * _the death of moses._ israel, my hour is come! borne on the wings of time death marks his destin'd prey. now in the fullness of my age, ere faint my shrunken limbs wax weak, ere dim my rayless eye, of years and honours full, i seek the tomb. offspring of abram, moses' guardian voice no more shall breathe the will of your protecting god. for not to me is given on canaan's promis'd land at last to rest in peace: for not to me is given o'er jordan's barrier flood to reach the abundant clime: on moab's pathless plains must moses rest in peace. when wandering o'er the desert wilds of zin faint grew your parched frames, then israel sinn'd against the god of hosts. have ye forgot the hour when murmuring anger buzz'd along the busy tents? have ye forgot the hour when, bold in secrecy, sedition's impious feet stole on from tent to tent? then israel sinn'd against the god of hosts: on me his vengeance fell. twas there where miriam died, where o'er a sister's corse i rear'd in grief the monumental stone. 'twas then, the prophet's ardour lost, i felt the brother's grief: for memory's painful gratitude recall'd the succour miriam gave, the succour miriam gave when haven'd on the sedgy banks of nile repos'd my infant ark. i call'd to mind her care; i call'd to mind her love; how sweetly soft she touch'd the lute, how graceful moved amid the dance. sedition's impious feet stole on from tent to tent, till, boldened by success, aloud the fury lifts her daring voice. "why, moses, did thy treach'rous art lead us from egypt's fertile clime, amid these pathless wilds to sink, wan famine's prey? amid these pathless wilds, where even nature dies! for here no seeds enrich the earth, no fig-tree spreads its grateful shade, no vine depends its cluster'd boughs, nor frigid fountain winds its murmuring course along. our parch'd frames sink- we die for thirst." 'twas thus, blaspheming heaven, ye spake:- heaven burst in twain by me the rock; the spring rush'd forth. "but never, moses, shall thy feet possess the promis'd land:" for israel sinn'd against the god of hosts: on me his vengeance fell. from nebo's mountain top i view'd the promis'd land; o'er palestine's luxuriant soil i cast the eagle ken. far as the distant ocean's shore, o'er gilead's fertile soil i gaz'd: the southward plains i saw, and jericho's rich plain, where, bower'd in palm trees, rise her lofty towers. blest are abram's favour'd race, blest above the sons of men; for their's are canaan's fertile lands, for their's the aid of heav'n. from stern oppression's tyrant sway, from ignominy, bonds, and death, heaven led the people forth. thro' pathless deserts wild and waste, thro' the wide wilderness of dearth, where desolation blasted all around, heaven led the people forth. e'en as the eagle's parent care hangs o'er the lofty nest; and flutters fondly o'er her young, and spreads her guardian wings, and leads them from the eyry forth, and bids them face the sun. offspring of israel! have your thankless hearts forgot the bounteous gifts of heaven? when frighted ocean stopt his waves, and rushing seas stood still? have ye forgot the fires that led your nightly march? forgot the heavenly food that fell like evening dew, for israel's chosen race? oh! write his mercies on your hearts, treasure his bounties in your soul; obey the will of heaven. sons of my care! to you, from highest heaven, jeshurun's god has spoke. by me jehovah gave the words of life: observe his sacred laws, and fly the snares which superstition spreads. fly moloch's horrid rites, astarte's orgies lewd, and thammuz' annual dirge, and chemos' wanton wiles. is sittim's field forgot? forgot the fatal hour when thousands fell; and heaven's avenging arm hurl'd down the shafts of death? for then in chemos' wanton rites the sons of israel join'd; and caught the harlot's melting eye, and gave the soul to love. then, subdued by syren pleasure, captive reason bow'd to beauty; forgot the laws of god! forgot avenging heaven:- for woman's mildly-melting eye thrill'd through the soften'd soul. then zimri died: then cozbi's voice, that stole resistless o'er the hebrew's heart, in vain for pity pray'd. the zealous priest arose; e'en thro' her lover's breast he pierc'd the lovely fair idolater. blest, phineas, be thy name; blest be thy heart of adamantine faith, that spurn'd the woman's prayer. israel, be thine to shun alluring beauty's wiles, to fly the melting glance the loosely-languid look. 'tis thine to wreak the wrath of heaven; 'tis thine to lift aloft the sword, lay low the despot chiefs, lay low the lofty tow'r's. let the despots assemble their hosts, let them marshall their thousands in pride; let the offspring of anak arise from jericho's palm-bower'd throne, and aï and solyma's towers. let them rush from their mountains to war, let them cover the valley with arms, for jehovah will war for his sons. low aï's walls shall lie; devouring flames shall waste huge hazor's strength to dust. of jericho's tall towers no relics shall remain. there shall the pilgrim, tempest-torn, when on the light'ning flash destruction rides, in vain for shelter seek. o'er ruin'd palaces the fox shall roam; amid the desert halls, where once was spread the feast, where once was heard the song, now shall the wild wolf's howl resound; now build the bird obscene her secret nest. yet, from the storm of war reserv'd, with added strength jerusalem shall rise, the city of your god! to guard her favour'd tow'rs shall heaven protecting spread th' immortal shield: her trees with honey ooze, her rivers flow with milk. there, israel, shall the fig-tree bend to you its laden boughs; there shall the cluster'd vine expand its wildly-wanton arms. o'er moses' clayey corse drop ye the grateful tear, and hide his relics in the narrow house. o'er jordan then rush for the prize; spread terror o'er canaan afar, and triumphantly fight for the lord. * * * * * _the death of mattathias._ sons of my age, attend; come round the bed of death, ere yet his cold damp dews extinguish life's weak flame. for mattathias' arm no more shall scatter terror o'er the host of israel's foes. now triumphant pride disdainful lifts elate his royal head; lawless might and ruffian rapine stalk o'er israel uncontroul'd. jehovah hides his face, and stern destruction shakes the spear; wide-wasting vengeance pours the show'r of death- jehovah hides his face. now, then, my sons be firm; be like the mighty rock, against whose foot the waves for ever dash in vain. now, then, in your god confiding, lift the sword, and break the shield: look upon your great forefathers, call each long-past deed to view; let remembrance fire your souls- lift the sword, and break the shield. on moriah mount is laid the father's only child! down abraham's aged cheek roll'd the paternal tear; the big sob spoke his grief, and nature rived his heart, but rived in vain- for faith prevail'd. he rear'd the pile, he bound the silent child; the child whose silence spoke most moving eloquence. nor did not abraham feel the father's mighty grief, nor paint the wretched mother's woe-fraught cries; nor did he not perceive the deadly blow more deep would rive his heart: yet faith prevail'd- he lifts the knife of sacrifice! jehovah saw and saved. o'er joseph's robe, bedied with guileful blood, the aged patriarch wept: he rear'd the fancied tomb, and tore his hoary locks, yet bow'd resign'd to heaven's high will. meantime, in foreign land, joseph forgot not god. vice, her tinsel charms displaying, vainly sought to melt his mind; vainly plann'd the wile deceitful, seeking soft to sooth the soul, to sooth the soul to sin. he saw the languid eye, the breast that heav'd with love; white as the new-fall'n snow, unchill'd by modesty. her hot grasp seiz'd his arms: he fled- and when seducing pleasure to his lips held forth the honey'd draught, he dash'd the poison down. nor heaven, all-just, withheld relief: he mark'd the father's woe, he lov'd the virtuous child; and joseph clos'd in peace the patriarch's eyes. hark! the hurtling din of battle! clanging shields and biting falchions rend the air with fearful terror. joshua leads the war: his voice controuls the orbs of heaven! the sun stood still, the moon obedient held her chariot back; then fell the royal power. to makkedah's dark cave the monarchs fled; upon the fatal tree they wave with every wind. round jericho was borne the mystick ark, was blown the blairing blast; proud on the blairing blast triumphant ruin rode. from their foundations hurl'd, the mighty bulwarks load the ground. by prodigies announc'd, ere yet rank'd in existence roll, manoah's offspring tow'rs in giant strength: his crisp locks wave amid the wind, his crisped hair of strength. on rushes philistia's host, they environ the warrior unarm'd; he grasps the jaw-bone in his hand, he levels their thousands in death. fatigued with deeds of death, the victor's limbs relax, his parch'd mouth gapes with thirst; heaven saw and sent relief, and from the wondrous weapon flow'd the spring. by cherith's hidden stream recluse, the faithful prophet lay; he drank the running brook, the ravens brought the due supply. firm in the path of faith through life elijah trod. nor through the narrow portals of the grave he past to realms of bliss; for ravish'd in the car of flames, he fled the gate of death; thus mortal rapt to immortality. high from his lofty throne the impious tyrant cries, "fall down, ye men of earth, revere the image of your king and god." faith stood firm. "heap the fierce furnace high," (the angry despot cries) "fan the red flames till the hot furnace pales, sick'ning itself with heat." the fire flames fierce! amid the pallid flames the faithful friends are hurl'd! but blasted fall the slaves, the slaves of tyranny: god stretch'd the robe of preservation forth, and mantled o'er his sons. amid the lions hurl'd, in conscious faith serene the prophet lay. nor daniel knew to fear, nor did his pale limbs quiver with affright; he dar'd for god to die, and heaven, for ever good, preserv'd the seer: the gaunt beasts, famine-fall'n, creep at his feet, and suppliant lick his hand. sons of my age, look back; call up the shadowy scenes of ages now no more: for never, since yon font of light first shed the new-born stream, for never, since the breath of life breath'd through the realms of space, has virtue trusted in her god in vain. amid the storm serene she goes, nor heeds black malice' sharpest shafts, nor envy's venom'd tooth; the warring winds roar round her head, nor knows the constant maid to fear, but lifts her looks to god. not 'till the sun, for ever quench'd, in darkness cease to shine; 'till nature feel no more the breath of life pervade her frame; 'till time himself expir'd sink in eternity, shall faith be firm in vain. now then, indeed, be men, grasp firm the shield of faith, lift high the sword of hope, nor fear yon haughty tyrant's impious vaunts; to-day elate he stalks, lifts his tiared brows, self-deem'd a more than man: to-morrow, fall'n in dust, food for the worm corrupt, sunk to primeval nothing, low he lies. and, sometimes, when your lips repeat the deeds your forefathers achiev'd, of me the meanest think, not wholly mean: let mattathias' name full-fill your souls with fire, recal that hour to view when this indignant hand drench'd deep my dagger in apostate blood. even at the altar's foot the tyrant chief i stabb'd, i hurl'd the altar down. nor then, in sacred sloth subdued, upon the sabbath fell we unreveng'd. we serv'd our god in fight, we sacrific'd his foes, we pray'd amid the war. then through these limbs burnt high indignant valour's flame; then glow'd the lamp of life, now pale and wavering as the dews of death, slow quench its fading light. god of my fathers, thou hast seen my life worn in defence of thee; thou hast beheld me firm in danger's face, maintain thy holy cause, amid embattled hosts defend thy mystic rites. now to the unknown world, unchill'd by fear, i sink; and whilst my chilly limbs grow faint, whilst death's dull mists bedim my eye, hope lifts my soul to thee. * * * * * finis. * * * * * _proposals for publishing by subscription,_ joan of arc, an epic poem, by robert southey, _of balliol college, oxford_. to be handsomely printed in one volume quarto, price _one guinea_, to be paid on delivery. subscriptions will be received by mr. _c. dilly_, poultry, london; by the booksellers of oxford, cambridge, and bath. * * * * * reprint information: robert lovell robert southey poems 1795 woodstock books _otley. washington d.c._ 2000 this edition first published 2000 by woodstock books otley, west yorkshire england ls21 3jp and books international po box 605, herndon va 20172, u.s.a. isbn 1 85477 239 2 introduction copyright (c) 2000 jonathan wordsworth british library cataloguing-in-publication data a catalogue record for this book is available from the british library library of congress cataloging-in-publication data applied for printed and bound in england by smith settle otley ls21 3jp * * * * * transcriber's notes: effort has been made to retain the poetry indentation and stanza breaks present in the original text, but it is not always possible to be entirely sure, particularly in some of the more free-form poems. the original used 'continuation quotes' on every new line of text. these have been updated to our modern quotation style. words surrounded by _ are italicized. reprint information which was originally in the beginning of the book has been moved to the end of this e-text. elizabethan sonnet-cycles edited by martha foote crow delia by samuel daniel diana by henry constable kegan paul, trench, trübner and co. paternoster house london w.c. 1896 delia by samuel daniel samuel daniel daniel's sonnet series has been by many regarded as the prototype of shakespeare's. it is true that several of daniel's themes are repeated in the cycle composed by the greater poet. the ideas of immortality in verse, the transitoriness of beauty, the assurances of truth, the humility and the woes of the lover, the pain of separation and the comfort of night thoughts, shape the mood of both poets. but these motives are also found in the pages of many other sonneteers of the time. all these devotees seem to have had a storehouse of poetic conceits which they held in common, and from which each poet had the right to draw materials to use in his own way. in fact shakespeare's sonnets are full of echoes from the voices of sidney, constable, davies, lodge, watson, drayton and barnes, as well as from that mellifluous one of daniel; and these poetic conceits were tossed forth in the first place by the italian sonnet makers, led by petrarch. it is evident that daniel's _petrarch_ has been well-thumbed. wood says that daniel left oxford without a degree because "his geny" was "more prone to easier and smoother studies than in pecking and hewing at logic," and we may believe that italian was one of these smoother studies. his translation of paolo giovi's work on emblems, which was published in 1585, was doubtless one fruit of this study, a work that since it took him into the very realm of the _concetti_, was to be a potent influence upon his mental growth. the main theme, the cruelty of the fair, is the same as that of petrarch. daniel follows this master in making the vale echo with his sighs, in appealing to her hand and cruel bosom for mercy, in recounting the number of years he has worshipped her and honored her with sonnets on which he is depending for immortal fame, in upbraiding her for her devotion to the mirror rather than to him, and for ensnaring him with the golden net of her hair and transpiercing him with the darts from her crystalline eyes. in some of petrarch's nobler flights daniel does not follow; the higher teachings of love are not revealed to him, the step from human to divine he does not take; yet in the main, the features of the earlier poet re-appear in daniel's verse, as they do in most of his fellow-sonneteers, including shakespeare. it is also not best to give too much weight to the opinion that shakespeare has been over-influenced by daniel in the adoption of the quatrain and couplet structure. the whole period from wyatt to shakespeare shows a slow and steady mastery of the native over the foreign tendency. the change was not a sudden leap on the part of daniel and shakespeare, but a gradual growth occupying a half century and culminating in the english form. but if we should feel convinced that shakespeare's memory was influenced by the sound of daniel's cadences, this need not be considered discreditable to shakespeare. daniel's lines are smooth and melodious, and he was perhaps as great a master of the technique of rhyme as was shakespeare. if we take the sonnets of both poets as criterion, the careful daniel uses twice as many rhyme colours as shakespeare, while shakespeare repeats rhymes twice as often as daniel. if double rhymes find less favor with the captious, we admit that daniel has a third more than shakespeare has, but again shakespeare uses twice as many rhymes on syllables with secondary stress as does daniel, and shakespeare's bad rhymes are as bad as daniel's and more frequent. daniel's poetic powers were appreciated to the full in his time. to his contemporaries he was the "well languaged," the "sharp conceited," one by whose verse rosamond was eternised, one who "divinely sonnetted his delia." when judicio in _the return from parnassus_ makes his inventory of poet's qualities, in giving his judgment on daniel, he evidently has the _delia_ in mind. "sweet honey-dropping daniel doth wage war with the proudest big italian that melts his heart in sugared sonnetting." if jonson, daniel's rival as maker of masques for the court, proclaimed him a good honest man but no poet, spenser generously said he surpassed "all that afore him came;" and scarcely one of the more prominent of his contemporaries failed to address compliments to him. when daniel was gentleman extraordinary and groom of the privy chamber to anne, queen-consort to james i., the queen is said to have been a "favourer and encourager of his muse;" and his high social position made it easy for less favoured aspirants to praise him. but the perspective of time brings a more balanced judgment. while lowell finds in the fact that daniel was held in high esteem by his contemporaries a proof that noble diction was appreciated then as now, and while he admits that daniel refined our tongue, yet he decided that daniel had the thinking and languaging parts of a poet's outfit but lacked the higher creative gift. we shall find daniel at his best, not when in prosaic soberness he sings "... the civil wars, tumultuous broils, and bloody factions of a mighty land." not when he is framing stilted tragedies with chorus and declamation in the grand senecan manner, not in his complimentary addresses to lords, ladies and royalty, nor in the classic masques and philosophical dialogue, but in the less ambitious poems of _delia_ and _rosamond_, especially in such a sonnet as "care-charmer sleep," where we come more near to hearing a human heart beat than in any of the others. it is not a mighty heart, but it is one that is gentle, tender and pure. a glance at the life of daniel gives opportunity for an easy conjecture as to the personality of the lady honoured under the name of delia. at seventeen daniel was at oxford, and finished a three years' residence at magdalen college in 1582. after a visit to italy, he became established at wilton as tutor to the sons of mary sidney, countess of pembroke. to those early days at wilton the poet refers, when in 1603 he dedicates his _defense of rhyme_ to william herbert, earl of pembroke, his former pupil. in the introduction to this fine essay daniel declares that in regard to his poetic studies he was "first encouraged and framed thereunto by your most worthy and honourable mother, and received the first notion for the formal ordering of those compositions at wilton which i must ever acknowledge as my best school, and thereof always am to hold a feeling and grateful memory." at this time the home of the herberts at wilton was a literary centre. the countess was herself an industrious author, and the subject of innumerable dedicatory addresses. she seems to have been as beautiful as she was gracious and gifted. in the penshurst picture we see her in extreme youth. the long oval and delicate chiselling of the sidney face are expressed in their finest perfection, and justify the resemblance, found by spenser, to "her brother dear." the soft hair is of the same golden-brown as his, the colour her eldest son inherited, and which shakespeare is said to have described in his figure of the marjoram-buds. in the picture by gheeraedts at the national portrait gallery, painted in 1614, she has lost little of her youthful beauty, but has added the special graces of maturity. the hair is still a rich brown. a thoughtful soul sits brooding behind those attentive eyes--a soul that seems to wish to ask the universal unanswerable questions, one that has grappled with doubt and struggled with environing circumstance, but has not yet consented to be baffled. the face is modern and complex. this accomplished lady received at wilton the most distinguished people of her time. her guests included spenser, raleigh, probably shakespeare, ben jonson, inigo jones, sir john harrington, dr. donne, and many more; and the countess's _pastoral dialogue in praise of astraea_ was probably written in honour of a visit from the queen herself. it would perhaps be strange if the young poet did not surround the personality of this fascinating patroness with a romantic halo and feel that his poetic fame was linked with hers. the delia of the sonnets has all the excellencies that a sonnet-honoured lady should have, including locks of gold. but the fact that the poet has slyly changed the word "amber" to "snary" in sonnet xiv., and "golden" to "sable" in sonnet xxxviii., looks as if he desired to shield her personality from too blunt a guess. however, many hints are given; she lives in the "joyful north," in "fair albion;" she is "the eternal wonder of our happy isle." and the river by which he sounds her name is the avon- "but avon, poor in fame and poor in waters, shall have my song, where delia hath her seat." the wiltshire avon is the proud brook that flows southward by wilton, "where delia hath her seat." if it may seem in any degree unfitting that daniel should address language so glowing as is found in the _delia_ sonnets to a lady who is established as the head of a household with husband and sons about her, attention may be called to the fact that the sonnets, though they are characterised by warmth of feeling and extravagance of expression, do not contain one tainted line. posterity must justify what daniel in proud humility said of himself: "i . . . . . . . . . . never had my harmless pen at all distained with any loose immodesty, but still have done the fairest offices to virtue and the time." the respectful dignity of daniel's prose dedication of _delia_ to mary sidney cannot be surpassed; and the introductory sonnet that displaces it in the next edition, while confessing the ardent devotion of the writer, is yet couched in the most reverent terms. daniel and other sonneteers had the great example of petrarch in honouring a lady with admiration and love expressed in verses whose warmth might perhaps not have been so excusable, could the poet have been taken at his word. the new sonnets inserted in the editions of 1601 and 1623 show the faithfulness of the poet's homage. a loyal friendship, whether formed upon gratitude only or upon some warmer feeling, inspired the _delia_ although the poet expresses his devotion in the conventional modes. but that daniel outgrew to some extent the taste for these fanciful devices is shown by the changes he made in successive editions. four sonnets from the 1591 edition were never reprinted, another was reprinted once and afterwards omitted. in our text the order of the 1623 edition is followed, the edition that was supervised by the poet's brother; but these omitted sonnets will be found at the end under the head of _rejected sonnets_. it is certain that they are daniel's and that he rejected them, and it therefore seems no more than fair to the poet, if they are reprinted at all, to insert them under this head. while, then, these rejected sonnets may have been in two cases omitted by the poet because of their too great frankness of expression, in other cases, notably in the phoenix, the wax-image, the tablet-and-siren, the vanquished fort, and the ermelin sonnets, they seem to have lost their charm, not so much for any personal reason as for the artistic defect in the far-fetched nature of the device. daniel lived till 1619, experiencing the usual ups and downs in the career of a "court-dear poet." in later years, the famous lady anne clifford, wife of mary sidney's younger son, caused a monument to be erected in his honour, in the inscription upon which she recorded her pride in the fact that he had once been her tutor. to the right honourable the lady mary countess of pembroke wonder of these, glory of other times, o thou whom envy ev'n is forced t'admire! great patroness of these my humble rhymes, which thou from out thy greatness dost inspire! since only thou has deigned to raise them higher, vouchsafe now to accept them as thine own, begotten by thy hand and my desire, wherein my zeal and thy great might is shown. and seeing this unto the world is known, o leave not still to grace thy work in me; let not the quickening seed be overthrown of that which may be born to honor thee, whereof the travail i may challenge mine, but yet the glory, madam, must be thine! to delia i unto the boundless ocean of thy beauty runs this poor river, charged with streams of zeal, returning thee the tribute of my duty, which here my love, my youth, my plaints reveal. here i unclasp the book of my charged soul, where i have cast th' accounts of all my care; here have i summed my sighs. here i enrol how they were spent for thee. look, what they are. look on the dear expenses of my youth, and see how just i reckon with thine eyes. examine well thy beauty with my truth, and cross my cares ere greater sums arise. read it, sweet maid, though it be done but slightly; who can show all his love, doth love but lightly. ii go, wailing verse, the infants of my love, minerva-like, brought forth without a mother; present the image of the cares i prove, witness your father's grief exceeds all other. sigh out a story of her cruel deeds, with interrupted accents of despair; a monument that whosoever reads, may justly praise and blame my loveless fair; say her disdain hath drièd up my blood, and starvèd you, in succours still denying; press to her eyes, importune me some good, waken her sleeping pity with your crying: knock at her hard heart, beg till you have moved her, and tell th'unkind how dearly i have loved her. iii if so it hap this offspring of my care, these fatal anthems, lamentable songs, come to their view, who like afflicted are; let them yet sigh their own, and moan my wrongs. but untouched hearts with unaffected eye, approach not to behold my soul's distress; clear-sighted you soon note what is awry, whilst blinded souls mine errors never guess. you blinded souls, whom youth and error lead; you outcast eaglets dazzled with your sun, do you, and none but you, my sorrows read; you best can judge the wrongs that she hath done, that she hath done, the motive of my pain, who whilst i love doth kill me with disdain. iv these plaintive verse, the posts of my desire, which haste for succour to her slow regard, bear not report of any slender fire, forging a grief to win a fame's reward. nor are my passions limned for outward hue, for that no colours can depaint my sorrows; delia herself, and all the world may view best in my face where cares have tilled deep furrows. no bays i seek to deck my mourning brow, o clear-eyed rector of the holy hill! my humble accents bear the olive bough of intercession but to move her will. these lines i use t'unburden mine own heart; my love affects no fame nor 'steems of art. v whilst youth and error led my wandering mind, and set my thoughts in heedless ways to range, all unawares a goddess chaste i find, diana-like, to work my sudden change. for her, no sooner had mine eye bewrayed, but with disdain to see me in that place, with fairest hand the sweet unkindest maid casts water-cold disdain upon my face. which turned my sport into a hart's despair, which still is chased, while i have any breath, by mine own thoughts set on me by my fair. my thoughts like hounds pursue me to my death; those that i fostered of mine own accord, are made by her to murder thus their lord. vi fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair; her brow shades frowns although her eyes are sunny; her smiles are lightning though her pride despair; and her disdains are gall, her favours honey; a modest maid, decked with a blush of honour, whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love; the wonder of all eyes that look upon her, sacred on earth, designed a saint above. chastity and beauty, which were deadly foes, live reconcilèd friends within her brow; and had she pity to conjoin with those, then who had heard the plaints i utter now? o had she not been fair and thus unkind, my muse had slept and none had known my mind! vii for had she not been fair and thus unkind, then had no finger pointed at my lightness; the world had never known what i do find, and clouds obscure had shaded still her brightness. then had no censor's eye these lines surveyed, nor graver brows have judged my muse so vain; no sun my blush and error had bewrayed, nor yet the world had heard of such disdain. then had i walked with bold erected face; no downcast look had signified my miss; but my degraded hopes with such disgrace did force me groan out griefs and utter this. for being full, should i not then have spoken, my sense oppressed had failed and heart had broken. viii thou, poor heart, sacrificed unto the fairest, hast sent the incense of thy sighs to heaven; and still against her frowns fresh vows repairest, and made thy passions with her beauty even. and you, mine eyes, the agents of my heart, told the dumb message of my hidden grief; and oft, with careful tunes, with silent art, did treat the cruel fair to yield relief. and you, my verse, the advocates of love, have followed hard the process of my case: and urged that title which doth plainly prove my faith should win, if justice might have place. yet though i see that nought we do can move, 'tis not disdain must make me cease to love. ix if this be love, to draw a weary breath, to paint on floods till the shore cry to th'air; with downward looks still reading on the earth. these sad memorials of my love's despair; if this be love, to war against my soul, lie down to wail, rise up to sigh and grieve, the never-resting stone of care to roll, still to complain my griefs, whilst none relieve; if this be love, to clothe me with dark thoughts, haunting untrodden paths to wail apart, my pleasures horror, music tragic notes, tears in mine eyes and sorrow at my heart; if this be love, to live a living death, then do i love, and draw this weary breath. x then do i love and draw this weary breath for her, the cruel fair, within whose brow i written find the sentence of my death in unkind letters wrote she cares not how. thou power that rul'st the confines of the night, laughter-loving goddess, worldly pleasures' queen, intenerate that heart that sets so light the truest love that ever yet was seen; and cause her leave to triumph in this wise upon the prostrate spoil of that poor heart that serves, a trophy to her conquering eyes, and must their glory to the world impart; once let her know sh'hath done enough to prove me, and let her pity if she cannot love me! xi tears, vows and prayers gain the hardest hearts, tears, vows and prayers have i spent in vain; tears cannot soften flint nor vows convert; prayers prevail not with a quaint disdain. i lose my tears where i have lost my love, i vow my faith where faith is not regarded, i pray in vain a merciless to move; so rare a faith ought better be rewarded. yet though i cannot win her will with tears, though my soul's idol scorneth all my vows, though all my prayers be to so deaf ears, no favour though the cruel fair allows, yet will i weep, vow, pray to cruel she; flint, frost, disdain, wears, melts and yields, we see. xii my spotless love hovers with purest wings about the temple of the proudest frame, where blaze those lights, fairest of earthly things; which clear our clouded world with brightest flame. m'ambitious thoughts, confinèd in her face, affect no honour but what she can give; my hopes do rest in limits of her grace; i weigh no comfort unless she relieve. for she that can my heart imparadise, holds in her fairest hand what dearest is. my fortune's wheel's the circle of her eyes, whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss. all my life's sweet consists in her alone, so much i love the most unloving one. xiii behold what hap pygmalion had to frame and carve his proper grief upon a stone! my heavy fortune is much like the same; i work on flint and that's the cause i moan. for hapless lo, even with mine own desires i figured on the table of my heart the fairest form that the world's eye admires, and so did perish by my proper art. and still i toil to change the marble breast of her whose sweetest grace i do adore, yet cannot find her breathe unto my rest. hard is her heart, and woe is me therefore. o happy he that joyed his stone and art! unhappy i, to love a stony heart! xiv those snary locks are those same nets, my dear, wherewith my liberty thou didst surprise love was the flame that firèd me so near, the dart transpiercing were those crystal eyes. strong is the net, and fervent is the flame; deep is the wound my sighs can well report. yet i do love, adore, and praise the same, that holds, that burns, that wounds in this sort; and list not seek to break, to quench, to heal, the bond, the flame, the wound that festereth so, by knife, by liquor, or by salve to deal; so much i please to perish in my woe. yet lest long travails be above my strength, good delia, loose, quench, heal me, now at length! xv if that a loyal heart and faith unfeigned, if a sweet languish with a chaste desire, if hunger-starven thoughts so long retained, fed but with smoke, and cherished but with fire; and if a brow with care's charàcters painted bewray my love with broken words half spoken to her which sits in my thoughts' temple sainted, and lays to view my vulture-gnawn heart open; if i have done due homage to her eyes, and had my sighs still tending on her name, if on her love my life and honour lies, and she, th'unkindest maid, still scorns the same; let this suffice, that all the world may see the fault is hers, though mine the hurt must be. xvi happy in sleep, waking content to languish, embracing clouds by night, in daytime mourn, my joys but shadows, touch of truth my anguish, griefs ever springing, comforts never born; and still expecting when she will relent, grown hoarse with crying, "mercy, mercy give," so many vows and prayers having spent that weary of my life i loathe to live; and yet the hydra of my cares renews still new-born sorrows of her fresh disdain; and still my hope the summer winds pursues, finding no end nor period of my pain; this is my state, my griefs do touch so nearly, and thus i live because i love her dearly. xvii why should i sing in verse? why should i frame these sad neglected notes for her dear sake? why should i offer up unto her name, the sweetest sacrifice my youth can make? why should i strive to make her live for ever, that never deigns to give me joy to live? why should m'afflicted muse so much endeavour such honour unto cruelty to give? if her defects have purchased her this fame, what should her virtues do, her smiles, her love? if this her worst, how should her best inflame? what passions would her milder favours move? favours, i think, would sense quite overcome; and that makes happy lovers ever dumb. xviii since the first look that led me to this error, to this thoughts' maze to my confusion tending, still have i lived in grief, in hope, in terror, the circle of my sorrows never ending; yet cannot leave her love that holds me hateful; her eyes exact it, though her heart disdains me. see what reward he hath that serves th'ungrateful? so true and loyal love no favour gains me. still must i whet my young desires abated, upon the flint of such a heart rebelling; and all in vain; her pride is so innated, she yields no place at all for pity's dwelling. oft have i told her that my soul did love her, and that with tears; yet all this will not move her. xix restore thy tresses to the golden ore, yield cytherea's son those arks of love; bequeath the heavens the stars that i adore, and to the orient do thy pearls remove; yield thy hands' pride unto the ivory white; t'arabian odours give thy breathing sweet; restore thy blush unto aurora bright; to thetis give the honour of thy feet. let venus have the graces she resigned, and thy sweet voice give back unto the spheres; but yet restore thy fierce and cruel mind to hyrcan tigers and to ruthless bears; yield to the marble thy hard heart again; so shalt thou cease to plague, and i to pain. xx what it is to breathe and live without life; how to be pale with anguish, red with fear, t'have peace abroad, and nought within but strife: wish to be present, and yet shun t'appear; how to be bold far off, and bashful near; how to think much, and have no words to speak; to crave redress, yet hold affliction dear; to have affection strong, a body weak, never to find, yet evermore to seek; and seek that which i dare not hope to find; t'affect this life and yet this life disleek, grateful t'another, to myself unkind: this cruel knowledge of these contraries, delia, my heart hath learned out of those eyes. xxi if beauty thus be clouded with a frown, that pity shines no comfort to my bliss, and vapours of disdain so overgrown, that my life's light wholly indarkened is, why should i more molest the world with cries, the air with sighs, the earth below with tears, since i live hateful to those ruthful eyes, vexing with untuned moan her dainty ears! if i have loved her dearer than my breath, my breath that calls the heaven to witness it!- and still hold her most dear until my death, and if that all this cannot move one whit, yet sure she cannot but must think apart she doth me wrong to grieve so true a heart. xxii come time, the anchor hold of my desire, my last resort whereto my hopes appeal; cause once the date of her disdain t'exspire, make her the sentence of her wrath repeal. rob her fair brow, break in on beauty, steal power from those eyes which pity cannot spare; deal with those dainty cheeks, as she doth deal with this poor heart consumèd with despair. this heart made now the pròspective of care by loving her, the cruelst fair that lives, the cruelst fair that sees i pine for her, and never mercy to thy merit gives. let her not still triumph over the prize of mine affections taken by her eyes. xxiii time, cruel time, come and subdue that brow which conquers all but thee, and thee too stays, as if she were exempt from scythe or bow, from love or years unsubject to decays. or art thou grown in league with those fair eyes, that they may help thee to consume our days? or dost thou spare her for her cruelties, being merciless like thee that no man weighs? and yet thou seest thy power she disobeys, cares not for thee, but lets thee waste in vain, and prodigal of hours and years betrays beauty and youth t'opinion and disdain. yet spare her, time; let her exempted be; she may become more kind to thee or me. xxiv these sorrowing sighs, the smoke of mine annoy, these tears, which heat of sacred flame distils, are those due tributes that my faith doth pay unto the tyrant whose unkindness kills. i sacrifice my youth and blooming years at her proud feet, and she respects not it; my flower, untimely's withered with my tears, by winter woes for spring of youth unfit. she thinks a look may recompense my care, and so with looks prolongs my long-looked ease; as short that bliss, so is the comfort rare; yet must that bliss my hungry thoughts appease. thus she returns my hopes so fruitless ever; once let her love indeed, or eye me never! xxv false hope prolongs my ever certain grief, traitor to me, and faithful to my love. a thousand times it promised me relief, yet never any true effect i prove. oft when i find in her no truth at all, i banish her, and blame her treachery; yet soon again i must her back recall, as one that dies without her company. thus often, as i chase my hope from me, straightway she hastes her unto delia's eyes; fed with some pleasing look, there shall she be, and so sent back. and thus my fortune lies; looks feed my hope, hope fosters me in vain; hopes are unsure when certain is my pain. xxvi look in my griefs, and blame me not to mourn, from care to care that leads a life so bad; th'orphan of fortune, born to be her scorn, whose clouded brow doth make my days so sad. long are their nights whose cares do never sleep, loathsome their days who never sun yet joyed; the impression of her eyes do pierce so deep, that thus i live both day and night annoyed. yet since the sweetest root yields fruit so sour, her praise from my complaint i may not part; i love th'effect, the cause being of this power; i'll praise her face and blame her flinty heart, whilst we both make the world admire at us, her for disdain, and me for loving thus. xxvii reignin my thoughts, fair hand, sweet eye, rare voice! possess me whole, my heart's triumvirate! yet heavy heart, to make so hard a choice of such as spoil thy poor afflicted state! for whilst they strive which shall be lord of all, all my poor life by them is trodden down; they all erect their trophies on my fall, and yield me nought that gives them their renown. when back i look, i sigh my freedom past, and wail the state wherein i present stand, and see my fortune ever like to last, finding me reined with such a heavy hand. what can i do but yield? and yield i do; and serve all three, and yet they spoil me too! xxviii _alluding to the sparrow pursued by a hawk, that flew into the bosom of zenocrates_ whilst by thy eyes pursued, my poor heart flew into the sacred refuge of thy breast; thy rigour in that sanctuary slew that which thy succ'ring mercy should have blest. no privilege of faith could it protect, faith being with blood and five years witness signed, wherein no show gave cause of least suspect, for well thou saw'st my love and how i pined. yet no mild comfort would thy brow reveal, no lightning looks which falling hopes erect; what boots to laws of succour to appeal? ladies and tyrants never laws respect. then there i die from whence my life should come, and by that hand whom such deeds ill become. xxix still in the trace of one perplexèd thought, my ceaseless cares continually run on, seeking in vain what i have ever sought, one in my love, and her hard heart still one. i who did never joy in other sun, and have no stars but those that must fulfil the work of rigour, fatally begun upon this heart whom cruelty will kill, injurious delia!--yet, i love thee still, and will whilst i shall draw this breath of mine; i'll tell the world that i deserved but ill, and blame myself, t'excuse that heart of thine; see then who sins the greater of us twain, i in my love, or thou in thy disdain. xxx oft do i marvel whether delia's eyes are eyes, or else two radiant stars that shine; for how could nature ever thus devise of earth, on earth, a substance so divine? stars, sure, they are, whose motions rule desires, and calm and tempest follow their aspects; their sweet appearing still such power inspires, that makes the world admire so strange effects. yet whether fixed or wandering stars are they, whose influence rules the orb of my poor heart; fixed, sure, they are, but wandering make me stray in endless errors whence i cannot part. stars, then, not eyes, move you with milder view your sweet aspect on him that honours you! xxxi the star of my mishap imposed this pain to spend the april of my years in grief; finding my fortune ever in the wane, with still fresh cares, supplied with no relief. yet thee i blame not, though for thee 'tis done; but these weak wings presuming to aspire, which now are melted by thine eyes' bright sun that makes me fall from off my high desire; and in my fall i cry for help with speed, no pitying eye looks back upon my fears; no succour find i now when most i need: my heats must drown in th'ocean of my tears, which still must bear the title of my wrong, caused by those cruel beams that were so strong. xxxii and yet i cannot reprehend the flight, or blame th'attempt, presuming so to soar; the mounting venture for a high delight did make the honour of the fall the more. for who gets wealth, that puts not from the shore? danger hath honours, great designs their fame, glory doth follow, courage goes before; and though th'event oft answers not the same, suffice that high attempts have never shame. the mean observer whom base safety keeps, lives without honour, dies without a name, and in eternal darkness ever sleeps. and therefore, delia, 'tis to me no blot to have attempted though attained thee not. xxxiii raising my hopes on hills of high desire, thinking to scale the heaven of her heart, my slender means presumed too high a part, her thunder of disdain forced me retire, and threw me down to pain in all this fire, where lo, i languish in so heavy smart because th'attempt was far above my art; her pride brooked not poor souls should come so nigh her. yet, i protest, my high desiring will was not to dispossess her of her right; her sovereignty should have remainèd still; i only sought the bliss to have her sight. her sight, contented thus to see me spill, framed my desires fit for her eyes to kill. xxxiv why dost thou, delia, credit so thy glass, gazing thy beauty deigned thee by the skies, and dost not rather look on him, alas! whose state best shows the force of murdering eyes? the broken tops of lofty trees declare the fury of a mercy-wanting storm; and of what force thy wounding graces are upon myself, you best may find the form. then leave thy glass, and gaze thyself on me; that mirror shows what power is in thy face; to view your form too much may danger be, narcissus changed t'a flower in such a case. and you are changed, but not t'a hyacinth; i fear your eye hath turned your heart to flint. xxxv i once may see when years shall wreck my wrong, and golden hairs shall change to silver wire, and those bright rays that kindle all this fire, shall fail in force, their working not so strong, then beauty, now the burden of my song, whose glorious blaze the world doth so admire, must yield up all to tyrant time's desire; then fade those flowers that decked her pride so long. when if she grieve to gaze her in her glass, which then presents her whiter-withered hue, go you, my verse, go tell her what she was, for what she was, she best shall find in you. your fiery heat lets not her glory pass, but phoenix-like shall make her live anew. xxxvi look, delia, how w'esteem the half-blown rose, the image of thy blush, and summer's honour, whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose that full of beauty time bestows upon her. no sooner spreads her glory in the air, but straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline; she then is scorned that late adorned the fair; so fade the roses of those cheeks of thine. no april can revive thy withered flowers, whose springing grace adorns thy glory now; swift speedy time, feathered with flying hours, dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow. then do not thou such treasure waste in vain, but love now whilst thou mayst be loved again. xxxvii but love whilst that thou mayst be loved again, now whilst thy may hath filled thy lap with flowers, now whilst thy beauty bears without a stain, now use thy summer smiles, ere winter lowers. and whilst thou spread'st unto the rising sun, the fairest flower that ever saw the light, now joy thy time before thy sweet be done; and, delia, think thy morning must have night, and that thy brightness sets at length to west, when thou wilt close up that which now thou showest, and think the same becomes thy fading best, which then shall most inveil and shadow most. men do not weigh the stalk for that it was, when once they find her flower, her glory pass. xxxviii when men shall find thy flower, thy glory pass, and thou with careful brow sitting alone receivèd hast this message from thy glass that tells the truth, and says that all is gone; fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou mad'st, though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining. i that have loved thee thus before thou fad'st, my faith shall wax when thou art in thy waning. the world shall find this miracle in me, that fire can burn when all the matter's spent; then what my faith hath been thyself shalt see, and that thou wast unkind thou mayst repent. thou mayst repent that thou hast scorned my tears, when winter snows upon thy sable hairs. xxxix when winter snows upon thy sable hairs, and frost of age hath nipped thy beauties near, when dark shall seem thy day that never clears, and all lies withered that was held so dear; then take this picture which i here present thee, limned with a pencil not all unworthy; here see the gifts that god and nature lent thee, here read thyself and what i suffered for thee. this may remain thy lasting monument, which happily posterity may cherish; these colours with thy fading are not spent, these may remain when thou and i shall perish. if they remain, then thou shalt live thereby; they will remain, and so thou canst not die. xl thou canst not die whilst any zeal abound in feeling hearts than can conceive these lines; though thou a laura hast no petrarch found, in base attire yet clearly beauty shines. and i though born within a colder clime, do feel mine inward heat as great--i know it; he never had more faith, although more rhyme; i love as well though he could better show it. but i may add one feather to thy fame, to help her flight throughout the fairest isle; and if my pen could more enlarge thy name, then shouldst thou live in an immortal style. for though that laura better limnèd be, suffice, thou shalt be loved as well as she! xli be not displeased that these my papers should bewray unto the world how fair thou art; or that my wits have showed the best they could the chastest flame that ever warmèd heart. think not, sweet delia, this shall be thy shame, my muse should sound thy praise with mournful warble. how many live, the glory of whose name shall rest in ice, while thine is graved in marble! thou mayst in after ages live esteemed, unburied in these lines, reserved in pureness; these shall entomb those eyes, that have redeemed me from the vulgar, thee from all obscureness. although my careful accents never moved thee, yet count it no disgrace that i loved thee. xlii delia, these eyes that so admireth thine, have seen those walls which proud ambition reared to check the world, how they entombed have lain within themselves, and on them ploughs have eared; yet never found that barbarous hand attained the spoil of fame deserved by virtuous men, whose glorious actions luckily had gained th'eternal annals of a happy pen. and therefore grieve not if thy beauties die though time do spoil thee of the fairest veil that ever yet covered mortality, and must instar the needle and the rail. that grace which doth more than inwoman thee, lives in my lines and must eternal be. xliii most fair and lovely maid, look from the shore, see thy leander striving in these waves, poor soul quite spent, whose force can do no more. now send forth hope, for now calm pity saves, and waft him to thee with those lovely eyes, a happy convoy to a holy land. now show thy power, and where thy virtue lies; to save thine own, stretch out the fairest hand. stretch out the fairest hand, a pledge of peace, that hand that darts so right and never misses; i shall forget old wrongs, my griefs shall cease; and that which gave me wounds, i'll give it kisses. once let the ocean of my care find shore, that thou be pleased, and i may sigh no more. xliv read in my face a volume of despairs, the wailing iliads of my tragic woe; drawn with my blood, and painted with my cares, wrought by her hand that i have honoured so. who whilst i burn, she sings at my soul's wrack, looking aloft from turret of her pride; there my soul's tyrant joys her in the sack of her own seat, whereof i made her guide. there do these smokes that from affliction rise, serve as an incense to a cruel dame; a sacrifice thrice-grateful to her eyes, because their power serves to exact the same. thus ruins she to satisfy her will, the temple where her name was honoured still. xlv my delia hath the waters of mine eyes, the ready handmaids on her grace t'attend, that never fail to ebb, but ever rise; for to their flow she never grants an end. the ocean never did attend more duly upon his sovereign's course, the night's pale queen, nor paid the impost of his waves more truly, than mine unto her cruelty hath been. yet nought the rock of that hard heart can move, where beat these tears with zeal, and fury drives; and yet, i'd rather languish in her love, than i would joy the fairest she that lives. and if i find such pleasure to complain, what should i do then if i should obtain? xlvi how long shall i in mine affliction mourn, a burden to myself, distressed in mind; when shall my interdicted hopes return from out despair wherein they live confined? when shall her troubled brow charged with disdain reveal the treasure which her smiles impart? when shall my faith the happiness attain, to break the ice that hath congealed her heart? unto herself, herself my love doth summon, (if love in her hath any power to move) and let her tell me, as she is a woman, whether my faith hath not deserved her love? i know her heart cannot but judge with me, although her eyes my adversaries be. xlvii beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew, whose short refresh upon the tender green cheers for a time but till the sun doth show, and straight 'tis gone as it had never been. soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish, short is the glory of the blushing rose, the hue which thou so carefully dost nourish, yet which at length thou must be forced to lose. when thou, surcharged with burden of thy years, shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth, and that in beauty's lease expired appears the date of age, the kalends of our death,- but ah! no more, this must not be foretold, for women grieve to think they must be old. xlviii i must not grieve my love, whose eyes would read lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile; flowers have a time before they come to seed, and she is young, and now must sport the while. ah sport, sweet maid, in season of these years, and learn to gather flowers before they wither. and where the sweetest blossoms first appears, let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither. lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air, and calm the tempest which my sighs do raise; pity and smiles do best become the fair, pity and smiles shall yield thee lasting praise. make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, happy the heart that sighed for such a one! xlix _at the author's going into italy_ ah whither, poor forsaken, wilt thou go, to go from sorrow and thine own distress, when every place presents like face of woe, and no remove can make thy sorrows less! yet go, forsaken! leave these woods, these plains, leave her and all, and all for her that leaves thee and thy love forlorn, and both disdains, and of both wrongful deems and ill conceives. seek out some place, and see if any place can give the least release unto thy grief; convey thee from the thought of thy disgrace, steal from thyself and be thy cares' own thief. but yet what comforts shall i hereby gain? bearing the wound, i needs must feel the pain. l _this sonnet was made at the author's being in italy_ drawn with th'attractive virtue of her eyes, my touched heart turns it to that happy coast, my joyful north, where all my fortune lies, the level of my hopes desirèd most; there where my delia, fairer than the sun, decked with her youth whereon the world doth smile, joys in that honour which her eyes have won, th'eternal wonder of our happy isle. flourish, fair albion, glory of the north! neptune's best darling, held between his arms; divided from the world as better worth, kept for himself, defended from all harms! still let disarmèd peace deck her and thee; and muse-foe mars abroad far fostered be! li care-charmer sleep, son of the sable night, brother to death, in silent darkness born, relieve my languish, and restore the light; with dark forgetting of my care return, and let the day be time enough to mourn the shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth; let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, without the torment of the night's untruth. cease, dreams, the images of day-desires, to model forth the passions of the morrow; never let rising sun approve you liars, to add more grief to aggravate my sorrow; still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, and never wake to feel the day's disdain. lii let others sing of knights and paladins, in agèd accents and untimely words, paint shadows in imaginary lines which well the reach of their high wits records; but i must sing of thee and those fair eyes authentic shall my verse in time to come, when yet th'unborn shall say, lo, where she lies, whose beauty made him speak that else was dumb! these are the arks, the trophies i erect, that fortify thy name against old age; and these thy sacred virtues must protect against the dark and time's consuming rage. though th'error of my youth in them appear, suffice, they show i lived and loved thee, dear. liii as to the roman that would free his land, his error was his honour and renown; and more the fame of his mistaking hand than if he had the tyrant overthrown. so delia, hath mine error made me known, and my deceived attempt deserved more fame, than if had the victory mine own, and thy hard heart had yielded up the same. and so likewise renowned is thy blame; thy cruelty, thy glory; o strange case, that errors should be graced that merit shame, and sin of frowns bring honour to the face. yet happy delia that thou wast unkind, though happier far, if thou would'st change thy mind. liv like as the lute delights or else dislikes as is his art that plays upon the same, so sounds my muse according as she strikes on my heart-strings high tuned unto her fame. her touch doth cause the warble of the sound, which here i yield in lamentable wise, a wailing descant on the sweetest ground, whose due reports give honour to her eyes; else harsh my style, untunable my muse; hoarse sounds the voice that praiseth not her name; if any pleasing relish here i use, then judge the world her beauty gives the same. for no ground else could make the music such, nor other hand could give so sweet a touch. lv none other fame mine unambitious muse affected ever but t'eternise thee; all other honours do my hopes refuse, which meaner prized and momentary be. for god forbid i should my papers blot with mercenary lines with servile pen, praising virtues in them that have them not, basely attending on the hopes of men. no, no, my verse respects not thames, nor theatres; nor seeks it to be known unto the great; but avon, poor in fame, and poor in waters, shall have my song, where delia hath her seat. avon shall be my thames, and she my song; no other prouder brooks shall hear my wrong. lvi unhappy pen, and ill-accepted lines that intimate in vain my chaste desire, my chaste desire, which from dark sorrow shines, enkindled by her eyes' celestial fire; celestial fire, and unrespecting powers which pity not the wounds made by their might, showed in these lines, the work of careful hours, the sacrifice here offered to her sight. but since she weighs them not, this rests for me: i'll moan myself, and hide the wrong i have, and so content me that her frowns should be to m'infant style the cradle and the grave. what though my muse no honour get thereby; each bird sings to herself, and so will i. lvii lo here the impost of a faith entire, that love doth pay, and her disdain extorts; behold the message of a chaste desire that tells the world how much my grief imports. these tributary passions, beauty's due, i send those eyes, the cabinets of love; that cruelty herself might grieve to view th'affliction her unkind disdain doth move. and how i live, cast down from off all mirth, pensive, alone, only but with despair; my joys abortive perish in their birth, my griefs long-lived and care succeeding care. this is my state, and delia's heart is such; i say no more, i fear i said too much. rejected sonnets [the following four sonnets were numbers 3, 10, 12 and 16 in newman's edition of 1591. they do not appear in any other editions.] i the only bird alone that nature frames, when weary of the tedious life she lives, by fire dies, yet finds new life in flames, her ashes to her shape new essence gives. when only i, the only wretched wight, weary of life that breathes but sorrow's blast, pursue the flame of such a beauty bright, that burns my heart, and yet my life still lasts. o sovereign light, that with thy sacred flame consumes my life, revive me after this! and make me, with the happy bird, the same that dies to live, by favour of thy bliss! this deed of thine will show a goddess' power, in so long death to grant one living hour. ii the sly enchanter when to work his will and secret wrong on some forespoken wight, frames wax in form to represent aright the poor unwitting wretch he means to kill, and pricks the image framed by magic's skill, whereby to vex the party day and night; like hath she done, whose show bewitched my sight to beauty's charms, her lover's blood to spill. for first, like wax she framed me by her eyes, whose rays sharp-pointed set upon my breast martyr my life and plague me in this wise with ling'ring pain to perish in unrest. nought could, save this, my sweetest fair suffice, to try her art on him that loves her best. iii the tablet of my heavy fortunes here upon thine altar, paphian power, i place. the grievous shipwreck of my travels dear in bulgèd bark, all perished in disgrace. that traitor love was pilot to my woe; my sails were hope, spread with my sighs of grief; the twin lights which my hapless course did show hard by th'inconstant sands of false relief, were two bright stars which led my view apart. a siren's voice allured me come so near to perish on the marble of her heart, a danger which my soul did never fear. lo, thus he fares that trusts a calm too much; and thus fare i whose credit hath been such! iv weigh but the cause, and give me leave to plain me, for all my hurt, that my heart's queen hath wrought it; she whom i love so dear, the more to pain me, withholds my right where i have dearly bought it. dearly i bought that was so slightly rated, even with the price of blood and body's wasting; she would not yield that ought might be abated, for all she saw my love was pure and lasting, and yet now scorns performance of the passion, and with her presence justice overruleth. she tells me flat her beauty bears no action; and so my plea and process she excludeth. what wrong she doth, the world may well perceive it, to accept my faith at first, and then to leave it. [this sonnet was number 8 in newman's edition of 1591, is found in the editions of '92 and '94, but was omitted thereafter.] v oft and in vain my rebel thoughts have ventured to stop the passage of my vanquished heart; and shut those ways my friendly foe first entered, hoping thereby to free my better part. and whilst i guard the windows of this fort, where my heart's thief to vex me made her choice, and thither all my forces do transport, another passage opens at her voice. her voice betrays me to her hand and eye, my freedom's tyrant, conquering all by art; but ah! what glory can she get thereby, with three such powers to plague one silly heart! yet my soul's sovereign, since i must resign, reign in my thoughts, my love and life are thine! [the following two sonnets appear for the first time in the second edition of 1592, where they are marked 31 and 30, the 30 being evidently a misprint for 32. they are not found in later editions.] vi like as the spotless ermelin distressed circumpassed round with filth and lothsome mud, pines in her grief, imprisoned to her nest, and cannot issue forth to seek her good; so i invironed with a hatefull want, look to the heavens; the heavens yield forth no grace; i search the earth, the earth i find as scant, i view myself, myself in wofull case. heaven nor earth will not, myself cannot make a way through want to free my soul from care; but i must pine, and in my pining lurk lest my sad looks bewray me how i fare. my fortune mantled with a cloud s'obscure, thus shades my life so long as wants endure. vii my cares draw on mine everlasting night, in horror's sable clouds sets my life's sun; my life's sweet sun, my dearest comfort's light shall rise no more to me whose day is done. i'll go before unto the myrtle shades, t'attend the presence of my world's dear; and there prepare her flowers that never fades, and all things fit against her coming there. if any ask me why so soon i came, i'll hide her sin and say it was my lot. in life and death i'll tender her good name; my life nor death shall never be her blot. although this world may seem her deed to blame, the elysian ghosts shall never know the same. diana by henry constable henry constable the sonnet-cycle in the hands of henry constable seems to have been in the first place rather a record of a succession of "moment's monuments" than a single dramatic scheme, even an embryonic one. the quaint preface found in the harleian transcript of the _diana_ shows this, and at the same time tells what freedom was at that period allowed in the structure and dove-tailing of a sonnet-cycle. it is as follows: "the sonnets following are divided into 3 parts, each parte contayning 3 several arguments and every argument 7 sonets. "the first parte is of variable affections of love: wherein the first 7 be of the beginning and byrth of his love; the second 7, of the prayse of his mistresse; the thyrd 7, of severall accidents hapning in the tyme of his love. "the second is the prayse of perticulars: wherein the first 7 be of the generall honoure of this ile, through the prayses of the heads thereof, the q. of england and k. of scots; the second 7 celebrate the memory of perticular ladies whoe the author most honoureth: the thyrd 7 be to the honoure of perticulars, presented upon severall occasions. "the thyrd parte is tragicall, conteyning only lamentations: wherein the first 7 be complaynts onlye of misfortunes in love, the second 7, funerall sonets of the death of perticulars; the last 7, of the end and death of his love." the four sonnets to that distinguished "perticular," the king of scotland, seem to have won for the author a great deal of fame, for bolton mentions one of them as a witness to his opinion that "noble henry constable was a great master in english tongue, nor had any gentleman of our nation a more pure, quick, or higher delivery of conceit." the king himself the poet is said to have met personally when on his propagandist tours in scotland; for constable was an ardent roman catholic, and spent most of his life in plots for the re-establishment of that faith in england. among the other "perticulars" addressed, the queen is of course bounteously favoured, and a number of ladies of her court are honoured; the series therefore lacks all pretense of unity. in fact, the title of the 1594 edition declares that the "excellent conceitful sonnets of henry constable" are "augmented with divers quartorzains of honourable and learned personages;" and sidney has been found to be one of the "honourable and learned personages" whose works were laid under contribution to make the book; but since the whole first and second decades are the same as in the earlier volume by "h.c." which contained also the king james sonnets attributed by numerous contemporaries to henry constable, and since as yet, beside the ten by sidney, no more of the sonnets have by antiquarian research been traced to their sources in the mazes of elizabethan common-place books, it seems but fair to leave the _diana_ of 1594 in the hands of constable. all three books, the '92 and '94 editions and the manuscript volume, show a like taste for orderly arrangement not found in general in the sonnet-cycles. constable was a cambridge man and was thirty years old when the _diana_ was first printed. he lived until 1613 and bore an excellent reputation in his day. he was the friend of ben jonson, who speaks of his "ambrosaic muse," of sidney, harington, tofte, and other literary men. if toying with the sonnet in _diana_ seems to indicate a light and trifling spirit, we have to yield that with constable as with fletcher the graver matters of state policy formed the chief interest in life to the author. in constable's case the interest was religious and the poet was personally a man of devout feeling. writing from the tower, where for a time he was detained, he says, "whether i remain in prison or go out, i have learned to live alone with god." at the conclusion of the third part of the harleian miscellany transcript, the author says: "when i had ended this last sonnet, and found that such vain poems as i had by idle hours writ, did amount just to the diametrical number 63, methought it was high time for my folly to die, and to employ the remnant of my wit to other calmer thoughts less sweet and less bitter." it was probably in a mood like this that the poet turned from his devotion to an earthly love and began to write his "sonnets in honor of god and his saints." in this group, as in the other, he expresses that passion for beauty characteristic of the renaissance, but here he shows the lack of a clear conception as to where the line should be drawn between earthly and heavenly beauty. in constable we see the new revelation barely emerging from the darkness, the human hand reaching out in art toward the divine, but not knowing how to take and hold the higher in its grasp. these sonnets are as "conceitful" as the others, but the collection illustrates an early effort to turn the poetic energy into a new field, to broaden the scope of subject-matter possible in sonnet-form. the poet was evidently a close student of the sonnet-structure. he used the italian and the english form in about an equal number of cases but he experiments on a large variety of rime-arrangements besides. as to the personality honoured under the name of diana, there seems to be much obscurity. from the sonnet _to his mistress_, we learn that though he addresses several he loves but one. "grace full of grace, though in these verses here my love complains of others than of thee, yet thee alone i loved, and they by me, thou yet unknown, only mistaken were." so he loved her, it seems, while she was "yet unknown," something quite possible in the sonneteer's world: and her personality, though shadowed under various names, is to the poet a distinct conception. to the honour of being this poet's inspirer, there are two claimants; one the lady rich, the stella of sidney, the other the ill-fated arabella stuart. it is noteworthy that the only one of all the sonnets addressed personally to particular ladies that is retained in the edition of 1594, is one to lady rich. but this sonnet tells us little except that "wishèd fortune" had once made it possible for him to see her in all her beauty of roses and lilies, stars and waves of gold: but this might have happened if he had once seen that beauteous lady pass along the street in the queen's glittering train. other sonnets to or about the lady rich are equally uncommunicative; and if the ill-starred penelope devereux is the one alone that constable loved, time has shut the secret tightly in his heart and will not give it up. the other guess is but little nearer to certainty. during the years that constable was pursuing his shadowy schemes, arabella stuart was an object of admiration and of political jealousy; the house where she lived was constantly spied upon, her very tutors were suspected, the wildest schemes were formed upon her royal connections, and it would not be strange if the heart of our poetical zealot turned toward this star of his cause. we may be sure that he would not have been averse to a clandestine meeting, for in writing to that arch-plotter, the countess of shrewsbury, arabella's doting grandmother, he says: "it is more convenient to write unto your ladyship, than to come unto you or to make any other visits either by day or night till i have further liberty granted me;" besides this, the earl of shrewsbury was distantly related to constable's family, and this fact of kinship may have opened the way; while his sonnet to the countess intimates that his heart had been touched by some beauty in her venus' camp. if not arabella, who could this be? "to you then, you, the fairest of the wise, and wisest of the fair i do appeal. a warrior of your camp by force of eyes me prisoner took, and will with rigour deal, except you pity in your heart will place, at whose white hands i only seek for grace." as before, the sonnets addressed to arabella give no definite information. the first is in the usual strain of praise, and closes: "my drift was this, some earthly shadow of thy worth to show whose heavenly self above world's reason is." the second is as follows: "only hope of our age, that virtues dead by your sweet breath should be revived again; learning discouraged long by rude disdain by your white hands is only cherishèd. thus others' worth by you is honourèd. but who shall honour yours? poor wits, in vain we seek to pay the debts which you pertain till from yourself some wealth be borrowèd. lend some your tongues, that every nation may in his own hear your virtuous praises blaze; lend them your wit, your judgment, memory, lest they themselves should not know what to say; and that thou mayst be loved as much as praised, my heart thou mayst lend them which i gave thee." the last of constable's sonnets in the edition of 1592 is this dedicatory address: "my mistress' worth gave wings unto my muse and my muse wings did give unto her name, so, like twin birds, my muse bred with her fame together now do learn their wings to use. and in this book, which here you may peruse, abroad they fly, resolved to try the same adventure in their flight; and thee, sweet dame, both she and i for our protection choose; i by my vow, and she by farther right under your phoenix (wing) presume to fly; that from all carrion beaks in safety might by one same wing be shrouded, she and i. o happy, if i might but flitter there where you and she and i should be so near." the value of this author's praise, however, is somewhat impaired by the extravagances in certain sonnets where, for instance, he honours a lady whose soul, he says, was "endued in her lifetime with infinite perfections as her divine poems do testify," when she on earth did sing poet-wise angels in heaven prayed for her company, and when she died, her "fair and glittering rays increased the light of heaven;" where again he calls on the countess of essex to revenge the death of her first husband, sir philip sidney, upon the spanish people by murdering them _en masse_ with her eyes, and where he calls the countess of shrewsbury "chieftain of venus's host," and places her crowned in heaven beside the virgin mary. constable's zealous publisher was not far wrong when he claimed that in this poet "conceit first claimed his birthright to enjoy," and since we do not find either in the sonnets to lady rich or in those to lady arabella any special tone of sincerity that leads us to have confidence in our conjecture, we shall be compelled to leave this puzzle unsolved. diana unto her majesty's sacred honourable maids eternal twins! that conquer death and time, perpetual advocates in heaven and earth! fair, chaste, immaculate, and all divine, glorious alone, before the first man's birth; your twofold charities, celestial lights, bow your sun-rising eyes, planets of joy, upon these orphan poems; in whose rights conceit first claimed his birthright to enjoy. if, pitiful, you shun the song of death, or fear the stain of love's life-dropping blood, o know then, you are pure; and purer faith shall still keep white the flower, the fruit, and bud. love moveth all things. you that love, shall move all things in him, and he in you shall love. richard smith.[a] [footnote a: richard smith was the publisher of the 1594 edition of the _diana_.] to his mistress grace full of grace, though in these verses here my love complains of others than of thee, yet thee alone i loved, and they by me, thou yet unknown, only mistaken were. like him which feels a heat now here now there, blames now this cause now that, until he see the fire indeed from whence they causèd be; which fire i now do know is you, my dear, thus diverse loves dispersèd in my verse in thee alone for ever i unite, and fully unto thee more to rehearse; to him i fly for grace that rules above, that by my grace i may live in delight, or by his grace i never more may love. to his absent diana severed from sweet content, my live's sole light, banished by over-weening wit from my desire, this poor acceptance only i require: that though my fault have forced me from thy sight yet that thou would'st, my sorrows to requite, review these sonnets, pictures of thy praise; wherein each woe thy wondrous worth doth raise, though first thy worth bereft me of delight. see them forsaken; for i them forsook, forsaken first of thee, next of my sense; and when thou deign'st on their black tears to look, shed not one tear, my tears to recompence; but joy in this, though fate 'gainst me repine, my verse still lives to witness thee divine. the first decade i _only of the birth and beginning of love_ resolved to love, unworthy to obtain, i do no favour crave; but, humble wise, to thee my sighs in verse i sacrifice, only some pity and no help to gain. hear then, and as my heart shall aye remain a patient object to thy lightning eyes, a patient ear bring thou to thund'ring cries; fear not the crack, when i the blow sustain. so as thine eye bred mine ambitious thought, so shall thine ear make proud my voice for joy. lo, dear, what wonders great by thee are wrought, when i but little favour do enjoy! the voice is made the ear for to rejoice, and your ear giveth pleasure to my voice. ii _an excuse to his mistress for resolving to love so worthy a creature_ blame not my heart for flying up so high, sith thou art cause that it this flight begun; for earthly vapours drawn up by the sun, comets become, and night suns in the sky. mine humble heart, so with thy heavenly eye drawn up aloft, all low desires doth shun; raise thou me up, as thou my heart hast done, so during night in heaven remain may i. i say again, blame not my high desire, sith of us both the cause thereof depends. in thee doth shine, in me doth burn a fire, fire draws up other, and itself ascends. thine eye a fire, and so draws up my love; my love a fire, and so ascends above. iii _of the birth of his love_ fly low, dear love, thy sun dost thou not see? take heed, do not so near his rays aspire; lest, for thy pride, inflamed with wreakful ire, it burn thy wings, as it hath burnèd me. thou haply sayst thy wings immortal be, and so cannot consumèd be with fire; and one is hope, the other is desire, and that the heavens bestowed them both on thee. a muse's words made thee with hope to fly, an angel's face desire hath begot, thyself engendered by a goddess' eye; yet for all this, immortal thou art not. of heavenly eye though thou begotten art, yet art thou born but of a mortal heart. iv _of his mistress, upon occasion of a friend of his which dissuaded him from loving_ a friend of mine, pitying my hopeless love, hoping by killing hope my love to stay, "let not," quoth he, "thy hope, thy heart betray; impossible it is her heart to move." but sith resolvèd love cannot remove as long as thy divine perfections stay, thy godhead then he sought to take away. dear, seek revenge and him a liar prove; gods only do impossibilities. "impossible," saith he, "thy grace to gain." show then the power of divinities by granting me thy favour to obtain. so shall thy foe give to himself the lie; a goddess thou shall prove, and happy i! v _of the conspiracy of his lady's eyes and his own to engender love_ thine eye the glass where i behold my heart, mine eye the window through the which thine eye may see my heart, and there thyself espy in bloody colours how thou painted art. thine eye the pile is of a murdering dart; mine eye the sight thou tak'st thy level by to hit my heart, and never shoot'st awry. mine eye thus helps thine eye to work my smart. thine eye a fire is both in heat and light; mine eye of tears a river doth become. o that the water of mine eye had might to quench the flames that from thine eye doth come, or that the fires kindled by thine eye, the flowing streams of mine eyes could make dry. vi _love's seven deadly sins_ mine eye with all the deadly sins is fraught. first _proud_, sith it presumed to look so high. a watchman being made, stood gazing by, and _idle_, took no heed till i was caught. and _envious_, bears envy that by thought should in his absence be to her so nigh. to kill my heart, mine eye let in her eye; and so consent gave to a _murder_ wrought. and _covetous_, it never would remove from her fair hair, gold so doth please his sight. _unchaste_, a baud between my heart and love. a _glutton_ eye, with tears drunk every night. these sins procurèd have a goddess' ire, wherefore my heart is damned in love's sweet fire. vii _of the slander envy gives him for so highly praising his mistress_ falsely doth envy of your praises blame my tongue, my pen, my heart of flattery, because i said there was no sun but thee. it called my tongue the partial trump of fame, and saith my pen hath flatterèd thy name, because my pen did to my tongue agree; and that my heart must needs a flatterer be, which taught both tongue and pen to say the same. no, no, i flatter not when thee i call the sun, sith that the sun was never such; but when the sun thee i compared withal, doubtless the sun i flatterèd too much. witness mine eyes, i say the truth in this, they have seen thee and know that so it is. viii _of the end and death of his love_ much sorrow in itself my love doth move, more my despair to love a hopeless bliss, my folly most to love whom sure to miss o help me, but this last grief to remove; all pains, if you command, it joy shall prove, and wisdom to seek joy. then say but this, "because my pleasure in thy torment is, i do command thee without hope to love!" so when this thought my sorrow shall augment that my own folly did procure my pain, then shall i say to give myself content, "obedience only made me love in vain. it was your will, and not my want of wit; i have the pain, bear you the blame of it!" ix _upon occasion of her walking in a garden_ my lady's presence makes the roses red, because to see her lips they blush with 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. x _to the lady rich_ heralds at arms do three perfections quote, to wit, most fair, most rich, most glittering; so when those three concur within one thing, needs must that thing of honour be a note. lately i did behold a rich fair coat, which wishèd fortune to mine eyes did bring. a lordly coat, yet worthy of a king, in which one might all these perfections note. a field of lilies, roses proper bare; two stars in chief; the crest was waves of gold. how glittering 'twas, might by the stars appear; the lilies made it fair for to behold. and rich it was as by the gold appeareth; but happy he that in his arms it weareth! the second decade i _of the end and death of his love_ if true love might true love's reward obtain, dumb wonder only might speak of my joy; but too much worth hath made thee too much coy, and told me long ago i sighed in vain. not then vain hope of undeservèd gain hath made me paint in verses mine annoy, but for thy pleasure, that thou might'st enjoy thy beauty's praise, in glasses of my pain. see then, thyself, though me thou wilt not hear, by looking on my verse. for pain in verse, love doth in pain, beauty in love appear. so if thou would'st my verses' meaning see, expound them thus, when i my love rehearse: "none loves like he!" that is, "none fair like me!" ii _how he encouraged himself to proceed in love, and to hope for favour in the end at love's hands_ it may be, love my death doth not pretend, although he shoots at me, but thinks it fit thus to bewitch thee for thy benefit, causing thy will to my wish to condescend. for witches which some murder do intend, do make a picture and do shoot at it; and in that part where they the picture hit, the party's self doth languish to his end. so love, too weak by force thy heart to taint, within my heart thy heavenly shape doth paint; suffering therein his arrows to abide, only to th'end he might by witches' art, within my heart pierce through thy picture's side, and through thy picture's side might wound my heart. iii _of the thoughts he nourished by night when she was retired to bed_ the sun, his journey ending in the west, taketh his lodging up in thetis' bed; though from our eyes his beams be banishèd, yet with his light th' antipodes be blest. now when the sun-time brings my sun to rest, which me too oft of rest hath hinderèd, and whiter skin with white sheet coverèd, and softer cheek doth on soft pillow rest, then i, o sun of suns! and light of lights! wish me with those antipodes to be, which see and feel thy beams and heat by nights. well, though the night both cold and darksome is, yet half the day's delight the night grants me, i feel my sun's heat, though his light i miss. iv _of his lady's praise_ lady, in beauty and in favour rare, of favour, not of due, i favour crave. nature to thee beauty and favour gave; fair then thou art, and favour thou may'st spare. nor when on me bestowed your favours are, less favour in your face you shall not have; if favour then a wounded soul may save, of murder's guilt, dear lady, then beware. my loss of life a million fold were less than the least loss should unto you befall; yet grant this gift; which gift when i possess, both i have life and you no loss at all. for by your favour only i do live, and favour you may well both keep and give. v _of the end and death of his love_ my reason absent did mine eyes require to watch and ward and such foes to descry as they should ne'er my heart approaching spy; but traitor eyes my heart's death did conspire, corrupted with hope's gifts; let in desire to burn my heart; and sought no remedy, though store of water were in either eye, which well employed, might well have quenched the fire. reason returnèd; love and fortune made judges, to judge mine eyes to punishment. fortune, sith they by sight my heart betrayed from wishèd sight, adjudged them banishment; love, sith by fire murdered my heart was found, adjudgèd them in tears for to be drowned. vi _of several complaints of misfortune in love only_ wonder it is and pity is't that she in whom all beauty's treasure we may find, that may unrich the body and the mind, towards the poor should use no charity. my love has gone a begging unto thee. and if that beauty had not been more kind that pity, long ere this he had been pined; but beauty is content his food to be. o pity have when such poor orphans beg! love, naked boy, hath nothing on his back; and though he wanteth neither arm nor leg, yet maimed he is sith he his sight doth lack. and yet though blind he beauty can behold, and yet though naked he feels more heat than cold. vii _of several complaints of misfortune in love only_ pity refusing my poor love to feed, a beggar starved for want of help he lies; and at your mouth, the door of beauty, cries, that thence some alms of sweet grants might proceed. but as he waiteth for some almès deed, a cherry tree before the door he spies. "o dear," quoth he, "two cherries may suffice. two only may save life in this my need." but beggars, can they nought but cherries eat? pardon my love, he is a goddess' son, and never feedeth but on dainty meat, else need he not to pine, as he hath done; for only the sweet fruit of this sweet tree can give food to my love and life to me. viii _of his lady's veil wherewith she covered her_ the fowler hides as closely as he may the net, where caught the silly bird should be, lest he the threatening poison should but see, and so for fear be forced to fly away. my lady so, the while she doth assay in curlèd knots fast to entangle me, put on her veil, to th' end i should not flee the golden net wherein i am a prey. alas, most sweet! what need is of a net to catch a bird that is already ta'en? sith with your hand alone you may it get, for it desires to fly into the same. what needs such art my thoughts then to entrap, when of themselves they fly into your lap? ix _to his lady's hand upon occasion of her glove which in her absence he kissed_ sweet hand, the sweet but cruel bow thou art, from whence at me five ivory arrows fly; so with five wounds at once i wounded lie, bearing my breast the print of every dart. saint francis had the like, yet felt no smart, where i in living torments never die. his wounds were in his hands and feet; where i all these five helpless wounds feel in my heart. now, as saint francis, if a saint am i, the bow that shot these shafts a relic is; i mean the hand, which is the reason why so many for devotion thee would kiss: and some thy glove kiss as a thing divine, this arrows' quiver, and this relic's shrine. x _of his lady's going over early to bed, so depriving him too soon of her sight_ fair sun, if you would have me praise your light, when night approacheth wherefore do you fly? time is so short, beauties so many be, as i have need to see them day and night, that by continual view my verses might tell all the beams of your divinity; which praise to you and joy should be to me, you living by my verse, i by your sight; i by your sight, and not you by my verse, need mortal skill immortal praise rehearse? no, no, though eyes were blind, and verse were dumb, your beauty should be seen and your fame known; for by the wind which from my sighs do come, your praises round about the world are blown. the third decade i _complaint of his lady's sickness_ uncivil sickness, hast thou no regard, but dost presume my dearest to molest, and without leave dar'st enter in that breast whereto sweet love approach yet never dared? spare thou her health, which my life hath not spared; too bitter such revenge of my unrest! although with wrongs my thought she hath opprest, my wrongs seek not revenge, they crave reward cease, sickness, cease in her then to remain; and come and welcome, harbour thou in me whom love long since hath taught to suffer in! so she which hath so oft my pain increased, o god, that i might so revengèd be, by my poor pain might have her pain released! [the sonnets numbered ii to viii in this decade are by sidney, and were printed among the _certaine sonets_ in the 1598 edition of the _arcadia_.] ix woe to mine eyes, the organs of mine ill; hate to my heart, for not concealing joy; a double curse upon my tongue be still, whose babbling lost what else i might enjoy! when first mine eyes did with thy beauty joy, they to my heart thy wondrous virtues told; who, fearing lest thy beams should him destroy, whate'er he knew, did to my tongue unfold. my tell-tale tongue, in talking over bold, what they in private council did declare, to thee, in plain and public terms unrolled; and so by that made thee more coyer far. what in thy praise he spoke, that didst thou trust; and yet my sorrows thou dost hold unjust. x of an athenian young man have i read, who on blind fortune's picture doated so, that when he could not buy it to his bed, on it he gazing died for very woe. my fortune's picture art thou, flinty dame, that settest golden apples to my sight; but wilt by no means let me taste the same. to drown in sight of land is double spite. of fortune as thou learn'dst to be unkind, so learn to be unconstant to disdain. the wittiest women are to sport inclined. honour is pride, and pride is nought but pain. let others boast of choosing for the best; 'tis substances not names must make us blest. the fourth decade i _of the end and death of his love_ needs must i leave and yet needs must i love; in vain my wit doth tell in verse my woe; despair in me, disdain in thee, doth show how by my wit i do my folly prove. all this my heart from love can never move. love is not in my heart. no, lady, no, my heart is love itself. till i forego my heart i never can my love remove. how can i then leave love? i do intend not to crave grace, but yet to wish it still; not to praise thee, but beauty to commend; and so, by beauty's praise, praise thee i will; for as my heart is love, love not in me, so beauty thou, beauty is not in thee. ii _of the prowess of his lady_ sweet sovereign, since so many minds remain obedient subjects at thy beauty's call, so many hearts bound in thy hairs as thrall, so many eyes die with one look's disdain, go, seek the honour that doth thee pertain, that the fifth monarchy may thee befall! thou hast such means to conquer men withal, as all the world must yield or else be slain. to fight, thou need'st no weapons but thine eyes, thine hair hath gold enough to pay thy men, and for their food thy beauty will suffice; for men and armour, lady, care have none; for one will sooner yield unto thee then when he shall meet thee naked all alone. iii _of the discouragement he had to proceed in love, through the multitude of his lady's perfections and his own lowness_ when your perfections to my thoughts appear, they say among themselves, "o happy we, whichever shall so rare an object see!" but happy heart, if thoughts less happy were! for their delights have cost my heart full dear, in whom of love a thousand causes be, and each cause breeds a thousand loves in me, and each love more than thousand hearts can bear. how can my heart so many loves then hold, which yet by heaps increase from day to day? but like a ship that's o'ercharged with gold, must either sink or hurl the gold away. but hurl not love; thou canst not, feeble heart; in thine own blood, thou therefore drownèd art! iv fools be they that inveigh 'gainst mahomet, who's but a moral of love's monarchy. but a dull adamant, as straw by jet, he in an iron chest was drawn on high. in midst of mecca's temple roof, some say, he now hangs without touch or stay at all. that mahomet is she to whom i pray; may ne'er man pray so ineffectual! mine eyes, love's strange exhaling adamants, un'wares, to my heart's temple's height have wrought the iron idol that compassion wants, who my oft tears and travails sets at nought. iron hath been transformed to gold by art; her face, limbs, flesh and all, gold; save her heart. v ready to seek out death in my disgrace, my mistress 'gan to smooth her gathered brows, whereby i am reprievèd for a space. o hope and fear! who half your torments knows? it is some mercy in a black-mouthed judge to haste his prisoner's end, if he must die. dear, if all other favour you shall grudge, do speedy execution with your eye; with one sole look you leave in me no soul! count it a loss to lose a faithful slave. would god, that i might hear my last bell toll, so in your bosom i might dig a grave! doubtful delay is worse than any fever, or help me soon, or cast me off for ever! vi _of the end and death of his love_ each day, new proofs of new despair i find, that is, new deaths. no marvel then, though i make exile my last help; to th'end mine eye should not behold the death to me assigned. not that from death absence might save my mind, but that it might take death more patiently; like him, the which by judge condemned to die, to suffer with more ease, his eyes doth blind. your lips in scarlet clad, my judges be, pronouncing sentence of eternal "no!" despair, the hangman that tormenteth me; the death i suffer is the life i have. for only life doth make me die in woe, and only death i for my pardon crave. vii the richest relic rome did ever view was' cæsar's tomb; on which, with cunning hand, jove's triple honours, the three fair graces, stand, telling his virtues in their virtues true. this rome admired; but dearest dear, in you dwelleth the wonder of the happiest land, and all the world to neptune's furthest strand, for what rome shaped hath living life in you. thy naked beauty, bounteously displayed, enricheth monarchies of hearts with love; thine eyes to hear complaints are open laid; thine eyes' kind looks requite all pains i prove; that of my death i dare not thee accuse; but pride in me that baser chance refuse. viii why thus unjustly, say, my cruel fate, dost thou adjudge my luckless eyes and heart, the one to live exiled from that sweet smart, where th' other pines, imprisoned without date? my luckless eyes must never more debate of those bright beams that eased my love apart; and yet my heart, bound to them with love's dart, must there dwell ever to bemoan my state. o had mine eyes been suffered there to rest, often they had my heart's unquiet eased; or had my heart with banishment been blest, mine eye with beauty never had been pleased! but since these cross effects hath fortune wrought, dwell, heart, with her; eyes, view her in my thought! [the sonnet numbered ix is by sidney, and is found in the _certaine sonets_ printed in the 1598 edition of the _arcadia_.] x hope, like the hyaena, coming to be old, alters his shape, is turned into despair. pity my hoary hopes, maid of clear mould! think not that frowns can ever make thee fair. what harm is it to kiss, to laugh, to play? beauty's no blossom, if it be not used. sweet dalliance keeps the wrinkles long away; repentance follows them that have refused. to bring you to the knowledge of your good, i seek, i sue. o try and then believe! each image can be chaste that's carved of wood. you show you live, when men you do relieve. iron with wearing shines; rust wasteth treasure. on earth but love there is no other pleasure. the fifth decade i ay me, poor wretch, my prayer is turned to sin! i say, "i love!" my mistress says "'tis lust!" thus most we lose where most we seek to win. wit will make wicked what is ne'er so just. and yet i can supplant her false surmise. lust is a fire that for an hour or twain giveth a scorching blaze and then he dies; love a continual furnace doth maintain. a furnace! well, this a furnace may be called; for it burns inward, yields a smothering flame, sighs which, like boiled lead's smoking vapour, scald. i sigh apace at echo of sighs' name. long have i served; no short blaze is my love. hid joys there are that maids scorn till they prove. ii i do not now complain of my disgrace, o cruel fair one! fair with cruel crost; nor of the hour, season, time, nor place; nor of my foil, for any freedom lost; nor of my courage, by misfortune daunted; nor of my wit, by overweening struck; nor of my sense, by any sound enchanted; nor of the force of fiery-pointed hook; nor of the steel that sticks within my wound; nor of my thoughts, by worser thoughts defaced; nor of the life i labour to confound. but i complain, that being thus disgraced, fired, feared, frantic, fettered, shot through, slain, my death is such as i may not complain. iii if ever sorrow spoke from soul that loves, as speaks a spirit in a man possest, in me her spirit speaks. my soul it moves, whose sigh-swoll'n words breed whirlwinds in my breast; or like the echo of a passing bell, which sounding on the water seems to howl; so rings my heart a fearful heavy knell, and keeps all night in consort with the owl. my cheeks with a thin ice of tears are clad, mine eyes like morning stars are bleared and red. what resteth then but i be raging mad, to see that she, my cares' chief conduit-head, when all streams else help quench my burning heart, shuts up her springs and will no grace impart. iv you secret vales, you solitary fields, you shores forsaken and you sounding rocks! if ever groaning heart hath made you yield, or words half spoke that sense in prison locks, then 'mongst night shadows whisper out my death. that when myself hath sealed my lips from speaking, each tell-tale echo with a weeping breath, may both record my truth and true love's breaking. you pretty flowers that smile for summer's sake, pull in your heads before my wat'ry eyes do turn the meadows to a standing lake, by whose untimely floods your glory dies! for lo, mine heart, resolved to moistening air, feedeth mine eyes which double tear for tear. v his shadow to narcissus well presented, how fair he was by such attractive love! so if thou would'st thyself thy beauty prove, vulgar breath-mirrors might have well contented, and to their prayers eternally consented, oaths, vows and sighs, if they believe might move; but more thou forc'st, making my pen approve thy praise to all, least any had dissented. when this hath wrought, thou which before wert known but unto some, of all art now required, and thine eyes' wonders wronged, because not shown the world, with daily orisons desired. thy chaste fair gifts, with learning's breath is blown, and thus my pen hath made thy sweets admired. vi i am no model figure, or sign of care, but his eternal heart's-consuming essence, in whom grief's commentaries written are, drawing gross passion into pure quintessence, not thine eye's fire, but fire of thine eye's disdain, fed by neglect of my continual grieving, attracts the true life's spirit of my pain, and gives it thee, which gives me no relieving. within thine arms sad elegies i sing; unto thine eyes a true heart love-torn lay i: thou smell'st from me the savours sorrows bring; my tears to taste my truth to touch display i. lo thus each sense, dear fair one, i importune; but being care, thou flyest me as ill fortune. vii but being care, thou flyest me as ill fortune;- care the consuming canker of the mind! the discord that disorders sweet hearts' tune! th' abortive bastard of a coward mind! the lightfoot lackey that runs post by death, bearing the letters which contain our end! the busy advocate that sells his breath, denouncing worst to him, is most his friend! o dear, this care no interest holds in me; but holy care, the guardian of thy fair, thine honour's champion, and thy virtue's fee, the zeal which thee from barbarous times shall bear, this care am i; this care my life hath taken. dear to my soul, then leave me not forsaken! viii dear to my soul, then, leave, me not forsaken! fly not! my heart within thy bosom sleepeth; even from myself and sense i have betaken me unto thee for whom my spirit weepeth, and on the shore of that salt teary sea, couched in a bed of unseen seeming pleasure, where in imaginary thoughts thy fair self lay; but being waked, robbed of my life's best treasure, i call the heavens, air, earth, and seas to hear my love, my truth, and black disdained estate, beating the rocks with bellowings of despair, which still with plaints my words reverberate, sighing, "alas, what shall become of me?" whilst echo cries, "what shall become of me?" ix whilst echo cries, "what shall become of me?" and desolate, my desolations pity, thou in thy beauty's carack sitt'st to see my tragic downfall, and my funeral ditty. no timbrel, but my heart thou play'st upon, whose strings are stretched unto the highest key; the diapason, love; love is the unison; in love my life and labours waste away. only regardless to the world thou leav'st me, whilst slain hopes, turning from the feast of sorrow, unto despair, their king, which ne'er deceives me, captives my heart, whose black night hates the morrow, and he in truth of my distressed cry plants me a weeping star within mine eye. x prometheus for stealing living fire from heaven's king, was judged eternal death; in self-same flame with unrelenting ire bound fast to caucasus' low foot beneath. so i, for stealing living beauty's fire into my verse that it may always live, and change his forms to shapes of my desire, thou beauty's queen, self sentence like dost give. bound to thy feet in chains of life i lie; for to thine eyes i never dare aspire; and in thy beauty's brightness do i fry, as poor prometheus in the scalding fire; which tears maintain as oil the lamp revives; only my succour in thy favour lies. the sixth decade i one sun unto my life's day gives true light. one moon dissolves my stormy night of woes. one star my fate and happy fortune shows. one saint i serve, one shrine with vows i dight. one sun transfix'd hath burnt my heart outright, one moon opposed my love in darkness throws. one star hath bid my thoughts my wrongs disclose. saints scorn poor swains, shrines do my vows no right. yet if my love be found a holy fire, pure, unstained, without idolatry, and she nathless in hate of my desire, lives to repose her in my misery, my sun, my moon, my star, my saint, my shrine, mine be the torment but the guilt be thine! ii to live in hell, and heaven to behold; to welcome life, and die a living death; to sweat with heat, and yet be freezing cold; to grasp at stars, and lie the earth beneath; to treat a maze that never shall have end; to burn in sighs, and starve in daily tears; to climb a hill, and never to descend; giants to kill, and quake at childish fears; to pine for food, and watch th' hesperian tree; to thirst for drink, and nectar still to draw; to live accurs'd whom men hold blest to be, and weep those wrongs which never creature saw: if this be love, if love in these be founded, my heart is love, for these in it are grounded. iii a carver, having loved too long in vain, hewed out the portraiture of venus' son in marble rock, upon the which did rain small drizzling drops, that from a fount did run: imagining the drops would either wear his fury out, or quench his living flame; but when he saw it bootless did appear, he swore the water did augment the same. so i, that seek in verse to carve thee out, hoping thy beauty will my flame allay, viewing my verse and poems all throughout, find my will rather to my love obey, that with the carver i my work do blame, finding it still th' augmenter of my flame. iv astronomers the heavens do divide into eight houses, where the god remains; all which in thy perfections do abide. for in thy feet, the queen of silence reigns; about thy waist jove's messenger doth dwell, inchanting me as i thereat admire; and on thy dugs the queen of love doth tell her godhead's power in scrolls of my desire; thy beauty is the world's eternal sun; thy favours force a coward's heart to dare, and in thy hairs jove and his riches won. thy frowns hold saturn; thine's the fixèd stars. pardon me then, divine, to love thee well, since thou art heaven, and i in heaven would dwell! v weary of love, my thoughts of love complained, till reason told them there was no such power, and bade me view fair beauty's richest flower, to see if there a naked boy remained. dear, to thine eyes, eyes that my soul hath pained, thoughts turned them back in that unhappy hour to see if love kept there his royal bower, for if not there, then no place him contained. there was he not, nor boy, nor golden bow; yet as thou turned thy chaste fair eye aside, a flame of fire did from thine eyelids go, which burnt my heart through my sore wounded side; then with a sigh, reason made thoughts to cry, "there is no god of love, save that thine eye!" vi forgive me, dear, for thundering on thy name; sure 'tis thyself that shows my love distrest. for fire exhaled in freezing clouds possessed, warring for way, makes all the heavens exclaim. thy beauty so, the brightest living flame, wrapt in my cloudy heart, by winter prest, scorning to dwell within so base a nest, thunders in me thy everlasting flame. o that my heart might still contain that fire! or that the fire would always light my heart! then should'st thou not disdain my true desire, or think i wronged thee to reveal to my smart; for as the fire through freezing clouds doth break, so not myself but thou in me would'st speak. vii my heart mine eye accuseth of his death, saying his wanton sight bred his unrest; mine eye affirms my heart's unconstant faith hath been his bane, and all his joys repressed. my heart avows mine eye let in the fire, which burns him with an everliving light. mine eye replies my greedy heart's desire let in those floods, which drown him day and night. thus wars my heart which reason doth maintain, and calls my eye to combat if he dare, the whilst my soul impatient of disdain, wrings from his bondage unto death more near; save that my love still holdeth him in hand; a kingdom thus divided cannot stand! viii unhappy day, unhappy month and season, when first proud love, my joys away adjourning, pourèd into mine eye to her eye turning a deadly juice, unto my green thought's reason. prisoner i am unto the eye i gaze on; eternally my love's flame is in burning; a mortal shaft still wounds me in my mourning; thus prisoned, burnt and slain, the spirit, soul and reason. what tides me then since these pains which annoy me, in my despair are evermore increasing? the more i love, less is my pain's releasing; that cursèd be the fortune which destroys me, the hour, the month, the season, and the cause, when love first made me thrall to lovers' laws. ix love hath i followed all too long, nought gaining; and sighed i have in vain to sweet what smarteth, but from his brow a fiery arrow parteth, thinking that i should him resist not plaining. but cowardly my heart submiss remaining, yields to receive what shaft thy fair eye darteth. well do i see thine eye my bale imparteth, and that save death no hope i am detaining. for what is he can alter fortune's sliding? one in his bed consumes his life away, other in wars, another in the sea; the like effects in me have their abiding; for heavens avowed my fortune should be such, that i should die by loving far too much. x my god, my god, how much i love my goddess, whose virtues rare, unto the heavens arise! my god, my god, how much i love her eyes one shining bright, the other full of hardness! my god, my god, how much i love her wisdom, whose works may ravish heaven's richest maker! of whose eyes' joys if i might be partaker then to my soul a holy rest would come. my god, how much i love to hear her speak! whose hands i kiss and ravished oft rekisseth, when she stands wotless whom so much she blesseth. say then, what mind this honest love would break; since her perfections pure, withouten blot, makes her beloved of thee, she knoweth not? the seventh decade i the first created held a joyous bower, a flowering field, the world's sole wonderment, high paradise, from whence a woman's power enticed him to fall to endless banishment. this on the banks of euphrates did stand, till the first mover, by his wondrous might, planted it in thine eyes, thy face, thy hands, from whence the world receives his fairest light. thy cheeks contain choice flowers; thy eyes, two suns; thy hands, the fruit that no life blood can stain; and in thy breath, that heavenly music wons, which, when thou speak'st, angels their voices strain. as from the first thy sex exilèd me, so to this next let me be called by thee! ii fair grace of graces, muse of muses all, thou paradise, thou only heaven i know! what influence hath bred my hateful woe, that i from thee and them am forced to fall? thou falled from me, from thee i never shall, although my fortunes thou hast brought so low; yet shall my faith and service with thee go, for live i do, on heaven and thee to call. banish'd all grace, no graces with me dwell; compelled to muse, my muses from me fly; excluded heaven, what can remain but hell? exiled from paradise, in hate i lie, cursing my stars; albeit i find it true, i lost all these when i lost love and you. iii what viewed i, dear, when i thine eyes beheld? love in his glory? no, him thyrsis saw, and stood the boy, whilst he his darts did draw, whose painted pride to baser swains he telled. saw i two suns? that sight is seen but seld. yet can their brood that teach the holy law gaze on their beams, and dread them not a straw, where princely looks are by their eyes repelled. what saw i then? doubtless it was amen, armed with strong thunder and a lightning's flame, who bridegroom like with power was riding then, meaning that none should see him when he came. yet did i gaze; and thereby caught the wound which burns my heart and keeps my body sound. iv when tedious much and over weary long, cruel disdain reflecting from her brow, hath been the cause that i endured such wrong and rest thus discontent and weary now. yet when posterity in time to come, shall find th' uncancelled tenour of her vow, and her disdain be then confessed of some, how much unkind and long, i find it now, o yet even then--though then will be too late to comfort me; dead, many a day, ere then- they shall confess i did not force her heart; and time shall make it known to other men that ne'er had her disdain made me despair, had she not been so excellently fair. v had she not been so excellently fair, my muse had never mourned in lines of woe; but i did too inestimable weigh her, and that's the cause i now lament me so. yet not for her contempt do i complain me: complaints may ease the mind, but that is all; therefore though she too constantly disdain me, i can but sigh and grieve, and so i shall. yet grieve i not because i must grieve ever; and yet, alas, waste tears away, in vain; i am resolvèd truly to persèver, though she persisteth in her old disdain. but that which grieves me most is that i see those which most fair, the most unkindest be. vi thus long imposed to everlasting plaining, divinely constant to the worthiest fair, and movèd by eternally disdaining, aye to persèver in unkind despair: because now silence wearily confined in tedious dying and a dumb restraint, breaks forth in tears from mine unable mind to ease her passion by a poor complaint; o do not therefore to thyself suggest that i can grieve to have immured so long upon the matter of mine own unrest; such grief is not the tenour of my song, that 'bide so zealously so bad a wrong. my grief is this; unless i speak and plain me, thou wilt persèver ever to disdain me. vii thou wilt persèver ever to disdain me; and i shall then die, when thou will repent it. o do not therefore from complaint restrain me, and take my life from me, to me that lent it! for whilst these accents, weepingly exprest in humble lines of reverentest zeal, have issue to complaint from mine unrest, they but thy beauty's wonder shall reveal; and though the grieved muse of some other lover, whose less devotions knew but woes like mine, would rather seek occasion to discover how little pitiful and how much unkind, they other not so worthy beauties find. o, i not so! but seek with humble prayer, means how to move th' unmercifullest fair. viii as draws the golden meteor of the day exhaled matter from the ground to heaven, and by his secret nature, there to stay the thing fast held, and yet of hold bereaven; so by th' attractive excellence and might, born to the power of thy transparent eyes, drawn from myself, ravished with thy delight, whose dumb conceits divinely sirenise, lo, in suspense of fear and hope upholden, diversely poised with passions that pain me, no resolution dares my thoughts embolden, since 'tis not i, but thou that dost sustain me. o if there's none but thou can work my woe, wilt thou be still unkind and kill me so? ix wilt thou be still unkind and kill me so, whose humbled vows with sorrowful appeal do still persist, and did so long ago intreat for pity with so pure a zeal? suffice the world shall, for the world can say how much thy power hath power, and what it can; never was victor-hand yet moved to slay the rendered captive, or the yielding man. then, o, why should thy woman-thought impose death and disdain on him that yields his breath, to free his soul from discontent and woes, and humble sacrifice to a certain death? o since the world knows what the power can do, what were't for thee to save and love me too? x i meet not mine by others' discontent, for none compares with me in true devotion; yet though my tears and sighs to her be spent, her cruel heart disdains what they do motion. yet though persisting in eternal hate, to aggravate the cause of my complaining, her fury ne'er confineth with a date, i will not cease to love, for her disdaining. such puny thoughts of unresolvèd ground, whose inaudacity dares but base conceit, in me and my love never shall be found. those coward thoughts unworthy minds await. but those that love well have not yet begun; persèver ever and have never done! the eighth decade i persèver ever and have never done, you weeping accent of my weary song! o do not you eternal passions shun, but be you true and everlasting long! say that she doth requite you with disdain; yet fortified with hope, endure your fortune; though cruel now she will be kind again; such haps as those, such loves as yours importune. though she protests the faithfullest severity inexecrable beauty is inflicting, kindness in time will pity your sincerity, though now it be your fortune's interdicting. for some can say, whose loves have known like passion, "women are kind by kind, and coy for fashion." ii give period to my matter of complaining, fair wonder of our time's admiring eye, and entertain no more thy long disdaining, or give me leave at last that i may die. for who can live, perpetually secluded from death to life, that loathes her discontent? lest by some hope seducively deluded, such thoughts aspire to fortunate event; but i that now have drawn mal-pleasant breath under the burden of thy cruel hate, o, i must long and linger after death, and yet i dare not give my life her date; for if i die and thou repent t' have slain me, 'twill grieve me more than if thou didst disdain me. iii 'twill grieve me more than if thou didst disdain me, that i should die; and thou, because i die so. and yet to die, it should not know to pain me, if cruel beauty were content to bid so. death to my life, life to my long despair prolonged by her, given to my love and days, are means to tell how truly she is fair, and i can die to testify her praise. yet not to die, though fairness me despiseth, is cause why in complaint i thus persèver; though death me and my love inparadiseth, by interdicting me from her for ever. i do not grieve that i am forced to die, but die to think upon the reason why. iv my tears are true. though others be divine, and sing of wars and troy's new rising frame, meeting heroic feet in every line, that tread high measures in the scene of fame, and i, though disaccustoming my muse, and sing but low songs in an humble vein, may one day raise my style as others use, and turn elizon to a higher strain. when re-intombing from oblivious ages in better stanzas her surviving wonder, i may opposed against the monster rage that part desert and excellence asunder; that she though coy may yet survive to see, her beauty's wonder lives again in me. v _conclusion of the whole_ sometimes in verse i praised, sometimes in verse sighed; no more shall pen with love and beauty mell, but to my heart alone my heart shall tell how unseen flames do burn it day and night, lest flames give light, light bring my love to sight, and my love prove my folly to excel. wherefore my love burns like the fire of hell, wherein is fire and yet there is no light; for if one never loved like me, then why skill-less blames he the thing he doth not know? and he that so hath loved should favour show, for he hath been a fool as well as i. thus shall henceforth more pain, more folly have; and folly past, may justly pardon crave. a calculation upon the birth of an honourable lady's daughter, born in the year 1588 and on a friday fair by inheritance, whom born we see both in the wondrous year and on the day wherein the fairest planet beareth sway, the heavens to thee this fortune doth decree! thou of a world of hearts in time shall be a monarch great, and with one beauty's ray so many hosts of hearts thy face shall slay, as all the rest for love shall yield to thee, but even as alexander when he knew his father's conquests wept, lest he should leave no kingdom unto him for to subdue: so shall thy mother thee of praise bereave; so many hearts already she hath slain, as few behind to conquer shall remain. sonnets from the manuscript edition, not found in that of 1594 i _of the sudden surprising of his heart, and how unawares he was caught_ delight in your bright eyes my death did breed, as light and glittering weapons babes allure to play with fire and sword, and so procure then to be burnt and hurt ere they take heed, thy beauty so hath made me burn and bleed; yet shall my ashes and my blood assure thy beauty's fame forever to endure; for thy fame's life from my death doth proceed; because my heart to ashes burnèd giveth life to thy fame, thou right a phoenix art, and like a pelican thy beauty liveth by sucking blood out of my breast and heart. lo why with wonder we may thee compare unto the pelican and phoenix rare! ii _an exhortation to the reader to come and see his mistress's beauty_ eyes curious to behold what nature can create, come see, come see, and write what wonder you do see, causing by true report our next posterity curse fortune for that they were born too late! come then and come ye all, come soon lest that the time should be too short and men too few should be; for all be few to write her least part's history, though they should ever write and never write but that. millions look on her eyes, millions think on her wit, millions speak of her, millions write of her hand. the whole eye on the lip i do not understand; millions too few to praise but some one part of it, as either of her eye or lip or hand to write, the light or black, the taste or red, the soft or white. iii _of the excellency of his lady's voice_ lady of ladies, the delight alone for which to heaven earth doth no envy bear; seeing and hearing thee, we see and hear such voice, such light, as never sung nor shone. the want of heaven i grant yet we may moan, not for the pleasure of the angels there, as though in face or voice they like thee were, but that they many be, and thou but one. the basest notes which from thy voice proceed, the treble of the angels do exceed, so that i fear their choir to beautify, lest thou to some in heaven shall sing and shine. lo, when i hear thee sing, the reason why sighs of my breast keep time with notes of thine! iv _of her excellency both in singing and instruments_ not that thy hand is soft, is sweet, is white, thy lips sweet roses, breast sweet lily is, that love esteems these three the chiefest bliss which nature ever made for lips' delight; but when these three to show their heavenly might such wonders do, devotion then for this commandeth us with humble zeal to kiss such things as work miracles in our sight. a lute of senseless wood, by nature dumb, touched by thy hand doth speak divinely well; and from thy lips and breast sweet tunes do come to my dead heart, the which new life do give. of greater wonders heard we never tell than for the dumb to speak, the dead to live. v _of the envy others bear to his lady for the former perfections_ when beauty to the world vouchsafes this bliss, to show the one whose other there is not, the whitest skins red blushing shame doth blot, and in the reddest cheeks pale envy is. the fair and foul come thus alike by this; for when the sun hath our horizon got, venus herself doth shine no more, god wot, than the least star that takes the light from his. the poor in beauty thus content remain to see their jealous cause revenged in thee, and their fair foes afflicted with like pain. lo, the clear proof of thy divinity; for unto god is only due this praise the highest to pluck down, the low to raise! vi _to his mistress, upon occasion of a petrarch he gave her, showing her the reason why the italian commenters dissent so much in the exposition thereof_ miracle of the world! i never will deny that former poets praise the beauty of their days; but all those beauties were but figures of thy praise, and all those poets did of thee but prophesy. thy coming to the world hath taught us to descry what petrarch's laura meant, for truth the lip bewrays. lo, why th' italians, yet which never saw thy rays, to find out petrarch's sense such forgèd glosses try! the beauties which he in a veil enclosed beheld but revelations were within his surest heart by which in parables thy coming he foretold; his songs were hymns of thee, which only now before thy image should be sung; for thou that goddess art which only we without idolatry adore. vii _complaint of misfortune in love only_ now, now i love indeed, and suffer more in one day now then i did in a year; great flames they be which but small sparkles were, and wounded now, i was but pricked before. no marvel then, though more than heretofore i weep and sigh; how can great wounds be there where moisture runs not out? and ever, where the fire is great, of smoke there must be store. my heart was hitherto but like green wood, which must be dried before it will burn bright; my former love served but my heart to dry; now cupid for his fire doth find it good: for now it burneth clear, and shall give light for all the world your beauty to espy. viii _complaint of his lady's melancholiness_ if that one care had our two hearts possessed, or you once (felt) what i long sufferèd, then should thy heart accuse in my heart's stead the rigour of itself for mine unrest. then should thine arm upon my shoulder rest, and weight of grief sway down thy troubled head; then should thy tears upon my sheet be shed, and then thy heart should pant upon my breast. but when that other cares thy heart do seize, alas, what succour gain i then by this, but double grief for thine and mine unease? yet when thou see'st thy hurts to wound my heart, and so art taught by me what pity is, perhaps thy heart will learn to feel my smart. ix dear, though from me your gratious looks depart, and of that comfort do myself bereave, which both i did deserve and did receive, triumph not over much in this my smart. nay, rather they which now enjoy thy heart for fear just cause of mourning should conceive, lest thou inconstant shouldst their trust deceive which like unto the weather changing art. for in foul weather birds sing often will in hope of fair, and in fair time will cease, for fear fair time should not continue still; so they may mourn which have thy heart possessed for fear of change, and hope of change may ease their hearts whom grief of change doth now molest. x if ever any justly might complain of unrequited service, it is i; change is the thanks i have for loyalty, and only her reward is her disdain; so as just spite did almost me constrain, through torment her due praises to deny, for he which vexèd is with injury by speaking ill doth ease his heart of pain. but what, shall torture make me wrong her name? no, no, a pris'ner constant thinks it shame, though he (were) racked his first truth to gainsay. her true given praise my first confession is; though her disdain do rack me night and day, this i confessed, and will deny in this. printed by ballantyne, hanson & co. london & edinburgh elizabethan sonnet-cycles edited by martha foote crow phillis by thomas lodge licia by giles fletcher kegan paul, trench, trübner and co. paternoster house london w.c. 1896 introduction the last decade of the sixteenth century was marked by an outburst of sonneteering. to devotees of the sonnet, who find in that poetic form the moat perfect vehicle that has ever been devised for the expression of a single importunate emotion, it will not seem strange that at the threshold of a literary period whose characteristic note is the most intense personality, the instinct of poets should have directed them to the form most perfectly fitted for the expression of this inner motive. the sonnet, a distinguished guest from italy, was ushered to by those two "courtly makers," wyatt and surrey, in the days of henry viii. but when, forty years later, the foreigner was to be acclimatised in england, her robe had to be altered to suit an english fashion. thus the sonnet, which had been an octave of enclosed or alternate rhymes, followed by a sestette of interlaced tercets, was now changed to a series of three quatrains with differing sets of alternate rhymes in each, at the close of which the insidious couplet succeeded in establishing itself. but these changes were not made without a great deal of experiment; and during the tentative period the name "sonnet" was given, to a wide variety of forms, in the moulding of which but one rule seemed to be uniformly obeyed--that the poem should be the expression of a single, simple emotion. this law cut the poem, to a relative shortness and defined its dignity and clearness. beyond this almost every combination of rhymes might be found, verses were occasionally lengthened or shortened, and the number of lines in the poem, though generally fourteen, showed considerable variation. the sonnet-sequence was also a suggestion from italy, a literary fashion introduced by sir philip sidney, in his _astrophel and stella_, written soon after 1580, but not published till 1591. in a sonnet-cycle sidney recorded his love and sorrow, and spenser took up the strain with his story of love and joy. grouped about these, and following in their wake, a number of poets, before the decade was over, turned this elizabethan "toy" to their purpose in their various self-revealings, producing a group of sonnet-cycles more or less italianate in form or thought, more or less experimental, more or less poetical, more or less the expression of a real passion. for while the form of the sonnet was modified by metrical traditions and habits, the content also was strongly influenced, not to say restricted, by certain conventions of thought considered at the time appropriate to the poetic attitude. the passion for classic colour in the poetic world, which had inspired and disciplined english genius in the sixties and seventies, was rather nourished than repressed when in the eighties spenser's _shepherd's calendar_ and sidney's _arcadia_ made the pastoral imagery a necessity. cupid and diana were made very much at home in the golden world of the renaissance arcadia, and the sonneteer singing the praises of his mistress's eyebrow was not far removed from the lovelorn shepherd of the plains. it may reasonably be expected that in any sonnet-cycle there will be found many sonnets in praise of the loved one's beauty, many lamenting her hardness of heart; all the wonders of heaven and earth will be catalogued to find comparisons for her loveliness; the river by which she dwells will be more pleasant than all other rivers in the world, a list of them being appended in proof; the thoughts of night-time, when the lover bemoans himself and his rejected state, or dreams of happy love, will be dwelt upon; oblivious sleep and the wan-faced moon will be invoked, and death will be called upon for respite. love and the praises of the loved one was the theme. on this old but ever new refrain the sonneteer devised his descant, trilling joyously on oaten pipe in praise of delia or phyllis, coelia, cælica, aurora, or castara. but this melody and descant were not, in some ears at least, without monotony. for after daniel's _delia_, constable's _diana_, lodge's _phillis_, drayton's _idea_, fletcher's _licia_, brooke's _cælica_, percy's _coelia_, n.l.'s _zepheria_, and j.c.'s _alcilia_, and perhaps a few other sonnet-cycles had been written, chapman in 1595 made his _coronet for his mistress philosophy_, the opening sonnet of which reveals his critical attitude: "muses that sing love's sensual empery, and lovers kindling your enragèd fires at cupid's bonfires burning in the eye, blown with the empty breath of vain desires, you that prefer the painted cabinet before the wealthy jewels it doth store ye, that all your joys in dying figures set, and stain the living substance of your glory, abjure those joys, abhor their memory, and let my love the honoured subject be of love, and honour's complete history; your eyes were never yet let in to see the majesty and riches of the mind, but dwell in darkness; for your god is blind." it must be confessed that the "painted cabinet" of the lady's beauty absorbs more attention than the "majesty and riches of the mind," but the glints of a loftier ideal shining now and then among the conventions, lift the cycle above the level of mere ear-pleasing rhythms and fantastical imageries. moreover, the sonnet-cycles on the whole show an independence and spontaneousness of poetic energy, a delight in the pure joy of making, a _naïveté_, that richly frame the picture of the golden world they present. when lodge, addressing his "pleasing thoughts, apprentices of love," cries out: "show to the world, though poor and scant my skill is, how sweet thoughts be that are but thought on phillis," we feel that we are being taken back to an age more childlike than our own; and when the sonneteers vie with each other on the themes of sleep, death, time, and immortality, the door often stands open toward sublimity. then when the sonnet-cycle was consecrated to noble and spiritual uses in chapman's _coronet for his mistress philosophy_, barnes's _divine century of spiritual sonnets_, constable's _spiritual sonnets in honour of god and his saints_, and donne's _holy sonnets_, all made before 1600, the symbolic theme was added to the conventions of the sonnet-realm, the scope of its content was broadened; and the sonnet was well on its way toward a time when it could be named a trumpet, upon which a mighty voice could blow soul-animating strains. one of the most fascinating questions in the study of the sonnet-cycles is as to how much basis the story has in reality. stella we know, the star-crossed love of sidney, and spenser's happy elizabeth, but- "who is silvia? what is she that all the swains commend her?" who is delia, diana, coelia, cælica, and all the rhyming of musical names? and who is the dark lady? what personalities hide behind these poet's imaginings? we know that now, as in troubadour days, the praises of grand ladies were sung with a warmth of language that should indicate personal acquaintance when no such acquaintance existed; and the sonneteers sometimes frankly confessed their passion "but supposed." all this adds to the difficulty of interpretation. in most cases the poet has effectually kept his secret; the search is futile, in spite of all the "scholastic labour-lost" devoted to it. equally tantalising are the fleeting symbolisms that suggest themselves now and then. the confession sometimes made by the poet, that high-flown compliment and not true despair is intended, prepares us to accept the symbolic application where it forces itself upon us, and to feel the presence here and there of platonic or spiritual shadowings. those who do not find pleasure in the arcadian world of the sonneteer's fancy, may still justify their taste in the aspiration that speaks in his flashes of philosophy. phillis honored with pastoral sonnets, elegies, and amorous delights by thomas lodge thomas lodge one of the first to take up the new fashion of the sonnet-cycle, was thomas lodge, whose "phillis" was published in 1595. lodge had a wide acquaintance among the authors of his time, and was in the thick of the literary activity in the last two decades of the sixteenth century. but in spite of his interesting personality and genius, he has had to wait until the present time for full appreciation. to his own age he may have appeared as a literary dilettante, who tried his hand at several forms of writing, and being outshone by the more excellent in each field, gave up the attempt and turned to the practice of medicine. this profession engaged him for the last twenty-five years of his life, until his death in 1625 at the advanced age of sixty-seven or eight. during all these years the gay young "university wit" of earlier days was probably forgotten in the venerable and successful physician. it was as "old doctor lodge" that he was satirised in a cambridge student's common-place book in 1611. heywood mentions him in 1609 among the six most famous physicians in england, and in the _return from parnassus_, a play acted in 1602, he is described as "turning over galen every day." yet no one had been in the last twenty years the sixteenth century more responsive than lodge to the shifting moods of that excitable period. lodge was the son of a lord mayor of london, and was a contemporary at oxford with sidney, gosson, chapman, lyly, peele and watson. his life included a round of varied experiences. a student at lincoln's inn, a young aspirant for literary honours, friends with greene, rich, daniel, drayton, lyly and watson, a taster of the sorrows that many of the university wits endured when usurers got their hands upon them, for a time perhaps a soldier, certainly a sailor following the fortunes of captain clarke to terceras and the canaries, and of cavendish to brazil and the straits of magellan, in london again making plays with greene, off to avignon to take his degree in medicine, back again to be incorporated an m.d. at oxford and to practise in london, adopting secretly the roman catholic faith, and sometimes hiding on the continent as a recusant from persecution at home, imprisoned perhaps once for debt, and entertaining a concourse of patients of his own religion till his death in 1625:--the life of lodge thus presents a view of the ups and downs possible in that picturesque age. the wide variety of his literary ventures reflects the interests of his life. some controversial papers, some unsuccessful plays, two dull historical sketches in prose, some satirical and moralising works in prose and in verse, two romantic tales in verse and three in prose, a number of eclogues, metrical epistles and lyrics, some ponderous translations from latin and french, and two medical treatises; these widely differing kinds of writing are the products of lodge's industry and genius. all, however, have but an antiquarian interest save two; the prose romance called _rosalynde, euphues' golden legacy_, could not be spared since shakespeare borrowed its charming plot for _as you like it_; and _phillis_, bound up with a sheaf of his lyrics gathered from the pages of his stories and from the miscellanies of the time, should be treasured for its own sake and should keep lodge's memory green for lovers of pure poetry. lodge's lyric genius was a clear if slender rill. his faults are the more unpardonable since they spring from sheer carelessness and a lack of appreciation of the sacred responsibility of creative power. he took up the literary fashion of the month and tried his hand at it; that done, he was ready for the next mode. he did not wait to perfect his work or to compare result with result; therefore he probably never found himself, probably never realised that after three centuries he would be esteemed, not for the ponderous tomes of his translation of josephus, not for all the catalogues of his satirical and religious and scientific writings, but for mere lyrics like the "heigh ho, fair rosaline," and "love in my bosom like a bee," heedlessly imbedded in the heart of a prose romance. lodge was one of the earliest to follow the example of sidney in linking a sequence of sonnets together into a sonnet-cycle. the _astrophel and stella_ was published in 1591, though it had doubtless before this been handed about, as was the elizabethan fashion, in manuscript. early in 1591 also when daniel was probably abroad, twenty-seven of the fifty-seven sonnets that a year later formed the sonnet-cycle _delia_ were published in his absence. now in august of 1591 lodge set sail with cavendish on that long voyage to brazil and the straits of magellan from which he did not return till early in ninety-three, and it was during his absence that daniel's and constable's sonnet-cycles came out. it is possible that lodge saw daniel's series, as he doubtless did sidney's, in manuscript before he left england, but the induction to _phillis_, which carries a message to delia's "sweet prophet," was almost certainly written later, and in the absence of further proof it seems no more than fair to allow lodge to share with daniel and constable the honour of being the earliest to take the hint sidney had offered. on the whole, lodge's sonnets show a much more cheerful and buoyant temper than daniel's "wailing verse." the "sad horror, pale grief, prostrate despair" that inform the _delia_, are replaced in the _phillis_ by a spirit of airy toying, a pleasure in the graces of fancy even when they cluster around a feeling of sadness. during lodge's absence, his friend robert green published several pieces for him, and in one of the prefaces promised the public to present on his return "what labours lodge's sea-studies afford." _phillis_ was the chief of these sea-studies, and was like _rosalynde_ "hatcht in the stormes of the ocean and feathered in the surges of many perillous seas." but as far as the imagery of the sonnets is concerned, the pageantry of day and night at sea might have passed before blinded eyes; if it made any impression, it was in the form of ocean-nymphs and cupid at the helm. the poet was in arcadia, phillis was a shepherdess, and the conventional imageries of the pastoral valley were the environment. "may it please you," he says in dedicating the book to the countess of shrewsbury, "to looke and like of homlie phillis in her country caroling, and to countenance her poore and affectionate sheapheard." the countess of shrewsbury he chooses for the "sovereign and she-mæcenas" of his toil, and promises her "as much in affection as any other can performe in perfection;" but the name of phillis is no cover for the personality of a grand lady, and therefore no puzzling questions disturb the pleasure of the reader as the gentle modulations, the insidious alliterations, and the musical cadences of his double rhymes fall upon the ear. yet for this name or ideal, or whatever phillis represented in the poet's thought, he has poured forth a passion that has an air of sincerity, an artless freshness, a flute-like clearness of tone, as rare as delightful. it is the very voice of the oaten pipe itself, thin, clear, and pure. the touches of seriousness are impossible, to mistake. when the poet avows his faith in phillis' constancy, after giving the usual catalogue of her beauties, he says: "at thy fair hands who wonders not at all wonder itself through ignorance embases; yet not the less though wondrous gifts you call these my faith is far more wonderful than all these." when phillis persists in her disdain, he cries out impulsively: "burst, burst, poor heart, thou hast no longer hope!" even when re-moulding the familiar pastoral conceits, he makes the fancies his own and gives to them a unique touch and spirit. mere conventions he rates at their proper value. his pen shall not "riot in pompous style." he claims a brighter aspect for his poetical devotion than his fellow-sonneteers manifest: "no stars her; eyes.... .... but beams that clear the sight of him that seeks the true philosophy." in spite of its defects, the lax structure of the sonnet-form, the obscurities and needless blurring, and the disappointing inequalities, _phillis_ takes a high place among the sonnet-cycles, and must ever be dear to lovers of quiet, melodious verse, who have made themselves at home in the golden world of the pastoral poets and mislike not the country-carolling heard therein. the induction i that obscured have fled the scene of fame, intitling my conceits to nought but care, i that have lived a phoenix in love's flame, and felt that death i never would declare, now mount the theater of this our age, to plead my faith and cupid's cursed rage. oh you high sp'rited paragons of wit, that fly to fame beyond our earthly pitch, whose sense is sound, whose words are feat and fit, able to make the coyest ear to itch; shroud with your mighty wings that mount so well, these little loves, new crept from out the shell. and thou the true octavia of our time, under whose worth beauty was never matched, the genius of my muse and ragged rime, smile on these little loves but lately hatched, who from the wrastling waves have made retreat, to plead for life before thy judgment seat. and though the fore-bred brothers they have had, who in their swan-like songs amintas wept, for all their sweet-thought sighs had fortune bad, and twice obscured in cinthia's circle slept, yet these i hope, under your kind aspect, most worthy lady, shall escape neglect. and if these infants of mine artless brain, not by their worth but by thy worthiness, a mean good liking of the learnèd gain, my muse enfranchised from forgetfulness shall hatch such breed in honour of thy name, as modern poets shall admire the same. as modern poets shall admire the same; i mean not you (you never matchèd men) who brought the chaos of our tongue in frame, through these herculean labours of your pen; i mean the mean, i mean no men divine, but such whose feathers are but waxed like mine. go, weeping truce-men in your sighing weeds, under a great maecenas i have passed you; if so you come where learnèd colin feeds his lovely flock, pack thence and quickly haste you; you are but mists before so bright a sun, who hath the palm for deep invention won. kiss delia's hand for her sweet prophet's sake, whose not affected but well couchèd tears have power, have worth, a marble mind to shake, whose fame no iron-age or time outwears. then lay you down in phillis' lap and sleep, until the weeping read, and reading weep. i oh pleasing thoughts, apprentices of love, fore-runners of desire, sweet mithridates the poison of my sorrows to remove, with whom my hopes and fear full oft debates! enrich yourselves and me by your self riches, which are the thoughts you spend on heaven-bred beauty, rouse you my muse beyond our poets' pitches, and, working wonders, yet say all is duty! use you no eaglets' eyes, nor phoenix' feathers, to tower the heaven from whence heaven's wonder sallies. for why? your sun sings sweetly to her weathers, making a spring of winter in the valleys. show to the world though poor and scant my skill is how sweet thoughts be, that are but thought on phillis! ii you sacred sea-nymphs pleasantly disporting amidst this wat'ry world, where now i sail; if ever love, or lovers sad reporting, had power sweet tears from your fair eyes to hail; and you, more gentle-hearted than the rest, under the northern noon-stead sweetly streaming, lend those moist riches of your crystal crest, to quench the flames from my heart's ætna streaming; and thou, kind triton, in thy trumpet relish the ruthful accents of my discontent, that midst this travel desolate and hellish, some gentle wind that listens my lament may prattle in the north in phillis' ears: "where phillis wants, damon consumes in tears." iii in fancy's world an atlas have i been, where yet the chaos of my ceaseless care is by her eyes unpitied and unseen, in whom all gifts but pity planted are; for mercy though still cries my moan-clad muse, and every paper that she sends to beauty, in tract of sable tears brings woeful news, of my true heart-kind thoughts, and loyal duty. but ah the strings of her hard heart are strained beyond the harmony of my desires; and though the happy heavens themselves have pained, to tame her heart whose will so far aspires, yet she who claims the title of world's wonder, thinks all deserts too base to bring her under. iv long hath my sufferance laboured to enforce one pearl of pity from her pretty eyes, whilst i with restless rivers of remorse, have bathed the banks where my fair phillis lies. the moaning lines which weeping i have written, and writing read unto my ruthful sheep, and reading sent with tears that never fitten, to my love's queen, that hath my heart in keep, have made my lambkins lay them down and sigh; but phillis sits, and reads, and calls them trifles. oh heavens, why climb not happy lines so high, to rent that ruthless heart that all hearts rifles! none writes with truer faith, or greater love, yet out, alas! i have no power to move. v ah pale and dying infant of the spring, how rightly now do i resemble thee! that selfsame hand that thee from stalk did wring, hath rent my breast and robbed my heart from me. yet shalt thou live. for why? thy native vigour shall thrive by woeful dew-drops of my dolor; and from the wounds i bear through fancy's rigour, my streaming blood shall yield the crimson color. the ravished sighs that ceaseless take their issue from out the furnace of my heart inflamed, to yield you lasting springs shall never miss you; so by my plaints and pains, you shall be famed. let my heart's heat and cold, thy crimson nourish, and by my sorrows let thy beauty flourish. vi it is not death which wretched men call dying, but that is very death which i endure, when my coy-looking nymph, her grace envying, by fatal frowns my domage doth procure. it is not life which we for life approve, but that is life when on her wool-soft paps i seal sweet kisses which do batten love, and doubling them do treble my good haps. 'tis neither love the son, nor love the mother, which lovers praise and pray to; but that love is which she in eye and i in heart do smother. then muse not though i glory in my miss, since she who holds my heart and me in durance, hath life, death, love and all in her procurance. vii how languisheth the primrose of love's garden! how trill her tears, th' elixir of my senses! ambitious sickness, what doth thee so harden? oh spare, and plague thou me for her offences! ah roses, love's fair roses, do not languish; blush through the milk-white veil that holds you covered. if heat or cold may mitigate your anguish, i'll burn, i'll freeze, but you shall be recovered. good god, would beauty mark now she is crased, how but one shower of sickness makes her tender, her judgments then to mark my woes amazed, to mercy should opinion's fort surrender! and i,--oh would i might, or would she meant it! should hery[a] love, who now in heart lament it. [footnote a: _hery_, praise.] viii no stars her eyes to clear the wandering night, but shining suns of true divinity, that make the soul conceive her perfect light! no wanton beauties of humanity her pretty brows, but beams that clear the sight of him that seeks the true philosophy! no coral is her lip, no rose her fair, but even that crimson that adorns the sun. no nymph is she, but mistress of the air, by whom my glories are but new begun. but when i touch and taste as others do, i then shall write and you shall wonder too. ix the dewy roseate morn had with her hairs in sundry sorts the indian clime adorned; and now her eyes apparrelèd in tears, the loss of lovely memnon long had mourned, when as she spied the nymph whom i admire, combing her locks, of which the yellow gold made blush the beauties of her curlèd wire, which heaven itself with wonder might behold; then red with shame, her reverend locks she rent, and weeping hid the beauty of her face, the flower of fancy wrought such discontent; the sighs which midst the air she breathed a space, a three-days' stormy tempest did maintain, her shame a fire, her eyes a swelling rain. x the rumour runs that here in isis swim such stately swans so confident in dying, that when they feel themselves near lethe's brim, they sing their fatal dirge when death is nighing. and i like these that feel my wounds are mortal, contented die for her whom i adore; and in my joyful hymns do still exhort all to die for such a saint or love no more. not that my torments or her tyranny enforce me to enjoin so hard a task, but for i know, and yield no reason why, but will them try that have desire to ask. as love hath wreaths his pretty eyes to seel, so lovers must keep secret what they feel. xi my frail and earthly bark, by reason's guide, which holds the helm, whilst will doth wield the sail, by my desires, the winds of bad betide, hath sailed these worldly seas with small avail, vain objects serve for dreadful rocks to quail my brittle boat from haven of life that flies to haunt the sea of mundane miseries. my soul that draws impressions from above, and views my course, and sees the winds aspire, bids reason watch to scape the shoals of love; but lawless will enflamed with endless ire doth steer empoop,[b] whilst reason doth retire. the streams increase; love's waves my bark do fill; thus are they wracked that guide their course by will. [footnote b: steer empoop (_text_: steerem poop): _en poupe_.] xii ah trees, why fall your leaves so fast? ah rocks, where are your robes of moss? ah flocks, why stand you all aghast? trees, rocks, and flocks, what, are you pensive for my loss? the birds methinks tune naught but moan, the winds breathe naught but bitter plaint, the beasts forsake their dens to groan; birds, winds, and beasts, what doth my loss your powers attaint? floods weep their springs above their bounds, and echo wails to see my woe, the robe of ruth doth clothe the grounds; floods, echo, grounds, why do you all these tears bestow? the trees, the rocks, and flocks reply, the birds, the winds, the beasts report, floods, echo, grounds, for sorrow cry, we grieve since phillis nill kind damon's love consort. xiii love guides the roses of thy lips, and flies about them like a bee; if i approach he forward skips, and if i kiss he stingeth me. love in thine eyes doth build his bower, and sleeps within their pretty shine; and if i look the boy will lower, and from their orbs shoots shafts divine. love works thy heart within his fire, and in my tears doth firm the same; and if i tempt it will retire, and of my plaints doth make a game. love, let me cull her choicest flowers, and pity me, and calm her eye, make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers, then will i praise thy deity. but if thou do not love, i'll truly serve her in spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her. xiv i wrote in mirrha's bark, and as i wrote, poor mirrha wept because i wrote forsaken; 'twas of thy pride i sung in weeping note, when as her leaves great moan for pity maken. the falling fountains from the mountains falling, cried out, alas, so fair and be so cruel! and babbling echo never ceasèd calling, phillis, disdain is fit for none but truthless. the rising pines wherein i had engraved thy memory consulting with the wind, are trucemen to thy heart and thoughts depraved, and say, thy kind should not be so unkind. but, out alas! so fell is phillis fearless, that she hath made her damon well nigh tearless. xv my phillis hath the morning sun at first to look upon her. and phillis hath morn-waking birds, her risings for to honour. my phillis hath prime-feathered flowers, that smile when she treads on them, and phillis hath a gallant flock, that leaps since she doth own them. but phillis hath so hard a heart- alas that she should have it!- as yields no mercy to desert, nor grace to those that crave it. sweet sun, when thou look'st on, pray her regard my moan. sweet birds, when you sing to her, to yield some pity woo her. sweet flowers, whenas she treads on, tell her, her beauty deads one. and if in life her love she nill agree me, pray her before i die, she will come see me. xvi i part; but how? from joy, from hope, from life; i leave; but whom? love's pride, wit's pomp, heart's bliss; i pine; for what? for grief, for thought, for strife; i faint; and why? because i see my miss. oh ceaseless pains that never may be told, you make me weep as i to water would! ah weary hopes, in deep oblivious streams go seek your graves, since you have lost your grounds! ah pensive heart, seek out her radiant gleams! for why? thy bliss is shut within those bounds! all traitorous eyes, to[o] feeble in for[e] sight, grow dim with woe, that now must want your light! i part from bliss to dwell with ceaseless moan, i part from life, since i from beauty part, i part from peace, to pine in care alone, i part from ease to die with dreadful smart. i part--oh death! for why? this world contains more care and woe than with despair remains. oh loath depart, wherein such sorrows dwell, as all conceits are scant the same to tell! xvii ah fleeting weal, ah sly deluding sleep, that in one moment giv'st me joy and pain! how do my hopes dissolve to tears in vain, as wont the snows, 'fore angry sun to weep! ah noisome life that hath no weal in keep! my forward grief hath form and working might; my pleasures like the shadows take their flight; my path to bliss is tedious, long and steep. twice happy thou endymion that embracest the live-long night thy love within thine arms, where thou fond dream my longèd weal defacest whilst fleeting and uncertain shades thou placest before my eyes with false deluding charms! ah instant sweets which do my heart revive, how should i joy if you were true alive! xviii as where two raging venoms are united, which of themselves dissevered life would sever, the sickly wretch of sickness is acquited, which else should die, or pine in torments ever; so fire and frost, that hold my heart in seizure, restore those ruins which themselves have wrought, where if apart they both had had their pleasure, the earth long since her fatal claim had caught. thus two united deaths keep me from dying; i burne in ice, and quake amidst the fire, no hope midst these extremes or favour spying; thus love makes me a martyr in his ire. so that both cold and heat do rather feed my ceaseless pains, than any comfort breed. xix thou tyrannizing monarch that dost tire my love-sick heart through those assaulting eyes, that are the lamps which lighten my desire! if nought but death thy fury may suffice, not for my peace, but for thy pleasure be it, that phillis, wrathful phillis that repines me all grace but death, may deign to come and see it, and seeing grieve at that which she assigns me. this only boon for all my mortal bane i crave and cry for at thy mercy seat: that when her wrath a faithful heart hath slain, and soul is fled, and body reft of heat, she might perceive how much she might command, that had my life and death within her hand. xx some praise the looks, and others praise the locks of their fair queens, in love with curious words; some laud the breast where love his treasure locks, all like the eye that life and love affords. but none of these frail beauties and unstable shall make my pen riot in pompous style; more greater gifts shall my grave muse enable, whereat severer brows shall never smile. i praise her honey-sweeter eloquence, which from the fountain of true wisdom floweth, her modest mien that matcheth excellence, her matchless faith which from her virtue groweth; and could my style her happy virtues equal, time had no power her glories to enthral. egloga prima demades damon demades now scourge of winter's wrack is well nigh spent, and sun gins look more longer on our clime, and earth no more to sorrow doth consent, why been thy looks forlorn that view the prime? unneth thy flocks may feed to see thee faint, thou lost, they lean, and both with woe attaint. for shame! cast off these discontented looks; for grief doth wait on life, though never sought; so thenot wrote admired for pipe and books. then to the spring attemper thou thy thought, and let advice rear up thy drooping mind, and leave to weep thy woes unto the wind. damon ah demades, no wonder though i wail, for even the spring is winter unto me! look as the sun the earth doth then avail, when by his beams her bowels warmèd be; even so a saint more sun-bright in her shining first wrought my weal, now hastes my winter's pining. which lovely lamp withdrawn from my poor eyes, both parts of earth and fire drowned up in woe in winter dwell. my joy, my courage dies; my lambs with me that do my winter know for pity scorn the spring that nigheth near, and pine to see their master's pining cheer. the root which yieldeth sap unto the tree draws from the earth the means that make it spring; and by the sap the scions fostered be, all from the sun have comfort and increasing and that fair eye that lights this earthly ball kills by depart, and nearing cheereth all. as root to tree, such is my tender heart, whose sap is thought, whose branches are content; and from my soul they draw their sweet or smart, and from her eye, my soul's best life is lent; which heavenly eye that lights both earth and air, quells by depart and quickens by repair. demades give period to the process of thy plaint, unhappy damon, witty in self-grieving; tend thou thy flocks; let tyrant love attaint those tender hearts that made their love their living. and as kind time keeps phillis from thy sight, so let prevention banish fancy quite. cast hence this idle fuel of desire, that feeds that flame wherein thy heart consumeth; let reason school thy will which doth aspire, and counsel cool impatience that presumeth; drive hence vain thoughts which are fond love's abettors, for he that seeks his thraldom merits fetters. the vain idea of this deity nursed at the teat of thine imagination, was bred, brought up by thine own vanity, whose being thou mayst curse from the creation; and so thou list, thou may as soon forget love, as thou at first didst fashion and beget love. damon peace, demades, peace shepherd, do not tempt me; the sage-taught wife may speak thus, but not practise; rather from life than from my love exempt me, my happy love wherein my weal and wrack lies; where chilly age first left love, and first lost her, there youth found love, liked love, and love did foster. not as ambitious of their[c] own decay, but curious to equal your fore-deeds, so tread we now within your wonted way; we find your fruits of judgments and their seeds; we know you loved, and loving learn that lore; you scorn kind love, because you can no more. though from this pure refiner of the thought the gleanings of your learnings have you gathered your lives had been abortive, base and naught, except by happy love they had been fathered; then still the swain, for i will still avow it; they have no wit nor worth that disallow it. then to renew the ruins of my tears be thou no hinderer, demades, i pray thee. if my love-sighs grow tedious in thine ears, fly me, that fly from joy, i list not stay thee. mourn sheep, mourn lambs, and damon will weep by you; and when i sigh, "come home, sweet phillis," cry you. come home, sweet phillis, for thine absence causeth a flowerless prime-tide in these drooping meadows; to push his beauties forth each primrose pauseth, our lilies and our roses like coy widows shut in their buds, their beauties, and bemoan them, because my phillis doth not smile upon them. the trees by my redoubled sighs long blasted call for thy balm-sweet breath and sunny eyes, to whom all nature's comforts are hand-fasted; breathe, look on them, and they to life arise; they have new liveries with each smile thou lendest, and droop with me, when thy fair brow thou bendest. i woo thee, phillis, with more earnest weeping than niobe for her dead issue spent; i pray thee, nymph who hast our spring in keeping, thou mistress of our flowers and my content, come home, and glad our meads of winter weary, and make thy woeful damon blithe and merry. else will i captive all my hopes again, and shut them up in prisons of despair, and weep such tears as shall destroy this plain, and sigh such sighs as shall eclipse the air, and cry such cries as love that hears my crying shall faint and weep for grief and fall a-dying. my little world hath vowed no sun shall glad it, except thy little world her light discover, of which heavens would grow proud if so they had it. oh how i fear lest absent jove should love her! i fear it, phillis, for he never saw one that had more heaven-sweet looks to lure and awe one. i swear to thee, all-seeing sovereign rolling heaven's circles round about our center, except my phillis safe return again, no joy to heart, no meat to mouth shall enter. all hope (but future hope to be renowned, for weeping phillis) shall in tears be drowned. demades how large a scope lends damon to his moan, wafting those treasures of his happy wit in registering his woeful woe-begone! ah bend thy muse to matters far more fit! for time shall come when phillis is interred, that damon shall confess that he hath erred. when nature's riches shall, by time dissolved, call thee to see with more judicial eye how phillis' beauties are to dust resolved, thou then shalt ask thyself the reason why thou wert so fond, since phillis was so frail, to praise her gifts that should so quickly fail. have mercy on thyself, cease being idle, let reason claim and gain of will his homage; rein in these brain-sick thoughts with judgment's bridle, a short prevention helps a mighty domage. if phillis love, love her, yet love her so that if she fly, thou may'st love's fire forego. play with the fire, yet die not in the flame; show passions in thy words, but not in heart; lest when thou think to bring thy thoughts in frame, thou prove thyself a prisoner by thine art. play with these babes of love, as apes with glasses, and put no trust in feathers, wind, or lasses. damon did not thine age yield warrantise, old man, impatience would enforce me to offend thee; me list not now thy forward skill to scan, yet will i pray that love may mend or end thee. spring flowers, sea-tides, earth, grass, sky, stars shall banish, before the thoughts of love or phillis vanish. so get thee gone, and fold thy tender sheep, for lo, the great automaton of day in isis stream his golden locks doth steep; sad even her dusky mantle doth display; light-flying fowls, the posts of night, disport them, and cheerful-looking vesper doth consort them. come you, my careful flock, forego you master, i'll fold you up and after fall a-sighing; words have no worth my secret wounds to plaster; naught may refresh my joys but phillis nighing. farewell, old demades. demades damon, farewell. how 'gainst advice doth headlong youth rebel! [footnote c: our?] an elegy ah cruel winds, why call you hence away? why make you breach betwixt my soul and me? ye traitorous floods, why nil your floats delay until my latest moans discoursèd be? for though ye salt sea-gods withhold the rain of all your floats and gentle winds be still, while i have wept such tears as might restrain the rage of tides and winds against their will. ah shall i love your sight, bright shining eyes? and must my soul his life and glory leave? must i forsake the bower where solace lives, to trust to tickle fates that still deceive? alas, so wills the wanton queen of change, that each man tract this labyrinth of life with slippery steps, now wronged by fortune strange, now drawn by counsel from the maze of strife! ah joy! no joy because so soon thou fleetest, hours, days, and times inconstant in your being! oh life! no life, since with such chance thou meetest! oh eyes! no eyes, since you must lose your seeing! soul, be thou sad, dissolve thy living powers to crystal tears, and by their pores express the grief that my distressèd soul devours! clothe thou my body all in heaviness; my suns appeared fair smiling full of pleasure, but now the vale of absence overclouds them; they fed my heart with joys exceeding measure which now shall die, since absence needs must shroud them. yea, die! oh death, sweet death, vouchsafe that blessing, that i may die the death whilst she regardeth! for sweet were death, and sweet were death's oppressing, if she look on who all my life awardeth. oh thou that art the portion of my joy, yet not the portion, for thou art the prime; suppose my griefs, conceive the deep annoy that wounds my soul upon this sorry time! pale is my face, and in my pale confesses the pain i suffer, since i needs must leave thee. red are mine eyes through tears that them oppresses, dulled are my sp'rits since fates do now bereave thee. and now, ah now, my plaints are quite prevented! the winds are fair the sails are hoisèd high, the anchors weighed, and now quite discontented, grief so subdues my heart as it should die. a faint farewell with trembling hand i tender, and with my tears my papers are distained. which closèd up, my heart in them i render, to tell thee how at parting i complained. vouchsafe his message that doth bring farewell, and for my sake let him with beauty dwell. thirsis egloga secunda muses help me, sorrow swarmeth, eyes are fraught with seas of languish; heavy hope my solace harmeth, mind's repast is bitter anguish. eye of day regarded never certain trust in world untrusty; flattering hope beguileth ever weary, old, and wanton lusty. dawn of day beholds enthronèd fortune's darling, proud and dreadless; darksome night doth hear him moanèd, who before was rich and needless. rob the sphere of lines united, make a sudden void in nature; force the day to be benighted, reave the cause of time and creature; ere the world will cease to vary, this i weep for, this i sorrow. muses, if you please to tarry, further helps i mean to borrow. courted once by fortune's favour, compassed now with envy's curses, all my thoughts of sorrow savour, hopes run fleeting like the sources. ay me! wanton scorn hath maimèd all the joy my heart enjoyèd; thoughts their thinking have disclaimèd, hate my hopes hath quite annoyèd. scant regard my weal hath scanted, looking coy hath forced my lowering; nothing liked where nothing wanted weds mine eyes to ceaseless showering. former love was once admirèd, present favour is estrangèd, loath the pleasure long desirèd; thus both men and thoughts are changèd. lovely swain with lucky guiding, once (but now no more so friended) thou my flocks hast had in minding, from the morn till day was ended. drink and fodder, food and folding, had my lambs and ewes together; i with them was still beholding, both in warmth and winter weather. now they languish since refusèd, ewes and lambs are pained with pining; i with ewes and lambs confusèd, all unto our deaths declining. silence, leave thy cave obscurèd; deign a doleful swain to tender; though disdains i have endurèd, yet i am no deep offender. phillis' son can with his finger hide his scar, it is so little; little sin a day to linger, wise men wander in a tittle. thriftless yet my swain have turnèd, though my sun he never showeth: though i weep, i am not mournèd; though i want, no pity groweth. yet for pity love my muses; gentle silence be their cover; they must leave their wonted uses, since i leave to be a lover. they shall live with thee inclosèd, i will loathe my pen and paper art shall never be supposèd, sloth shall quench the watching taper. kiss them, silence, kiss them kindly though i leave them, yet i love them; though my wit have led them blindly, yet my swain did once approve them. i will travel soils removèd, night and morrow never merry; thou shalt harbour that i lovèd, i will love that makes me weary. if perchance the sheep estrayeth, in thy walks and shades unhaunted, tell the teen my heart betrayeth, how neglect my joys hath daunted. xxi ye heralds of my heart, mine ardent groans, o tears which gladly would burst out to brooks, oh spent on fruitless sand my surging moans, oh thoughts enthralled unto care-boding looks! ah just laments of my unjust distress, ah fond desires whom reason could not guide! oh hopes of love that intimate redress, yet prove the load-stars unto bad betide! when will you cease? or shall pain never-ceasing, seize oh my heart? oh mollify your rage, lest your assaults with over-swift increasing, procure my death, or call on timeless age. what if they do? they shall but feed the fire, which i have kindled by my fond desire. xxii fair art thou, phillis, ay, so fair, sweet maid, as nor the sun, nor i have seen more fair; for in thy cheeks sweet roses are embayed, and gold more pure than gold doth gild thy hair. sweet bees have hived their honey on thy tongue, and hebe spiced her nectar with thy breath; about thy neck do all the graces throng, and lay such baits as might entangle death. in such a breast what heart would not be thrall? from such sweet arms who would not wish embraces? at thy fair hands who wonders not at all, wonder itself through ignorance embases? yet natheless though wondrous gifts you call these, my faith is far more wonderful than all these. xxiii burst, burst, poor heart! thou hast no longer hope; captive mine eyes unto eternal sleep; let all my senses have no further scope; let death be lord of me and all my sheep! for phillis hath betrothèd fierce disdain, that makes his mortal mansion in her heart; and though my tongue have long time taken pain to sue divorce and wed her to desert, she will not yield, my words can have no power; she scorns my faith, she laughs at my sad lays, she fills my soul with never ceasing sour, who filled the world with volumes of her praise. in such extremes what wretch can cease to crave his peace from death, who can no mercy have! xxiv no glory makes me glorious or glad, nor pleasure may to pleasure me dispose, no comfort can revive my senses sad, nor hope enfranchise me with one repose. nor in her absence taste i one delight, nor in her presence am i well content; was never time gave term to my despite, nor joy that dried the tears of my lament. nor hold i hope of weal in memory, nor have i thought to change my restless grief, nor doth my conquest yield me sovereignty, nor hope repose, nor confidence relief. for why? she sorts her frowns and favours so, as when i gain or lose i cannot know. xxv i wage the combat with two mighty foes, which are more strong than i ten thousand fold; the one is when thy pleasure i do lose, the other, when thy person i behold. in seeing thee a swarm of loves confound me, and cause my death in spite of my resist, and if i see thee not, thy want doth wound me, for in thy sight my comfort doth consist. the one in me continual care createth, the other doth occasion my desire; the one the edge of all my joy rebateth, the other makes me a phoenix in love's fire. so that i grieve when i enjoy your presence, and die for grief by reason of your absence. xxvi i'll teach thee, lovely phillis, what love is. it is a vision seeming such as thou, that flies as fast as it assaults mine eyes; it is affection that doth reason miss; it is a shape of pleasure like to you, which meets the eye, and seen on sudden dies; it is a doubled grief, a spark of pleasure begot by vain desire. and this is love, whom in our youth we count our chiefest treasure, in age for want of power we do reprove. yea, such a power is love, whose loss is pain, and having got him we repent our gain. xxvii fair eyes, whilst fearful i your fair admire, by unexpressèd sweetness that i gain, my memory of sorrow doth expire, and falcon-like, i tower joy's heavens amain. but when your suns in oceans of their glory shut up their day-bright shine, i die for thought; so pass my joys as doth a new-played story, and one poor sigh breathes all delight to naught. so to myself i live not, but for you; for you i live, and you i love, but none else, oh then, fair eyes, whose light i live to view, or poor forlorn despised to live alone else, look sweet, since from the pith of contemplation love gathereth life, and living, breedeth passion. xxviii not causeless were you christened, gentle flowers, the one of faith, the other fancy's pride; for she who guides both faith and fancy's power, in your fair colors wraps her ivory side. as one of you hath whiteness without stain, so spotless is my love and never tainted; and as the other shadoweth faith again, such is my lass, with no fond change acquainted. and as nor tyrant sun nor winter weather may ever change sweet amaranthus' hue, so she though love and fortune join together, will never leave to be both fair and true. and should i leave thee then, thou pretty elf? nay, first let damon quite forget himself. xxix i feel myself endangered beyond reason, my death already 'twixt the cup and lip, because my proud desire through cursèd treason, would make my hopes mount heaven, which cannot skip; my fancy still requireth at my hands such things as are not, cannot, may not be, and my desire although my power withstands, will give me wings, who never yet could flee. what then remains except my maimèd soul extort compassion from love-flying age, or if naught else their fury may control, to call on death that quells affection's rage; which death shall dwell with me and never fly, since vain desire seeks that hope doth deny. xxx i do compare unto thy youthly clear, which always bides within thy flow'ring prime, the month of april, that bedews our clime with pleasant flowers, when as his showers appear. before thy face shall fly false cruelty, before his face the doly season fleets; mild been his looks, thine eyes are full of sweets; firm is his course, firm is thy loyalty. he paints the fields through liquid crystal showers, thou paint'st my verse with pallas, learnèd flowers; with zephirus' sweet, breath he fills the plains, and thou my heart with weeping sighs dost wring; his brows are dewed with morning's crystal spring, thou mak'st my eyes with tears bemoan my pains. xxxi devoid of reason, thrall to foolish ire, i walk and chase a savage fairy still, now near the flood, straight on the mounting hill, now midst the woods of youth, and vain desire. for leash i bear a cord of careful grief; for brach i lead an over-forward mind; my hounds are thoughts, and rage despairing blind, pain, cruelty, and care without relief. but they perceiving that my swift pursuit my flying fairy cannot overtake, with open mouths their prey on me do make, like hungry hounds that lately lost their suit. and full of fury on their master feed, to hasten on my hapless death with speed. xxxii a thousand times to think and think the same, to two fair eyes to show a naked heart, great thirst with bitter liquor to restrain, to take repast of care and crooked smart; to sigh full oft without relent of ire, to die for grief and yet conceal the tale, to others' will to fashion my desire, to pine in looks disguised through pensive-pale; a short dispite, a faith unfeignèd true, to love my foe, and set my life at naught, with heedless eyes mine endless harms to view, a will to speak, a fear to tell the thought; to hope for all, yet for despair to die, is of my life the certain destiny. xxxiii when first sweet phillis, whom i must adore, gan with her beauties bless our wond'ring sky, the son of rhea, from their fatal store made all the gods to grace her majesty. apollo first his golden rays among, did form the beauty of her bounteous eyes; he graced her with his sweet melodious song, and made her subject of his poesies. the warrior mars bequeathed her fierce disdain, venus her smile, and phoebe all her fair, python his voice, and ceres all her grain, the morn her locks and fingers did repair. young love, his bow, and thetis gave her feet; clio her praise, pallas her science sweet. xxxiv i would in rich and golden-coloured rain, with tempting showers in pleasant sort descend into fair phillis' lap, my lovely friend, when sleep her sense with slumber doth restrain. i would be changèd to a milk-white bull, when midst the gladsome fields she should appear, by pleasant fineness to surprise my dear, whilst from their stalks, she pleasant flowers did pull. i were content to weary out my pain, to be narsissus so she were a spring, to drown in her those woes my heart do wring. and more; i wish transformèd to remain, that whilst i thus in pleasure's lap did lie, i might refresh desire, which else would die. xxxv i hope and fear, i pray and hold my peace, now freeze my thoughts and straight they fry again, i now admire and straight my wonders cease, i loose my bonds and yet myself restrain; this likes me most that leaves me discontent, my courage serves and yet my heart doth fail, my will doth climb whereas my hopes are spent, i laugh at love, yet when he comes i quail; the more i strive, the duller bide i still. i would be thralled, and yet i freedom love, i would redress, yet hourly feed mine ill, i would repine, and dare not once reprove; and for my love i am bereft of power, and strengthless strive my weakness to devour. xxxvi if so i seek the shades, i presently do see the god of love forsakes his bow and sit me by; if that i think to write, his muses pliant be if so i plain my grief, the wanton boy will cry, if i lament his pride, he doth increase my pain; if tears my cheeks attaint, his cheeks are moist with moan; if i disclose the wounds the which my heart hath slain, he takes his fascia off, and wipes them dry anon. if so i walk the woods, the woods are his delight; if i myself torment, he bathes him in my blood; he will my soldier be if once i wend to fight, if seas delight, he steers my bark amidst the hood. in brief, the cruel god doth never from me go, but makes my lasting love eternal with my woe. xxxvii these fierce incessant waves that stream along my face, which show the certain proof of my ne'er-ceasing pains, fair phillis, are no tears that trickle from my brains; for why? such streams of ruth within me find no place. these floods that wet my cheeks are gathered from thy grace and thy perfections, and from hundred thousand flowers which from thy beauties spring; whereto i medley showers of rose and lilies too, the colours of thy face. my love doth serve for fire, my heart the furnace is, the aperries of my sighs augment the burning flame, the limbec is mine eye that doth distil the same; and by how much my fire is violent and sly, by so much doth it cause the waters mount on high, that shower from out mine eyes, for to assuage my miss. xxxviii who lives enthralled to cupid and his flame, from day to day is changed in sundry sort; the proof whereof myself may well report, who oft transformed by him may teach the same. i first was turned into a wounded hart, that bare the bloody arrow in my side; then to a swan that midst the waters glide, with piteous voice presaged my deadly smart; eftsoons i waxed a faint and fading flower; then was i made a fountain sudden dry, distilling all my tears from troubled eye; now am i salamander by his power, living in flames, but hope ere long to be a voice, to talk my mistress' majesty. xxxix my matchless mistress, whose delicious eyes have power to perfect nature's privy wants, even when the sun in greatest pomp did rise, with pretty tread did press the tender plants. each stalk whilst forth she stalks, to kiss her feet is proud with pomp, and prodigal of sweet. her fingers fair in favouring every flower that wooed their ivory for a wishèd touch, by chance--sweet chance!--upon a blessed hour did pluck the flower where love himself did couch. where love did couch by summer toil suppressed, and sought his sleeps within so sweet a nest. the virgin's hand that held the wanton thrall, imprisoned him within the roseate leaves; and twixt her teats, with favour did install the lovely rose, where love his rest receives. the lad that felt the soft and sweet so nigh, drowned in delights, disdains his liberty; and said, let venus seek another son, for here my only matchless mother is; from whose fair orient orbs the drink doth run, that deifies my state with greater bliss. this said, he sucked, my mistress blushing smiled, since love was both her prisoner and her child. an ode now i find thy looks were feignèd, quickly lost, and quickly gainèd; soft thy skin, like wool of wethers, heart unstable, light as feathers, tongue untrusty, subtile-sighted, wanton will, with change delighted, siren pleasant, foe to reason, cupid plague thee for this treason! of thine eyes, i made my mirror, from thy beauty came mine error, all thy words i counted witty, all thy smiles i deemèd pity. thy false tears that me aggrievèd, first of all my trust deceivèd. siren pleasant, foe to reason, cupid plague thee for this treason! feigned acceptance when i askèd, lovely words with cunning maskèd, holy vows but heart unholy; wretched man, my trust was folly! lily white and pretty winking, solemn vows, but sorry thinking. siren pleasant, foe to reason, cupid plague thee for this treason! now i see, o seemly cruel, others warm them at my fuel! wit shall guide me in this durance, since in love is no assurance. change thy pasture, take thy pleasure; beauty is a fading treasure. siren pleasant, foe to reason, cupid plague thee for this treason! prime youth lusts not age still follow, and make white these tresses yellow; wrinkled face for looks delightful shall acquaint the dame despightful; and when time shall eat thy glory, then too late thou wilt be sorry. siren pleasant, foe to reason, cupid plague thee for thy treason! xl resembling none, and none so poor as i, poor to the world, and poor in each esteem, whose first-born loves at first obscured did die, and bred no fame but flame of base misdeem, under the ensign of whose tirèd pen, love's legions forth have masked, by others masked; think how i live wrongèd by ill-tongued men, not master of myself, to all wrongs tasked! oh thou that canst, and she that may do all things, support these languishing conceits that perish! look on their growth; perhaps these silly small things may win this wordly palm, so you do cherish. homer hath vowed, and i with him do vow this, he will and shall revive, if you allow this. licia or poems of love in honor of the admirable and singular virtues of his lady, to the imitation of the best latin poets and others by giles fletcher, ll.d. giles fletcher, ll.d. giles fletcher, author of _licia_, was one of that distinguished family that included richard fletcher, the bishop of london, and his son john fletcher, the dramatist. the two sons of dr. giles fletcher were also men of marked poetic ability: phineas, the author of that extraordinary allegorical poem, _the purple island_; and giles, of _christ's victory and triumph_. there was a strong family feeling in this circle; phineas and giles pay compliments to each other in their verse and show great reverence and tenderness toward the memory of the poetic powers of their father. but giles fletcher the elder was not thought of in his own time as a poet. educated at eton and trinity, cambridge, where he was made ll.d. in 1581, a member of parliament in '85, employed in many public services at home and abroad during a career that lasted until 1611, in which year dr. fletcher died at the age of seventy-two, he was known as a man of action, a man for public responsibility, rather than as the retired scholar or riming courtier. most important among the foreign embassages undertaken by fletcher was the one to russia. the results were of great import to england, commercially and otherwise, but the book he wrote on his return was, for political reasons, suppressed. it happened that the years of enforced idleness that followed the suppression of this book came in the time when the young sonneteers at london were all busy. he returned from his embassage in '89; the book was suppressed in '91. _licia_ was published in '93. the writing of _licia_ was "rather an effect than a cause of idleness;" he did it "only to try his humor," he says apologetically in the dedicatory addresses. "whereas my thoughts and some reasons drew me rather to have dealt in causes of greater weight, yet the present jar of this disagreeing age drives me into a fit so melancholy, as i had only leisure to grow passionate." in case wise heads should think him to be treating "an idle subject and so frivolous," or that it has been "vainly handled and so odious," he sets forth the nobility of his view. "howsoever, love in this age hath behaved himself in that loose manner as it is counted a disgrace to give him but a kind look, yet i take the passion in itself to be of that honor and credit, as it is a perfect resemblance of the greatest happiness, and rightly valued at his just price (in a mind that is sincerely and truly amorous), an affection of greatest virtue and able of himself to eternise the meanest vassal." "for love," he declares, "is a goddess (pardon me though i speak like a poet) not respecting the contentment of him that loves, but the virtues of the beloved; satisfied with wondering, fed with admiration; respecting nothing but his lady's worthiness; made as happy by love as by all favors; chaste by honor; far from violence; respecting but one, and that one in such kindness, honesty, truth, constancy, and honor, as were all the world offered to make a change, yet the boot were too small and therefore bootless. this is love, and far more than this, which i know a vulgar head, a base mind, an ordinary conceit, a common person will not nor cannot have. thus do i commend that love wherewith in these poems i have honoured the worthy licia." the sonnet-cycle is inscribed "to the worthie kinde wise and virtuous ladie, the ladie mollineux; wife to the right worshipful sir richard mollineux knight." nothing is known of this lady, except that her family may possibly have been very distantly connected with that of fletcher. what the poet's feeling was towards his patroness he defines sufficiently. "now in that i have written love sonnets, if any man measure my affection by my style, let him say i am in love.... yet take this by the way; though i am so liberal to grant thus much, a man may write of love and not be in love, as well as of husbandry and not go to the plough, or of witches and be none, or of holiness and be flat profane." what "shadowings" the poet may intend he refuses to confide to us. "if thou muse what my licia is, take her to be some diana, at the least chaste; or some minerva; no venus, fairer far. it may be she is learning's image, or some heavenly wonder, which the precisest may not dislike: perhaps under that name i have shadowed discipline. it may be i mean that kind courtesy which i found at the patroness of these poems. it may be some college; it may be my conceit, and portend nothing." it is evident then that the patroness herself is not the real person behind the poetic title. he therefore dedicates _licia_ to lady molineux, not because the sonnets themselves are addressed to her, but because he has received "favours undeserved" at her hands and those of "wise sir richard" for which he "wants means to make recompence," and therefore in the meantime he begs her to accept this. "if thou like it," he says to the reader, "take it, and thank the worthy lady mollineux, for whose sake thou hast it; worthy, indeed, and so not only reputed by me in private affection of thankfulness but so equally to be esteemed by all that know her. for if i had not received of her ... those unrequitable favours, i had not thus idly toyed." a warm admirer of fletcher has expressed his opinion that _licia_ "sparkles with brilliants of the first water." a more temperate judgment is that of another, who says that he "took part without discredit in the choir of singers who were men of action too." _licia_ is what a typical sonnet-cycle ought to be, a delicate and almost intangible thread of story on which are strung the separate sonnet-pearls. in this case the jewels have a particular finish. fletcher has adopted the idea of a series of quatrains, often extending the number to four, and a concluding couplet, which he seems fond of utilising to give an epigrammatic finish to the ingenious incident he so often makes the subject of the sonnet. he is fully in the spirit of the italian mode, however, acknowledging in his title page his indebtedness to poets of other nationalities than his own. to licia the wise, kind, virtuous, and fair bright matchless star, the honour of the sky, from whose clear shine heaven's vault hath all his light, i send these poems to your graceful eye; do you but take them, and they have their right. i build besides a temple to your name, wherein my thoughts shall daily sing your praise; and will erect an altar for the same, which shall your virtues and your honour raise. but heaven the temple of your honour is, whose brasen tops your worthy self made proud; the ground an altar, base for such a bliss with pity torn, because i sighed so loud. and since my skill no worship can impart, make you an incense of my loving heart. sad all alone not long i musing sat, but that my thoughts compelled me to aspire, a laurel garland in my hand i gat; so the muses i approached the nigher. my suite was this, a poet to become, to drink with them, and from the heavens be fed. phoebus denied, and sware there was no room, such to be poets as fond fancy led. with that i mourned and sat me down to weep. venus she smiled, and smiling to me said, "come, drink with me, and sit thee still and sleep." this voice i heard; and venus i obeyed. that poison sweet hath done me all this wrong, for now of love must needs be all my song. ii weary was love and sought to take his rest, he made his choice, upon a virgin's lap; and slyly crept from thence unto her breast, where still he meant to sport him in his hap; the virgin frowned like phoebus in a cloud; "go pack, sir boy, here is no room for such, my breast no wanton foolish boy must shroud." this said, my love did give the wag a touch; then as the foot that treads the stinging snake hastes to be gone, for fear what may ensue, so love my love was forced for to forsake, and for more speed, without his arrows flew. "pardon," he said, "for why? you seemed to me my mother venus in her pride to be." iii the heavens beheld the beauty of my queen, and all amazed, to wonder thus began: "why dotes not jove, as erst we all have seen, and shapes himself like to a seemly man? mean are the matches which he sought before, like bloomless buds, too base to make compare, and she alone hath treasured beauty's store, in whom all gifts and princely graces are." cupid replied: "i posted with the sun to view the maids that livèd in those days, and none there was that might not well be won, but she, most hard, most cold, made of delays." heavens were deceived, and wrong they do esteem, she hath no heat, although she living seem. iv love and my love did range the forest wild, mounted alike, upon swift coursers both. love her encountered, though he was a child. "let's strive," saith he, whereat my love was wroth, and scorned the boy, and checked him with a smile. "i mounted am, and armèd with my spear; thou art too weak, thyself do not beguile; i could thee conquer if i naked were." with this love wept, and then my love replied: "kiss me, sweet boy, so weep my boy no more." thus did my love, and then her force she tried; love was made ice, that fire was before. a kiss of hers, as i, poor soul, do prove, can make the hottest freeze and coldest love. v love with her hair my love by force hath tied, to serve her lips, her eyes, her voice, her hand; i smiled for joy, when i the boy espied to lie unchained and live at her command. she if she look, or kiss, or sing, or smile, cupid withal doth smile, doth sing, doth kiss, lips, hands, voice, eyes, all hearts that may beguile, because she scorns all hearts but only this. venus for this in pride began to frown that cupid, born a god, enthralled should be. she in disdain her pretty son threw down, and in his place, with love she chainèd me. so now, sweet love, though i myself be thrall, not her a goddess, but thyself i call. vi my love amazed did blush herself to see, pictured by art, all naked as she was. "how could the painter know so much by me, or art effect what he hath brought to pass? it is not like he naked me hath seen, or stood so nigh for to observe so much." no, sweet; his eyes so near have never been, nor could his hands by art have cunning such; i showed my heart, wherein you printed were, you, naked you, as here you painted are; in that my love your picture i must wear, and show't to all, unless you have more care. then take my heart, and place it with your own; so shall you naked never more be known. vii death in a rage assaulted once my heart with love of her, my love that doth deny. i scorned his force, and wished him to depart, i heartless was, and therefore could not die. i live in her, in her i placed my life, she guides my soul, and her i honour must. nor is this life but yet a living strife, a thing unmeet, and yet a thing most just. cupid enraged did fly to make me love, my heart lay guarded with those burning eyes the sparks whereof denied him to remove; so conquered now, he like a captive lies; thus two at once by love were both undone, my heart not loved, and armless venus' son. viii hard are the rocks, the marble, and the steel, the ancient oak with wind and weather tossed; but you, my love, far harder do i feel than flint, or these, or is the winter's frost. my tears too weak, your heart they cannot move; my sighs, that rock, like wind it cannot rent; too tiger-like you swear you cannot love; but tears and sighs you fruitless back have sent. the frost too hard, not melted with my flame, i cinders am, and yet you feel no heat. surpass not these, sweet love, for very shame, but let my tears, my vows, my sighs entreat; then shall i say as by trial find; these all are hard, but you, my love, are kind. ix love was laid down, all weary fast asleep, whereas my love his armor took away; the boy awaked, and straight began to weep, but stood amazed, and knew not what to say. "weep not, my boy," said venus to her son, "thy weapons none can wield, but thou alone; licia the fair, this harm to thee hath done, i saw her here, and presently was gone; she will restore them, for she hath no need to take thy weapons where thy valour lies; for men to wound the fates have her decreed, with favour, hands, with beauty, and with eyes." no, venus, no: she scorns them, credit me; but robbed thy son that none might care for thee. x a painter drew the image of the boy, swift love, with wings all naked, and yet blind; with bow and arrows, bent for to destroy; i blamed his skill, and fault i thus did find: "a needless task i see thy cunning take; misled by love, thy fancy thee betrayed; love is no boy, nor blind, as men him make, nor weapons wears, whereof to be affrayed; but if thou, love, wilt paint with greatest skill a love, a maid, a goddess, and a queen; wonder and view at licia's picture still, for other love the world hath never seen; for she alone all hope all comfort gives; men's hearts, souls, all, led by her favour lives." xi in ida vale three queens the shepherd saw, queens of esteem, divine they were all three, a sight of worth. but i a wonder shaw, their virtues all in one alone to be. licia the fair, surpassing venus' pride, (the matchless queen, commander of the gods, when drawn with doves she in her pomp doth ride) hath far more beauty, and more grace by odds juno, jove's wife, unmeet to make compare, i grant a goddess, but not half so mild; minerva wise, a virtue, but not rare; yet these are mean, if that my love but smiled. she them surpasseth, when their prides are full as far as they surpass the meanest trull. xii i wish sometimes, although a worthless thing, spurred by ambition, glad to aspire, myself a monarch, or some mighty king, and then my thoughts do wish for to be higher. but when i view what winds the cedars toss, what storms men feels that covet for renown, i blame myself that i have wished my loss, and scorn a kingdom, though it give a crown. ah licia, though the wonder of my thought, my heart's content, procurer of my bliss, for whom a crown i do esteem as naught, as asia's wealth, too mean to buy a kiss! kiss me, sweet love, this favor do for me; then crowns and kingdoms shall i scorn for thee. xiii enamored jove commanding did entreat cupid to wound my love, which he denied, and swore he could not for she wanted heat and would not love, as he full oft had tried. jove in a rage, impatient this to hear, replied with threats; "i'll make you to obey!" whereat the boy did fly away for fear to licia's eyes, where safe intrenched he lay. then jove he scorned, and dared him to his face, for now more safe than in the heavens he dwelled, nor could jove's wrath do wrong to such a place where grace and honour have their kingdom held. thus in the pride and beauty of her eyes the seely boy the greatest god defies. xiv my love lay sleeping, where birds music made, shutting her eyes, disdainful of the light; the heat was great but greater was the shade which her defended from his burning sight. this cupid saw, and came a kiss to take, sucking sweet nectar from her sugared breath; she felt the touch, and blushed, and did awake, seeing t'was love, which she did think was death, she cut his wings and causèd him to stay, making a vow, he should not thence depart, unless to her the wanton boy could pay the truest, kindest and most loving heart. his feathers still she usèd for a fan, till by exchange my heart his feathers won. xv i stood amazed, and saw my licia shine, fairer than phoebus, in his brightest pride, set forth in colors by a hand divine, where naught was wanting but a soul to guide. it was a picture, that i could descry, yet made with art so as it seemed to live, surpassing fair, and yet it had no eye, whereof my senses could no reason give. with that the painter bid me not to muse; "her eyes are shut, but i deserve no blame; for if she saw, in faith, it could not choose but that the work had wholly been a flame,"- then burn me, sweet, with brightness of your eyes, that phoenix-like from thence i may arise. xvi grant, fairest kind, a kiss unto thy friend! a blush replied, and yet a kiss i had. it is not heaven that can such nectar send whereat my senses all amazed were glad. this done, she fled as one that was affrayed, and i desired to kiss by kissing more; my love she frowned, and i my kissing stayed, yet wished to kiss her as i did before. then as the vine the propping elm doth clasp, loath to depart till both together die, so fold me, sweet, until my latest gasp, that in thy arms to death i kissed may lie. thus whilst i live for kisses i must call; still kiss me, sweet, or kiss me not at all. xvii as are the sands, fair licia, on the shore, or colored flowers, garlands of the spring, or as the frosts not seen, not felt before, or as the fruits that autumn forth doth bring; as twinkling stars, the tinsel of the night, or as the fish that gallop in the seas; as airs each part that still escapes our sight, so are my sighs, controllers of my ease. yet these are such as needs must have an end, for things finite none else hath nature done; only the sighs, which from my heart i send, will never cease, but where they first begun. accept them, sweet, as incense due to thee; for you immortal made them so to be. xviii i swear, fair licia, still for to be thine, by heart, by eyes, by what i held most dear; thou checked mine oath, and said: these were not mine, and that i had no right by them to swear. then by my sighs, my passions, and my tears, my vows, my prayers, my sorrow, and my love, my grief, my joy, my hope, and hopeless fears, my heart is thine, and never shall remove. these are not thine, though sent unto thy view, all else i grant, by right they are thine own; let these suffice that what i swear is true, and more than this if that it could be known. so shall all these though troubles ease my grief; if that they serve to work in thee belief. xix that time, fair licia, when i stole a kiss, from off those lips, where cupid lovely laid, i quaked for cold, and found the cause was this: my life which loved, for love behind me staid. i sent my heart my life for to recall, but that was held, not able to return, and both detained as captives were in thrall, and judged by her, that both by sighs should burn. fair, burn them both, for that they were so bold, but let the altar be within thy heart; and i shall live because my life you hold, you that give life, to every living part; a flame i took whenas i stole the kiss; take you my life, yet can i live with this. xx first did i fear, when first my love began; possessed in fits by watchful jealousy, i sought to keep what i by favour won, and brooked no partner in my love to be. but tyrant sickness fed upon my love, and spread his ensigns, dyed with colour white; then was suspicion glad for to remove, and loving much did fear to lose her quite. erect, fair sweet, the colors thou didst wear; dislodge thy griefs; the short'ners of content; for now of life, not love, is all my fear, lest life and love be both together spent. live but, fair love, and banish thy disease, and love, kind heart, both where and whom thou please. xxi licia my love was sitting in a grove, tuning her smiles unto the chirping songs, but straight she spied where two together strove, each one complaining of the other's wrongs. cupid did cry lamenting of the harm; jove's messenger, thou wrong'st me too too far; use thou thy rod, rely upon the charm; think not by speech my force thou canst debar. a rod, sir boy, were fitter for a child, my weapons oft and tongue and mind you took; and in my wrong at my distress thou smiled, and scorned to grace me with a loving look. speak you, sweet love, for you did all the wrong that broke his arrows, and did bind his tongue. xxii i might have died before my life begun, whenas my father for his country's good the persian's favor and the sophy won and yet with danger of his dearest blood. thy father, sweet, whom danger did beset, escapèd all, and for no other end but only this, that you he might beget, whom heavens decreed into the world to send. then father, thank thy daughter for thy life, and neptune praise that yielded so to thee, to calm the tempest when the storms were rife, and that thy daughter should a venus be. i call thee venus, sweet, but be not wroth; thou art more chaste, yet seas did favor both. xxiii my love was masked, and armèd with a fan, to see the sun so careless of his light, which stood and gazed, and gazing waxèd wan to see a star himself that was more bright. some did surmize she hid her from the sun, of whom in pride she scorned for to be kissed, or feared the harm by him to others done. but these the reason of this wonder missed, nor durst the sun, if that her face were bare in greatest pride, presume to take a kiss. but she more kind did show she had more care than with her eyes eclipse him of his bliss. unmask you, sweet, and spare not; dim the sun; your light's enough, although that his were done. xxiv whenas my love lay sickly in her bed, pale death did post in hope to have a prey; but she so spotless made him that he fled; "unmeet to die," she cried, and could not stay. back he retired, and thus the heavens he told; "all things that are, are subject unto me, both towns, and men, and what the world doth hold; but her fair licia still immortal be." the heavens did grant; a goddess she was made, immortal, fair, unfit to suffer change. so now she lives, and never more shall fade; in earth a goddess, what can be more strange? then will i hope, a goddess and so near, she cannot choose my sighs and prayers but hear. xxv seven are the lights that wander in the skies, and at these seven, i wonder in my love. so see the moon, how pale she doth arise, standing amazed, as though she durst not move; so is my sweet much paler than the snow, constant her looks, these looks that cannot change. mercury the next, a god sweet-tongued we know, but her sweet voice doth wonders speak more strange. the rising sun doth boast him of his pride, and yet my love is far more fair than he. the warlike mars can wieldless weapons guide, but yet that god is far more weak than she. the lovely venus seemeth to be fair, but at her best my love is far more bright. saturn for age with groans doth dim the air, whereas my love with smiles doth give it light. gaze at her brows, where heaven ingrafted is; then sigh, and swear, there is no heaven but this. xxvi i live, sweet love, whereas the gentle wind murmurs with sport in midst of thickest boughs, where loving woodbine doth the harbor bind, and chirping birds do echo forth my vows; where strongest elm can scarce support the vine, and sweetest flowers enameled have the ground; where muses dwell; and yet hereat repine that on the earth so rare a place was found. but winds delight, i wish to be content; i praise the woodbine, but i take no joy; i moan the birds that music thus have spent; as for the rest, they breed but mine annoy. live then, fair licia, in this place alone; then shall i joy though all of these were gone. xxvii the crystal stream wherein my love did swim, melted in tears as partners of my woe; her shine was such as did the fountain dim, the pearl-like fountain whiter than the snow; then like perfume, resolvèd with a heat, the fountain smoked, as if it thought to burn; a wonder strange to see the cold so great, and yet the fountain into smoke to turn. i searched the cause, and found it to be this: she touched the water, and it burned with love. now by her means it purchased hath that bliss, which all diseases quickly can remove. then if by you these streams thus blessèd be, sweet, grant me love, and be not worse to me. xxviii in time the strong and stately turrets fall, in time the rose and silver lilies die, in time the monarchs captive are and thrall, in time the sea and rivers are made dry; the hardest flint in time doth melt asunder; still living fame in time doth fade away; the mountains proud we see in time come under; and earth for age we see in time decay; the sun in time forgets for to retire from out the east where he was wont to rise; the basest thoughts we see in time aspire, and greedy minds in time do wealth despise. thus all, sweet fair, in time must have an end, except thy beauty, virtues, and thy friend. xxix why died i not whenas i last did sleep? o sleep too short that shadowed forth my dear! heavens, hear my prayers, nor thus me waking keep! for this were heaven, if thus i sleeping were. for in that dark there shone a princely light; two milk-white hills, both full of nectar sweet, her ebon thighs, the wonder of my sight, where all my senses with their objects meet,- i pass these sports, in secret that are best, wherein my thoughts did seem alive to be; we both did strive, and weary both did rest; i kissed her still, and still she kissèd me. heavens, let me sleep, and shows my senses feed, or let me wake and happy be indeed! xxx whenas my licia sailèd in the seas, viewing with pride god neptune's stately crown, a calm she made, and brought the merchant ease, the storm she stayed, and checked him with a frown. love at the stern sate smiling and did sing to see how seas had learned for to obey; and balls of fire into the waves did fling; and still the boy full wanton thus did say:- "both poles we burnt whereon the world doth turn, the round of heaven from earth unto the skies; and now the seas we both intend to burn, i with my bow, and licia with her eyes." then since thy force, heavens, earth, nor seas can move, i conquered yield, and do confess i love. xxxi whenas her lute is tunèd to her voice, the air grows proud for honour of that sound, and rocks do leap to show how they rejoice that in the earth such music should be found. whenas her hair more worth, more pale than gold, like silver thread lies wafting in the air, diana-like she looks, but yet more bold; cruel in chase, more chaste and yet more fair. whenas she smiles, the clouds for envy breaks; she jove in pride encounters with a check; the sun doth shine for joy whenas she speaks; thus heaven and earth do homage at her beck. yet all these graces, blots, not graces are, if you, my love, of love do take no care. xxxii years, months, days, hours, in sighs i sadly spend; i black the night wherein i sleepless toss; i love my griefs yet wish them at an end; thus time's expense increaseth but my loss. i musing stand and wonder at my love, that in so fair should be a heart of steel; and then i think my fancy to remove, but then more painful i my passions feel; thus must i love, sweet fair, until i die, and your unkindness doth my love increase. i conquered am, i can it not deny; my life must end, yet shall my love not cease. then heavens, make licia fair most kind to me, or with my life my loss may finished be! xxxiii i wrote my sighs, and sent them to my love; i praised that fair that none enough could praise; but plaints nor praises could fair licia move; above my reach she did her virtues raise, and thus replied: "false scrawl, untrue thou art, to feign those sighs that nowhere can be found; for half those praises came not from his heart whose faith and love as yet was never found. thy master's life, false scrawl shall be thy doom; because he burns, i judge thee to the flame; both your attempts deserve no better room." thus at her word we ashes both became. believe me, fair, and let my paper live; or be not fair, and so me freedom give. xxxiv pale are my looks, forsaken of my life, cinders my bones, consumèd with thy flame, floods are my tears, to end this burning strife, and yet i sigh for to increase the same; i mourn alone because alone i burn; who doubts of this, then let him learn to love; her looks cold ice into a flame can turn, as i distressèd in myself do prove. respect, fair licia, what my torments are; count but the tithe both of my sighs and tears; see how my love doth still increase my care, and care's increase my life to nothing wears. send but a sigh my flame for to increase, or lend a tear and cause it so to cease. xxxv whenas i wish, fair licia, for a kiss from those sweet lips where rose and lilies strive, straight do mine eyes repine at such a bliss, and seek my lips thereof for to deprive; whenas i seek to glut mine eyes by sight, my lips repine and call mine eyes away; thus both contend to have each other's right, and both conspire to work my full decay. o force admired of beauty in her pride, in whose each part such strange effects there be, that all my forces in themselves divide, and make my senses plainly disagree. if all were mine, this envy would be gone; then grant me all, fair sweet, or grant me none! xxxvi hear how my sighs are echoed of the wind; see how my tears are pitied by the rain; feel what a flame possessèd hath my mind; taste but the grief which i possess in vain. then if my sighs the blustering winds surpass, and wat'ry tears the drops of rain exceed, and if no flame like mine nor is nor was, nor grief like that whereon my soul doth feed, relent, fair licia, when my sighs do blow; yield at my tears, that flintlike drops consume; accept the flame that doth my incense show, allow the grief that is my heart's perfume. thus sighs and tears, flame, grief shall plead for me; so shall i pray, and you a goddess be. xxxvii i speak, fair licia, what my torments be, but then my speech too partial do i find; for hardly words can with those thoughts agree, those thoughts that swarm in such a troubled mind. then do i vow my tongue shall never speak nor tell my grief that in my heart doth lie; but cannon-like, i then surcharged do break, and so my silence worse than speech i try. thus speech or none, they both do breed my care; i live dismayed, and kill my heart with grief; in all respects my case alike doth fare to him that wants, and dare not ask relief. then you, fair lucia, sovereign of my heart, read to yourself my anguish and my smart. xxxviii sweet, i protest, and seal it with an oath: i never saw that so my thoughts did please; and yet content displeased i see them wroth to love so much and cannot have their ease. i told my thoughts, my sovereign made a pause, disposed to grant, but willing to delay; they then repined, for that they knew no cause, and swore they wished she flatly would say nay. thus hath my love, my thoughts with treason filled, and 'gainst my sovereign taught them to repine. so thus my treason all my thoughts hath killed, and made fair licia say she is not mine. but thoughts too rash my heart doth now repent; and as you please, they swear, they are content. xxxix fair matchless nymph, respect but what i crave; my thoughts are true, and honour is my love; i fainting die whom yet a smile might save; you gave the wound, and can the hurt remove. those eyes like stars that twinkle in the night, and cheeks like rubies pale in lilies dyed, those ebon hands that darting hath such might that _in_ my soul my love and life divide, accept the passions of a man possessed; let love be loved and grant me leave to live; disperse those clouds that darkened have my rest, and let your heaven a sun-like smile but give! then shall i praise that heaven for such a sun that saved my life, whenas my grief begun. xl my grief begun, fair saint, when first i saw love in those eyes sit ruling with disdain, whose sweet commands did keep a world in awe, and caused them serve your favor to obtain. i stood as one enchanted with a frown, yet smiled to see all creatures serve those eyes, where each with sighs paid tribute to that crown, and thought them gracèd by your dumb replies. but i, ambitious, could not be content till that my service more than sighs made known; and for that end my heart to you i sent to say and swear that, fair, it is your own. then greater graces, licia, do impart, not dumb replies unto a speaking heart. sonnet made upon the two twins, daughters of the lady mollineux, both passing like, and exceeding fair poets did feign that heavens a venus had, matchless herself, and cupid was her son; men sued to these, and of their smiles were glad, by whom so many famous were undone. now cupid mourns that he hath lost his might, and that these two so comely are to see; and venus frowns because they have her right. yet both so like that both shall blameless be; with heaven's two twins for godhead these may strive, and rule a world with least part of a frown; fairer than these two twins are not alive, both conquering queens, and both deserve a crown. my thoughts presage, which time to come shall try, that thousands conquered for their love shall die. xli if, aged charon, when my life shall end, i pass thy ferry and my waftage pay, thy oars shall fall, thy boat and mast shall rend, and through the deep shall be a dry foot-way. for why? my heart with sighs doth breathe such flame that air and water both incensèd be, the boundless ocean from whose mouth they came, for from my heat not heaven itself is free. then since to me thy loss can be no gain, avoid thy harm and fly what i foretell. make thou thy love with me for to be slain, that i with her and both with thee may dwell. thy fact thus, charon, both of us shall bless, thou save thy boat and i my love possess. xlii for if alone thou think to waft my love, her cold is such as can the sea command, and frozen ice shall let thy boat to move, nor can thy forces row it from the land. but if thou friendly both at once shalt take, thyself mayst rest. for why? my sighs will blow. our cold and heat so sweet a thaw shall make, as that thy boat without thy help shall row. then will i sit and glut me on those eyes wherewith my life my eyes could never fill. thus from my boat that comfort shall arise, the want whereof my life and hope did kill. together placed so thou her scorn shalt cross, where if we part thy boat must suffer loss. xliii are those two stars, her eyes, my life's light gone, by which my soul was freèd from all dark? and am i left distressed to live alone, where none my tears and mournful tale shall mark? ah sun, why shine thy looks, thy looks like gold, when horsemen brave thou risest in the east? ah cynthia pale, to whom my griefs i told, why do you both rejoice both man and beast? and i alone, alone that dark possess by licia's absence brighter than the sun, whose smiling light did ease my sad distress, and broke the clouds, when tears like rain begun. heavens, grant that light and so me waking keep, or shut my eyes and rock me fast asleep! xliv cruel fair love, i justly do complain of too much rigor and thy heart unkind, that for mine eyes thou hast my body slain, and would not grant that i should favour find. i looked, fair love, and you my love looked fair, i sighed for love and you for sport did smile. your smiles were such as did perfume the air, and this perfumèd did my heart beguile. thus i confess the fault was in mine eyes, begun with sighs and ended with a flame. i for your love did all the world despise; and in these poems honored have your name. then let your love so with my fault dispense, that all my parts feel not mine eyes' offense. xlv there shone a comet, and it was full west. my thoughts presagèd what it did portend; i found it threatened to my heart unrest, and might in time my joys and comfort end. i further sought and found it was a sun, which day nor night did never use to set. it constant stood when heavens did restless run, and did their virtues and their forces let. the world did muse and wonder what it meant, a sun to shine and in the west to rise; to search the truth, i strength and spirits spent; at length i found it was my licia's eyes. now never after soul shall live in dark, that hath the hap this western sun to mark. xlvi if he be dead, in whom no heart remains, or lifeless be in whom no life is found; if he do pine that never comfort gains, and be distressed that hath his deadly wound; then must i die whose heart elsewhere is clad, and lifeless pass the greedy worms to feed; then must i pine that never comfort had, and be distressed whose wound with tears doth bleed. which if i do, why do i not wax cold? why rest i not like one that wants a heart? why move i still like him that life doth hold, and sense enjoy both of my joy and smart? like niobe queen which made a stone did weep, licia my heart dead and alive doth keep. xlvii 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. xlviii i saw, sweet licia, when the spider ran within your house to weave a worthless web, you present were and feared her with your fan, so that amazèd speedily she fled. she in your house such sweet perfumes did smell, and heard the muses with their notes refined, thus filled with envy, could no longer dwell, but straight returned and at your house repined. then tell me, spider, why of late i saw thee lose thy poison, and thy bowels gone; did these enchant and keep thy limbs in awe, and made thy forces to be small or none? no, no, thou didst by chance my licia see, who for her look minerva seemed to thee. xlix if that i die, fair licia, with disdain, or heartless live surprisèd with thy wrong, then heavens and earth shall accent both my pain, and curse the time so cruel and so long. if you be kind, my queen, as you are fair, and aid my thoughts that still for conquest strive, then will i sing and never more despair, and praise your kindness whilst i am alive. till then i pay the tribute of my tears, to move thy mercy and thy constant truth. respect, fair love, how these with sorrow wears the truest heart unless it find some ruth. then grace me, sweet, and with thy favor raise me, so shall i live and all the world shall praise thee. l ah licia, sigh and say thou art my own; nay, be my own, as you full oft have said. so shall your truth unto the world be known, and i resolved where now i am afraid. and if my tongue eternize can your praise, or silly speech increase your worthy fame, if ought i can, to heaven your worth can raise, the age to come shall wonder at the same. in this respect your love, sweet love, i told, my faith and truth i vowed should be forever. you were the cause if that i was too bold; then pardon this my fault or love me never. but if you frown i wish that none believe me, for slain with sighs i'll die before i grieve thee. li when first the sun whom all my senses serve, began to shine upon this earthly round, the heavens for her all graces did reserve, that pandor-like with all she might abound. apollo placed his brightness in her eyes, his skill presaging and his music sweet. mars gave his force; all force she now defies; venus her smiles wherewith she mars did meet; python a voice, diana made her chaste, ceres gave plenty, cupid lent his bow, thetis his feet, there pallas wisdom placed. with these she queen-like kept a world in awe. yet all these honors deemèd are but pelf, for she is much more worthy of herself. lii o sugared talk, wherewith my thoughts do live! o brows, love's trophy and my senses' shine! o charming smiles, that death or life can give! o heavenly kisses from a mouth divine! o wreaths too strong, and trammels made of hair! o pearls inclosèd in an ebon pale! o rose and lilies in a field most fair, where modest white doth make the red seem pale! o voice whose accents live within my heart! o heavenly hand that more than atlas holds! o sighs perfumed, that can release my smart! o happy they whom in her arms she folds! now if you ask where dwelleth all this bliss, seek out my love and she will tell you this. an ode love, i repent me that i thought my sighs and languish dearly bought. for sighs and languish both did prove that he that languished sighed for love. cruel rigor, foe to state, looks disdainful, fraught with hate, i did blame, but had no cause; love hath eyes, but hath no laws. she was sad and could not choose to see me sigh and sit and muse. we both did love and both did doubt least any should our love find out. our hearts did speak, by sighs most hidden; this means was left, all else forbidden. i did frown her love to try, she did sigh and straight did cry. both of us did sighs believe, yet either grievèd friend to grieve. i did look and then did smile; she left sighing all that while. both were glad to see that change, things in love that are not strange. suspicion, foolish foe to reason, causèd me seek to find some treason. i did court another dame, false in love, it is a shame!- she was sorry this to view, thinking faith was proved untrue. then she swore she would not love one whom false she once did prove. i did vow i never meant from promise made for to relent. the more i said the worse she thought, my oaths and vows were deemed as naught. "false," she said "how can it be, to court another yet love me? crowns and love no partners brook; if she be liked i am forsook. farewell, false, and love her still, your chance was good, but mine was ill. no harm to you, but this i crave, that your new love may you deceive, and jest with you as you have done, for light's the love that quickly won." "kind, and fair-sweet, once believe me; jest i did but not to grieve thee. court i did, but did not love; all my speech was you to prove. words and sighs and what i spent, in show to her, to you were meant. fond i was your love to cross; jesting love oft brings this loss. forget this fault, and love your friend, which vows his truth unto the end." "content," she said, "if this you keep." thus both did kiss, and both did weep. for women long they cannot chide, as i by proof in this have tried. a dialogue betwixt two sea-nymphs doris and galatea concerning polphemus; briefly translated out of lucian the sea-nymphs late did play them on the shore, and smiled to see such sport was new begun, a strife in love, the like not heard before, two nymphs contend which had the conquest won. doris the fair with galate did chide; she liked her choice, and to her taunts replied. doris thy love, fair nymph, that courts thee on this plain, as shepherds say and all the world can tell, is that foul rude sicilian cyclop-swain; a shame, sweet nymph, that he with thee should mell. galatea smile not, fair doris, though he foul do seem, let pass thy words that savour of disgrace; he's worth my love, and so i him esteem, renowned by birth, and come of neptune's race, neptune that doth the glassy ocean tame, neptune, by birth from mighty jove which came. doris i grant an honour to be neptune's child, a grace to be so near with jove allied. but yet, sweet nymph, with this be not beguiled; where nature's graces are by looks decried, so foul, so rough, so ugly as a clown, and worse than this, a monster with one eye! foul is not gracèd, though it wear a crown, but fair is beauty, none can that deny. galatea nor is he foul or shapeless as you say, or worse; for that he clownish seems to be, rough, satyr-like, the better he will play, and manly looks the fitter are for me. his frowning smiles are gracèd by his beard, his eye-light, sun-like, shrouded is in one. this me contents, and others make afeard. he sees enough, and therefore wanteth none. doris nay, then i see, sweet nymph, thou art in love, and loving, dotes; and doting, dost commend foul to be fair; this oft do lovers prove; i wish him fairer, or thy love an end. galatea doris, i love not, yet i hardly bear disgraceful terms, which you have spoke in scorn. you are not loved; and that's the cause i fear; for why? my love of jove himself was born. feeding his sheep of late amidst this plain, whenas we nymphs did sport us on the shore, he scorned you all, my love for to obtain; that grieved your hearts; i knew as much before. nay, smile not, nymphs, the truth i only tell, for few can brook that others should excel. doris should i envy that blind did you that spite? or that your shape doth please so foul a groom? the shepherd thought of milk, you looked so white; the clown did err, and foolish was his doom. your look was pale, and so his stomach fed; but far from fair, where white doth want his red. galatea though pale my look, yet he my love did crave, and lovely you, unliked, unloved i view; it's better far one base than none to have; your fair is foul, to whom there's none will sue. my love doth tune his love unto his harp. his shape is rude, but yet his wit is sharp. doris leave off, sweet nymph, to grace a worthless clown. he itched with love, and then did sing or say; the noise was such as all the nymphs did frown, and well suspected that some ass did bray. the woods did chide to hear this ugly sound the prating echo scorned for to repeat; this grisly voice did fear the hollow ground, whilst artless fingers did his harpstrings beat. two bear-whelps in his arms this monster bore, with these new puppies did this wanton play; their skins was rough but yet your loves was more; he fouler was and far more fierce than they. i cannot choose, sweet nymph, to think, but smile that some of us thou fear'st will thee beguile. galatea scorn not my love, until it can be known that you have one that's better of your own. doris i have no love, nor if i had, would boast; yet wooed have been by such as well might speed: but him to love, the shame of all the coast, so ugly foul, as yet i have no need. now thus we learn what foolish love can do, to think him fair that's foul and ugly too. to hear this talk, i sat behind an oak, and marked their words and penned them as they spoke. ad lectorem, distichon cujusdam de autore lascivi quaeres fuerit cur carminis autor: carmine lascivus, mente pudicus erat. a lover's maze true are my thoughts, my thoughts that are untrue, blind are my eyes, my eyes that are not blind, new is my love, my love that is not new, kind is that fair, that fair that is not kind. thus eyes and thoughts, that fairest fair, my love, blind and untrue, unkind, unconstant prove. true are my thoughts because they never flit, untrue my thoughts because they me betrayed; blind are my eyes because in clouds i sit, not blind my eyes because i looks obeyed. thus eyes and thoughts, my dearest fair may view in sight, in love, not blind, nor yet untrue. new is my love because it never dies, old is my love because it ever lives; kind is that fair because it hate denies, unkind that fair because no hope it gives. thus new my love, and still that fair unkind, renews my love, and i no favour find. sweet are my dreams, my dreams that are not sweet, long are the nights, the nights that are not long, meet are the pangs, these pangs that are unmeet, wronged is my heart, my heart that hath no wrong. thus dreams, and night, my heart, my pangs, and all in taste, in length, conspire to work my fall. sweet are my dreams because my love they show, unsweet my dreams because but dreams they are; long are the nights because no help i know, meet are the nights because they end my care. thus dreams and nights wherein my love take sport, are sweet, unsweet, are long, and yet too short. meet are my pangs because i was too bold, unmeet my pangs because i loved so well; wronged was my heart because my grief it told, not wronged. for why? my grief it could not tell. thus you my love unkindly cause this smart, that will not love to ease my pangs and heart. proud is her look, her look that is not proud, done all my days, my days that are not done, loud are my sighs, my sighs that are not loud, begun my death, my death not yet begun. thus looks and days and sighs and death might move so kind, so fair, to give consent to love. proud is her look because she scorns to see, not proud her look for none dare say so much; done are my days because they hapless be, not done my days because i wish them such. thus looks and days increase this loving strife. not proud, nor done, nor dead, nor giving life. loud are my sighs because they pierce the sky, not loud my sighs because they are not heard; my death begun because i artless cry, but not begun because i am debarred. thus sighs and death my heart no comfort give; both life deny, and both do make me live. bold are her smiles, her smiles that are not bold, wise are her words, those words that are not wise, cold are her lips, those lips that are not cold, ice are those hands, those hands that are not ice. thus smiles and words, her lips, her hands, and she, bold, wise, cold, ice, love's cruel torments be. bold are her smiles, because they anger slay, not bold her smiles because they blush so oft; wise are her words because they wonders say, not wise her words because they are not soft. thus smiles and words, so cruel and so bold, so blushing wise, my thoughts in prison hold. cold are her lips because they breathe no heat, not cold her lips because my heart they burn; ice are her hands because the snow's so great, not ice her hands that all to ashes turn. thus lips and hands cold ice my sorrow brew; hands, warm white snow and lips cold cherry-red. small was her waist, the waist that was not small, gold was her hair, the hair that was not gold, tall was her shape, the shape that was not tall; folding the arms, the arms that did not fold. thus hair and shape, those folding arms and waist, did make me love, and loving made me waste. small was her waist, because i could it span, not small her waist because she wanted all; gold was her hair because a crown it wan, not gold her hair because it was more pale. thus smallest waist, the greatest waste doth make, and finest hair most fast a lover take. tall was her shape because she touched the sky, not tall her shape because she comely was; folding her arms because she hearts could tie, not folded arms because all bands they pass. thus shape and arms with love my heart did ply, that hers i am, and must be till i die. sad was her joy, her joy that was not sad, short was her stay, her stay that was not short, glad was her speech, her speech that was not glad, sporting those toys, those toys that were not sport. thus was my heart with joy, speech, toys and stay, possessed with love, and so stol'n quite away. sad was her joy because she did respect, not sad her joy because her joy she had, short was her stay because to small effect, long was her stay because i was so sad. thus joy and stay, both crossed a lover's sport, the one was sad, the other too too short. glad was her speech because she spake her mind, not glad her speech because afraid to speak; sporting her toys because my love was kind, not toys in sport because my heart they break. thus speech and toys my love began in jest; sweet, yield to love, and make thy servant blest. tread you the maze, sweet love, that i have run, mark but the steps which i imprinted have; end but your love whereas my thoughts begun; so shall i joy and you a servant have. if not, sweet love, then this my suit deny; so shall you live, and so your servant die. an elegy i down in a bed and on a bed of down, love, she, and i to sleep together lay; she like a wanton kissed me with a frown, sleep, sleep, she said, but meant to steal away; i could not choose but kiss, but wake, but smile, to see how she thought us two to beguile. she feigned a sleep, i waked her with a kiss; a kiss to me she gave to make me sleep; if i did wrong, sweet love, my fault was this, in that i did not you thus waking keep. "then kiss me, sweet, that so i sleep may take, or let me kiss to keep you still awake." the night drew on and needs she must be gone; she wakèd love, and bid him learn to wait; she sighed, she said, to leave me there alone, and bid love stay but practise no deceit. love wept for grief, and sighing made great moan, and could not sleep nor stay if she were gone. "then stay, sweet love;" a kiss with that i gave; she could not stay, but gave my kiss again; a kiss was all that i could get or crave, and with a kiss she bound me to remain. "ah licia," still i in my dreams did cry, "come, licia, come, or else my heart will die." ii distance of place my love and me did part, yet both did swear we never would remove; in sign thereof i bid her take my heart, which did, and doth, and can not choose but love. thus did we part in hope to meet again, where both did vow most constant to remain. a she there was that passed betwixt us both, by whom each knew how other's cause did fare; for men to trust men in their love are loth; thus had we both of love a lover's care. haply he seeks his sorrows to renew, that for his love doth make another sue. by her a kiss, a kiss to me she sent. a kiss for price more worth than purest gold. she gave it her, to me the kiss was meant; a she to kiss, what harm if she were bold? happy those lips that had so sweet a kiss, for heaven itself scarce yields so sweet a bliss! this modest she, blushing for shame of this, or loth to part from that she liked so well, did play false play, and gave me not the kiss; yet my love's kindness could not choose to tell. then blame me not, that kissing sighed and swore i kissed but her whom you had kissed before. sweet, love me more, and blame me not, sweet love; i kissed those lips, yet harmless i do vow; scarce would my lips from off those lips remove, for still methought, sweet fair, i kissèd you. and thus, kind love, the sum of all my bliss was but begun and ended in a kiss. then send me more, but send them by your friend; kiss none but her, nor her, nor none at all. beware by whom such treasures you do send, i must them lose except i for them call. and love me, dear, and still still kissing be; both like and love, but none, sweet love, but me. iii if sad complaint would show a lover's pain, or tears express the torments of my heart, if melting sighs would ruth and pity gain, or true laments but ease a lover's smart; then should my plaints the thunder's noise surmount, and tears like seas should flow from out my eyes; then sighs like air should far exceed all count, and true laments with sorrow dim the skies. but plaints and tears, laments and sighs i spend, yet greater torments do my heart destroy; i could all these from out my heart still send, if after these i might my love enjoy. but heavens conspire, and heavens i must obey, that seeking love i still must want my ease; for greatest joys are tempered with delay, things soon obtained do least of all us please. my thoughts repine and think the time too long, my love impatient wisheth to obtain; i blame the heavens that do me all this wrong to make me loved and will not ease my pain. no pain like this, to love and not enjoy; no grief like this, to mourn and not be heard; no time so long as that which breeds annoy; no hell like this, to love and be deferred! but heaven shall stand and earth inconstant fly, the sun shall freeze and ice inconstant burn, the mountains flow and all the earth be dry, ere time shall force my loving thoughts to turn. do you resolve, sweet love, to do the same, say that you do, and seal it with a kiss. then shall our truths the heavens' unkindness blame that can not hurt yet show their spite in this. the silly 'prentice bound for many years, doth hope that time his service will release; the town beseiged that lives in midst of fears, doth hope in time the cruel wars will cease. the toiling plough-man sings in hope to reap, the tosséd bark expecteth for a shore; the boy at school to be at play doth leap, and straight forgets the fear he had before. if those by hope do joy in their distress, and constant are in hope to conquer time, then let not hope in us, sweet friend, be less, and cause our love to wither in the prime. let me conspire and time will have an end, so both of us in time shall have a friend. finis. printed by ballantyne, hanson & co., london & edinburgh. elizabethan sonnet-cycles edited by martha foote crow kegan paul, trench, trübner and co. paternoster house london w.c. 1897 idea by michael drayton fidessa by bartholomew griffin chloris by william smith idea by michael drayton the true story of the life of michael drayton might be told to vindicate the poetic traditions of the olden time. a child-poet wandering in fay-haunted arden, or listening to the harper that frequented the fireside of polesworth hall where the boy was a petted page, later the honoured almoner of the bounty of many patrons, one who "not unworthily," as tofte said, "beareth the name of the chiefest archangel, singing after this soule-ravishing manner," yet leaving but "five pounds lying by him at his death, which was _satis viatici ad coelum_"--is not this the panorama of a poetic career? but above all, to complete the picture of the ideal poet, he worshipped, and hopelessly, from youth to age the image of one, woman. he never married, and while many patronesses were honoured with his poetic addresses, there was one fair dame to whom he never offered dedicatory sonnet, a silence that is full of meaning. yet the praises of idea, his poetic name for the lady of his admiration and love, are written all over the pages of his voluminous lyrical and chorographical and historical poems, and her very name is quaintly revealed to us. anne goodere was the younger daughter in the noble family where drayton was bred and educated; and one may picture the fair child standing "gravely merry" by the little page to listen to "john hews his lyre," at that ancestral fireside. "where i love, i love for years," said drayton in 1621. as late as 1627, but four years before his death, he writes an elegy of his lady's not coming to london, in which he complains that he has been starved for her short letters and has had to read last year's over again. about the same time he is writing that immortal sonnet, the sixty-first, the one that rossetti, with perhaps something too much of partiality, has declared to be almost, if not quite, the best in the language. the tragedy of a whole life is concentrated in that sonnet, and the heart-pang in it is unmistakable. but drayton had stood as witness to the will of anne's father, by which £1500 was set down for her marriage portion. she was an heiress, he a penniless poet, and what was to be done? about 1590, when drayton was twenty-eight, and anne was probably twenty-one years old, drayton left polesworth hall and came to london. perhaps the very parting was the means of revealing his heart to himself, for it is from near this time that, as he confesses later, he dates the first consciousness of his love. he soon publishes _idea, the shepherd's garland, rowland's sacrifice to the nine muses_, where we first see our poet, in his pastoral-poetic character, carving his "rime of love's idolatry," upon a beechen tree. thirteen stanzas of these pastoral eclogues do not exhaust the catalogue of her beauties; and when he praises the proportion of her shape and carriage, we know that it was not the poet's frenzied eye alone that saw these graces, for dr. john hall, of stratford, who attended her professionally, records in his case-book that she was "beautiful and of gallant structure of body." anne was married about 1595 to sir henry rainsford, who became drayton's friend, host and patron. it is likely that lady rainsford deserved a goodly portion of the praises bestowed upon her beauty. and she need not have been ashamed of the devotion of her knight of poesy; for michael drayton was, like constable and daniel and fletcher, a man good and true, and the chorus of contemporaries that praise his character and his verse is led by pious meres himself, and echoed by jonson. _idea's mirrour, amours in quatorzains_, formed the title under which the sonnet-cycle appeared in 1594. _idea_ was reprinted eight times before 1637, the edition of 1619 being the chief and serving for the foundation of our text. many changes and additions were made by the author in the successive editions; in fact only twenty of the fifty-one "amours" in _idea's mirrour_ escaped the winnowing, while the famous sixty-first appears for the first time in 1619. there is a distinct progress manifest in the subdual of language and form to artistic finish, and while the cycle in its unevenness represents the early and late stages of poetic progress, the more delicate examples of his work show him worthy of the praise bestowed by his latest admirer and critic, "faith, michael drayton bears the bell for numbers airy." it will be noted that, while many rhyme-arrangements are experimented upon, the shakespearean or quatrain-and-couplet form predominates. in the less praiseworthy sonnets he is found to lack grammatical clamping and to allow frequent faults in rhythm, and he toys with the glittering and soulless conceit as much as any; but where his individuality has fullest sway, as in the picturesque arden memory of the fifty-third, the personal reminiscences of the ankor sonnets, and the vivid theatre theme of the forty-seventh, in what main calls that "magical realisation of the spirit of evening" in the thirty-seventh, and above all in the naïve and passionate sixty-first, there is a rude strength that pierces beneath the formalities and touches and moves the heart. drayton, like sidney and daniel and shakespeare, draws freely upon the general thought-storehouse of the italianate sonneteers: time and the transitoriness of beauty, the lover's extremes, the platonic ideas of soul-functions and of love-madness, the phoenix and icarus and all the classic gods, engage his fancy first or last; and no sonnet trifler has been more attracted by the great theme of immortality in verse than he. when honouring idea in the favourite mode he cries "queens hereafter shall be glad to live upon the alms of thy superfluous praise." a late writer holds that years have falsified this prophecy. it is true that lamb valued drayton chiefly as the panegyrist of his native earth, and we would hardly venture to predict the future of our sonneteer; but the fact remains that now three hundred years after his time, his lifelong devotion to the prototype of idea constitutes, as he conventionally asserted it would, his most valid claim to interest, and that the sonnets where this love has found most potent expression mount the nearest to the true note of immortality. to the reader of these sonnets into these loves who but for passion looks, at this first sight here let him lay them by, and seek elsewhere in turning other books, which better may his labour satisfy. no far-fetched sigh shall ever wound my breast; love from mine eye a tear shall never wring; nor in "ah me's!" my whining sonnets drest, a libertine fantasticly i sing. my verse is the true image of my mind, ever in motion, still desiring change; to choice of all variety inclined, and in all humours sportively i range. my muse is rightly of the english strain, that cannot long one fashion entertain. idea i like an adventurous sea-farer am i, who hath some long and dang'rous voyage been, and called to tell of his discovery, how far he sailed, what countries he had seen, proceeding from the port whence he put forth, shows by his compass how his course he steered, when east, when west, when south, and when by north, as how the pole to every place was reared, what capes he doubled, of what continent, the gulfs and straits that strangely he had past, where most becalmed, where with foul weather spent, and on what rocks in peril to be cast: thus in my love, time calls me to relate my tedious travels and oft-varying fate. ii my heart was slain, and none but you and i; who should i think the murder should commit? since but yourself there was no creature by but only i, guiltless of murdering it. it slew itself; the verdict on the view do quit the dead, and me not accessary. well, well, i fear it will be proved by you, the evidence so great a proof doth carry. but o see, see, we need inquire no further! upon your lips the scarlet drops are found, and in your eye the boy that did the murder, your cheeks yet pale since first he gave the wound! by this i see, however things be past, yet heaven will still have murder out at last. iii taking my pen, with words to cast my woe, duly to count the sum of all my cares, i find my griefs innumerable grow, the reck'nings rise to millions of despairs. and thus dividing of my fatal hours, the payments of my love i read and cross; subtracting, set my sweets unto my sours, my joys' arrearage leads me to my loss. and thus mine eyes a debtor to thine eye, which by extortion gaineth all their looks, my heart hath paid such grievous usury, that all their wealth lies in thy beauty's books. and all is thine which hath been due to me, and i a bankrupt, quite undone by thee. iv bright star of beauty, on whose eyelids sit a thousand nymph-like and enamoured graces, the goddesses of memory and wit, which there in order take their several places; in whose dear bosom, sweet delicious love lays down his quiver which he once did bear, since he that blessèd paradise did prove, and leaves his mother's lap to sport him there let others strive to entertain with words my soul is of a braver mettle made; i hold that vile which vulgar wit affords; in me's that faith which time cannot invade. let what i praise be still made good by you; be you most worthy whilst i am most true! v nothing but "no!" and "i!"[a] and "i!" and "no!" "how falls it out so strangely?" you reply. i tell ye, fair, i'll not be answered so, with this affirming "no!" denying "i!" i say "i love!" you slightly answer "i!" i say "you love!" you pule me out a "no!" i say "i die!" you echo me with "i!" "save me!" i cry; you sigh me out a "no!" must woe and i have naught but "no!" and "i!"? no "i!" am i, if i no more can have. answer no more; with silence make reply, and let me take myself what i do crave; let "no!" and "i!" with i and you be so, then answer "no!" and "i!" and "i!" and "no!" [footnote a: the "i" of course equals "aye."] vi how many paltry, foolish, painted things, that now in coaches trouble every street, shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings, ere they be well wrapped in their winding sheet! where i to thee eternity shall give, when nothing else remaineth of these days, and queens hereafter shall be glad to live upon the alms of thy superfluous praise; virgins and matrons reading these my rhymes, shall be so much delighted with thy story, that they shall grieve they lived not in these times, to have seen thee, their sex's only glory. so shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng, still to survive in my immortal song. vii love, in a humour, played the prodigal, and bade my senses to a solemn feast; yet more to grace the company withal, invites my heart to be the chiefest guest. no other drink would serve this glutton's turn, but precious tears distilling from mine eyne, which with my sighs this epicure doth burn, quaffing carouses in this costly wine; where, in his cups, o'ercome with foul excess, straightways he plays a swaggering ruffian's part, and at the banquet in his drunkenness, slew his dear friend, my kind and truest heart. a gentle warning, friends, thus may you see, what 'tis to keep a drunkard company! viii there's nothing grieves me but that age should haste, that in my days i may not see thee old; that where those two clear sparkling eyes are placed, only two loopholes that i might behold; that lovely archèd ivory-polished brow defaced with wrinkles, that i might but see; thy dainty hair, so curled and crispèd now, like grizzled moss upon some agèd tree; thy cheek now flush with roses, sunk and lean; thy lips, with age as any wafer thin! thy pearly teeth out of thy head so clean, that when thou feed'st thy nose shall touch thy chin! these lines that now thou scornst, which should delight thee, then would i make thee read but to despite thee. ix as other men, so i myself do muse why in this sort i wrest invention so, and why these giddy metaphors i use, leaving the path the greater part do go. i will resolve you. i'm a lunatic; and ever this in madmen you shall find, what they last thought of when the brain grew sick, in most distraction they keep that in mind. thus talking idly in this bedlam fit, reason and i, you must conceive, are twain; 'tis nine years now since first i lost my wit. bear with me then though troubled be my brain. with diet and correction men distraught, not too far past, may to their wits be brought. x to nothing fitter can i thee compare than to the son of some rich penny-father, who having now brought on his end with care, leaves to his son all he had heaped together. this new rich novice, lavish of his chest, to one man gives, doth on another spend; then here he riots; yet amongst the rest, haps to lend some to one true honest friend. thy gifts thou in obscurity dost waste: false friends, thy kindness born but to deceive thee; thy love that is on the unworthy placed; time hath thy beauty which with age will leave thee. only that little which to me was lent, i give thee back when all the rest is spent. xi you're not alone when you are still alone; o god! from you that i could private be! since you one were, i never since was one; since you in me, myself since out of me. transported from myself into your being, though either distant, present yet to either; senseless with too much joy, each other seeing; and only absent when we are together. give me my self, and take your self again! devise some means but how i may forsake you! so much is mine that doth with you remain, that taking what is mine, with me i take you. you do bewitch me! o that i could fly from my self you, or from your own self i! to the soul xii that learned father which so firmly proves the soul of man immortal and divine, and doth the several offices define _anima._ gives her that name, as she the body moves. _amor._ then is she love, embracing charity. _animus._ moving a will in us, it is the mind; _mens._ retaining knowledge, still the same in kind. _memoria._ as intellectual, it is memory. _ratio._ in judging, reason only is her name. _sensus._ in speedy apprehension, it is sense. _conscientia._ in right and wrong they call her conscience; _spiritus._ the spirit, when it to god-ward doth inflame: these of the soul the several functions be, which my heart lightened by thy love doth see. to the shadow xiii letters and lines we see are soon defaced metals do waste and fret with canker's rust, the diamond shall once consume to dust, and freshest colours with foul stains disgraced; paper and ink can paint but naked words, to write with blood of force offends the sight; and if with tears, i find them all too light, and sighs and signs a silly hope affords. o sweetest shadow, how thou serv'st my turn! which still shalt be as long as there is sun, nor whilst the world is never shall be done; whilst moon shall shine or any fire shall burn, that everything whence shadow doth proceed, may in his shadow my love's story read. xiv if he, from heaven that filched that living fire, condemned by jove to endless torment be, i greatly marvel how you still go free that far beyond prometheus did aspire. the fire he stole, although of heavenly kind, which from above he craftily did take, of lifeless clods us living men to make he did bestow in temper of the mind. but you broke into heaven's immortal store, where virtue, honour, wit, and beauty lay; which taking thence, you have escaped away, yet stand as free as e'er you did before. yet old prometheus punished for his rape; thus poor thieves suffer when the greater 'scape. his remedy for love xv since to obtain thee nothing me will stead, i have a med'cine that shall cure my love. the powder of her heart dried, when she's dead, that gold nor honour ne'er had power to move; mixed with her tears that ne'er her true love crost, nor at fifteen ne'er longed to be a bride; boiled with her sighs, in giving up the ghost, that for her late deceasèd husband died; into the same then let a woman breathe, that being chid did never word reply; with one thrice married's prayers, that did bequeath a legacy to stale virginity. if this receipt have not the power to win me, little i'll say, but think the devil's in me! an allusion to the phoenix xvi 'mongst all the creatures in this spacious round of the birds' kind, the phoenix is alone, which best by you of living things is known; none like to that, none like to you is found! your beauty is the hot and splend'rous sun; the precious spices be your chaste desire, which being kindled by that heavenly fire, your life, so like the phoenix's begun. yourself thus burnèd in that sacred flame, with so rare sweetness all the heavens perfuming; again increasing as you are consuming, only by dying born the very same. and winged by fame you to the stars ascend; so you of time shall live beyond the end. to time xvii stay, speedy time! behold, before thou pass from age to age, what thou hast sought to see, one in whom all the excellencies be, in whom heaven looks itself as in a glass. time, look thou too in this translucent glass, and thy youth past in this pure mirror see! as the world's beauty in his infancy, what it was then, and thou before it was. pass on and to posterity tell this- yet see thou tell but truly what hath been. say to our nephews that thou once hast seen in perfect human shape all heavenly bliss; and bid them mourn, nay more, despair with thee, that she is gone, her like again to see. to the celestial numbers xviii to this our world, to learning, and to heaven, three nines there are, to every one a nine; one number of the earth, the other both divine; one woman now makes three odd numbers even. nine orders first of angels be in heaven; nine muses do with learning still frequent: these with the gods are ever resident. nine worthy women to the world were given. my worthy one to these nine worthies addeth; and my fair muse, one muse unto the nine. and my good angel, in my soul divine!- with one more order these nine orders gladdeth. my muse, my worthy, and my angel then makes every one of these three nines a ten. to humour xix you cannot love, my pretty heart, and why? there was a time you told me that you would, but how again you will the same deny. if it might please you, would to god you could! what, will you hate? nay, that you will not neither; nor love, nor hate! how then? what will you do? what, will you keep a mean then betwixt either? or will you love me, and yet hate me too? yet serves not this! what next, what other shift? you will, and will not; what a coil is here! i see your craft, now i perceive your drift, and all this while i was mistaken there. your love and hate is this, i now do prove you: you love in hate, by hate to make me love you. xx an evil spirit, your beauty, haunts me still, wherewith, alas, i have been long possessed! which ceaseth not to tempt me to each ill, nor give me once but one poor minute's rest. in me it speaks whether i sleep or wake; and when by means to drive it out i try, with greater torments then it me doth take, and tortures me in most extremity. before my face it lays down my despairs, and hastes me on unto a sudden death; now tempting me to drown myself in tears, and then in sighing to give up my breath. thus am i still provoked to every evil, by this good wicked spirit, sweet angel-devil. xxi a witless gallant a young wench that wooed- yet his dull spirit her not one jot could move- intreated me as e'er i wished his good, to write him but one sonnet to his love. when i as fast as e'er my pen could trot, poured out what first from quick invention came, nor never stood one word thereof to blot; much like his wit that was to use the same. but with my verses he his mistress won, who doated on the dolt beyond all measure. but see, for you to heaven for phrase i run, and ransack all apollo's golden treasure! yet by my troth, this fool his love obtains, and i lose you for all my wit and pains! to folly xxii with fools and children good discretion bears; then, honest people, bear with love and me, nor older yet nor wiser made by years, amongst the rest of fools and children be. love, still a baby, plays with gauds and toys, and like a wanton sports with every feather, and idiots still are running after boys; then fools and children fitt'st to go together. he still as young as when he first was born, nor wiser i than when as young as he; you that behold us, laugh us not to scorn; give nature thanks you are not such as we! yet fools and children sometimes tell in play; some wise in show, more fools indeed than they. xxiii love, banished heaven, in earth was held in scorn, wand'ring abroad in need and beggary; and wanting friends, though of a goddess born, yet craved the alms of such as passèd by. i, like a man devout and charitable, clothèd the naked, lodged this wandering guest; with sighs and tears still furnishing his table with what might make the miserable blest. but this ungrateful for my good desert, enticed my thoughts against me to conspire, who gave consent to steal away my heart, and set my breast, his lodging, on a fire. well, well, my friends, when beggars grow thus bold, no marvel then though charity grow cold. xxiv i hear some say, "this man is not in love!" "who! can he love? a likely thing!" they say. "read but his verse, and it will easily prove!" o, judge not rashly, gentle sir, i pray! because i loosely trifle in this sort, as one that fain his sorrows would beguile, you now suppose me all this time in sport, and please yourself with this conceit the while. ye shallow cens'rers! sometimes, see ye not, in greatest perils some men pleasant be, where fame by death is only to be got, they resolute! so stands the case with me. where other men in depth of passion cry, i laugh at fortune, as in jest to die. xxv o, why should nature niggardly restrain that foreign nations relish not our tongue? else should my lines glide on the waves of rhine, and crown the pyren's with my living song. but bounded thus, to scotland get you forth! thence take you wing unto the orcades! there let my verse get glory in the north, making my sighs to thaw the frozen seas. and let the bards within that irish isle, to whom my muse with fiery wings shall pass, call back the stiff-necked rebels from exile, and mollify the slaughtering gallowglass; and when my flowing numbers they rehearse, let wolves and bears be charmèd with my verse. to despair xxvi i ever love where never hope appears, yet hope draws on my never-hoping care, and my life's hope would die but for despair; my never certain joy breeds ever certain fears. uncertain dread gives wings unto my hope; yet my hope's wings are laden so with fear as they cannot ascend to my hope's sphere, though fear gives them more than a heavenly scope. yet this large room is bounded with despair, so my love is still fettered with vain hope, and liberty deprives him of his scope, and thus am i imprisoned in the air. then, sweet despair, awhile hold up thy head, or all my hope for sorrow will be dead. xxvii is not love here as 'tis in other climes, and differeth it as do the several nations? or hath it lost the virtue with the times, or in this island alt'reth with the fashions? or have our passions lesser power than theirs, who had less art them lively to express? is nature grown less powerful in their heirs, or in our fathers did she more transgress? i am sure my sighs come from a heart as true as any man's that memory can boast, and my respects and services to you, equal with his that loves his mistress most. or nature must be partial in my cause, or only you do violate her laws. xxviii to such as say thy love i overprize, and do not stick to term my praises folly, against these folks that think themselves so wise, i thus oppose my reason's forces wholly: though i give more than well affords my state, in which expense the most suppose me vain which yields them nothing at the easiest rate, yet at this price returns me treble gain; they value not, unskilful how to use, and i give much because i gain thereby. i that thus take or they that thus refuse, whether are these deceivèd then, or i? in everything i hold this maxim still, the circumstance doth make it good or ill. to the senses xxix when conquering love did first my heart assail, unto mine aid i summoned every sense, doubting if that proud tyrant should prevail, my heart should suffer for mine eyes' offence. but he with beauty first corrupted sight, my hearing bribed with her tongue's harmony, my taste by her sweet lips drawn with delight, my smelling won with her breath's spicery, but when my touching came to play his part, the king of senses, greater than the rest, he yields love up the keys unto my heart, and tells the others how they should be blest. and thus by those of whom i hoped for aid, to cruel love my soul was first betrayed. to the vestals xxx those priests which first the vestal fire begun, which might be borrowed from no earthly flame, devised a vessel to receive the sun, being stedfastly opposèd to the same; where with sweet wood laid curiously by art, on which the sun might by reflection beat, receiving strength for every secret part, the fuel kindled with celestial heat. thy blessèd eyes, the sun which lights this fire, my holy thoughts, they be the vestal flame, thy precious odours be my chaste desires, my breast's the vessel which includes the same; thou art my vesta, thou my goddess art, thy hallowed temple only is my heart. to the critics xxxi methinks i see some crooked mimic jeer, and tax my muse with this fantastic grace; turning my papers asks, "what have we here?" making withal some filthy antic face. i fear no censure nor what thou canst say, nor shall my spirit one jot of vigour lose. think'st thou, my wit shall keep the packhorse way, that every dudgeon low invention goes? since sonnets thus in bundles are imprest, and every drudge doth dull our satiate ear, think'st thou my love shall in those rags be drest that every dowdy, every trull doth wear? up to my pitch no common judgment flies; i scorn all earthly dung-bred scarabies. to the river ankor xxxii our floods' queen, thames, for ships and swans is crowned, and stately severn for her shore is praised; the crystal trent for fords and fish renowned, and avon's fame to albion's cliff is raised. carlegion chester vaunts her holy dee; york many wonders of her ouse can tell; the peak, her dove, whose banks so fertile be; and kent will say her medway doth excel. cotswold commends her isis to the thame; our northern borders boast of tweed's fair flood; our western parts extol their wilis' fame; and the old lea brags of the danish blood. arden's sweet ankor, let thy glory be, that fair idea only lives by thee! to imagination xxxiii whilst yet mine eyes do surfeit with delight, my woful heart imprisoned in my breast, wisheth to be transformèd to my sight, that it like those by looking might be blest. but whilst mine eyes thus greedily do gaze, finding their objects over-soon depart, these now the other's happiness do praise, wishing themselves that they had been my heart, that eyes were heart, or that the heart were eyes, as covetous the other's use to have. but finding nature their request denies, this to each other mutually they crave; that since the one cannot the other be, that eyes could think of that my heart could see. to admiration xxxiv marvel not, love, though i thy power admire, ravished a world beyond the farthest thought, and knowing more than ever hath been taught, that i am only starved in my desire. marvel not, love, though i thy power admire, aiming at things exceeding all perfection, to wisdom's self to minister direction, that i am only starved in my desire. marvel not, love, though i thy power admire, though my conceit i further seem to bend than possibly invention can extend, and yet am only starved in my desire. if thou wilt wonder, here's the wonder, love, that this to me doth yet no wonder prove. to miracle xxxv some misbelieving and profane in love, when i do speak of miracles by thee, may say that thou art flatterèd by me, who only write my skill in verse to prove see miracles, ye unbelieving, see! a dumb-born muse made to express the mind, a cripple hand to write, yet lame by kind, one by thy name, the other touching thee. blind were mine eyes, till they were seen of thine; and mine ears deaf by thy fame healèd be; my vices cured by virtues sprung from thee; my hopes revived which long in grave had lien. all unclean thoughts, foul spirits, cast out in me, only by virtue that proceeds from thee. cupid conjured xxxvi thou purblind boy, since thou hast been so slack to wound her heart whose eyes have wounded me and suffered her to glory in my wrack, thus to my aid i lastly conjure thee! by hellish styx, by which the thund'rer swears, by thy fair mother's unavoided power, by hecate's names, by proserpine's sad tears, when she was wrapt to the infernal bower! by thine own lovèd psyche, by the fires spent on thine altars flaming up to heaven, by all true lovers' sighs, vows, and desires, by all the wounds that ever thou hast given; i conjure thee by all that i have named, to make her love, or, cupid, be thou damned! xxxvii dear, why should you command me to my rest, when now the night doth summon all to sleep? methinks this time becometh lovers best; night was ordained together friends to keep. how happy are all other living things, which though the day disjoin by several flight, the quiet evening yet together brings, and each returns unto his love at night! o thou that art so courteous else to all, why shouldst thou, night, abuse me only thus, that every creature to his kind dost call, and yet 'tis thou dost only sever us? well could i wish it would be ever day, if when night comes, you bid me go away. xxxviii sitting alone, love bids me go and write; reason plucks back, commanding me to stay, boasting that she doth still direct the way, or else love were unable to indite. love growing angry, vexèd at the spleen, and scorning reason's maimèd argument, straight taxeth reason, wanting to invent where she with love conversing hath not been. reason reproachèd with this coy disdain, despiteth love, and laugheth at her folly; and love contemning reason's reason wholly, thought it in weight too light by many a grain. reason put back doth out of sight remove, and love alone picks reason out of love. xxxix some, when in rhyme they of their loves do tell, with flames and lightnings their exordiums paint. some call on heaven, some invocate on hell, and fates and furies, with their woes acquaint. elizium is too high a seat for me, i will not come in styx or phlegethon, the thrice-three muses but too wanton be, like they that lust, i care not, i will none. spiteful erinnys frights me with her looks, my manhood dares not with foul ate mell, i quake to look on hecate's charming books, i still fear bugbears in apollo's cell. i pass not for minerva, nor astrea, only i call on my divine idea! xl my heart the anvil where my thoughts do beat, my words the hammers fashioning my desire, my breast the forge including all the heat, love is the fuel which maintains the fire; my sighs the bellows which the flame increaseth, filling mine ears with noise and nightly groaning; toiling with pain, my labour never ceaseth, in grievous passions my woes still bemoaning; my eyes with tears against the fire striving, whose scorching gleed my heart to cinders turneth; but with those drops the flame again reviving, still more and more it to my torment burneth, with sisyphus thus do i roll the stone, and turn the wheel with damnèd ixion. love's lunacy xli why do i speak of joy or write of love, when my heart is the very den of horror, and in my soul the pains of hell i prove, with all his torments and infernal terror? what should i say? what yet remains to do? my brain is dry with weeping all too long; my sighs be spent in utt'ring of my woe, and i want words wherewith to tell my wrong. but still distracted in love's lunacy, and bedlam-like thus raving in my grief, now rail upon her hair, then on her eye, now call her goddess, then i call her thief; now i deny her, then i do confess her, now do i curse her, then again i bless her. xlii some men there be which like my method well, and much commend the strangeness of my vein; some say i have a passing pleasing strain, some say that in my humour i excel. some who not kindly relish my conceit, they say, as poets do, i use to feign, and in bare words paint out by passions' pain. thus sundry men their sundry minds repeat. i pass not, i, how men affected be, nor who commends or discommends my verse! it pleaseth me if i my woes rehearse, and in my lines if she my love may see. only my comfort still consists in this, writing her praise i cannot write amiss. xliii why should your fair eyes with such sov'reign grace disperse their rays on every vulgar spirit, whilst i in darkness in the self-same place, get not one glance to recompense my merit? so doth the plowman gaze the wand'ring star, and only rest contented with the light, that never learned what constellations are, beyond the bent of his unknowing sight. o why should beauty, custom to obey, to their gross sense apply herself so ill! would god i were as ignorant as they, when i am made unhappy by my skill, only compelled on this poor good to boast! heavens are not kind to them that know them most. xliv whilst thus my pen strives to eternise thee, age rules my lines with wrinkles in my face, where in the map of all my misery is modelled out the world of my disgrace; whilst in despite of tyrannising times, medea-like, i make thee young again, proudly thou scorn'st my world-outwearing rhymes, and murther'st virtue with thy coy disdain; and though in youth my youth untimely perish, to keep thee from oblivion and the grave, ensuing ages yet my rhymes shall cherish, where i intombed my better part shall save; and though this earthly body fade and die, my name shall mount upon eternity. xlv muses which sadly sit about my chair, drowned in the tears extorted by my lines; with heavy sighs whilst thus i break the air, painting my passions in these sad designs, since she disdains to bless my happy verse, the strong built trophies to her living fame, ever henceforth my bosom be your hearse, wherein the world shall now entomb her name. enclose my music, you poor senseless walls, sith she is deaf and will not hear my moans; soften yourselves with every tear that falls, whilst i like orpheus sing to trees and stones, which with my plaint seem yet with pity moved, kinder than she whom i so long have loved. xlvi plain-pathed experience, the unlearnèd's guide, her simple followers evidently shows sometimes what schoolmen scarcely can decide, nor yet wise reason absolutely knows; in making trial of a murder wrought, if the vile actors of the heinous deed near the dead body happily be brought, oft 't hath been proved the breathless corse will bleed. she coming near, that my poor heart hath slain, long since departed, to the world no more, the ancient wounds no longer can contain, but fall to bleeding as they did before. but what of this? should she to death be led, it furthers justice but helps not the dead. xlvii in pride of wit, when high desire of fame gave life and courage to my lab'ring pen, and first the sound and virtue of my name won grace and credit in the ears of men, with those the throngèd theatres that press, i in the circuit for the laurel strove, where the full praise i freely must confess, in heat of blood a modest mind might move; with shouts and claps at every little pause, when the proud round on every side hath rung, sadly i sit unmoved with the applause, as though to me it nothing did belong. no public glory vainly i pursue; all that i seek is to eternise you. xlviii cupid, i hate thee, which i'd have thee know; a naked starveling ever mayst thou be! poor rogue, go pawn thy fascia and thy bow for some poor rags wherewith to cover thee; or if thou'lt not thy archery forbear, to some base rustic do thyself prefer, and when corn's sown or grown into the ear, practice thy quiver and turn crowkeeper; or being blind, as fittest for the trade, go hire thyself some bungling harper's boy; they that are blind are minstrels often made, so mayst thou live to thy fair mother's joy; that whilst with mars she holdeth her old way, thou, her blind son, mayst sit by them and play. xlix thou leaden brain, which censur'st what i write, and sayst my lines be dull and do not move, i marvel not thou feel'st not my delight, which never felt'st my fiery touch of love; but thou whose pen hath like a packhorse served, whose stomach unto gall hath turned thy food, whose senses like poor prisoners, hunger-starved whose grief hath parched thy body, dried thy blood; thou which hast scornèd life and hated death, and in a moment, mad, sober, glad, and sorry; thou which hast banned thy thoughts and curst thy birth with thousand plagues more than in purgatory; thou thus whose spirit love in his fire refines, come thou and read, admire, applaud my lines! l as in some countries far remote from hence, the wretched creature destinèd to die, having the judgment due to his offence, by surgeons begged, their art on him to try, which on the living work without remorse, first make incision on each mastering vein, then staunch the bleeding, then transpierce the corse, and with their balms recure the wounds again, then poison and with physic him restore; not that they fear the hopeless man to kill, but their experience to increase the more: even so my mistress works upon my ill, by curing me and killing me each hour, only to show her beauty's sovereign power. li calling to mind since first my love begun, th'uncertain times, oft varying in their course, how things still unexpectedly have run, as't please the fates by their resistless force; lastly, mine eyes amazedly have seen essex's great fall, tyrone his peace to gain, the quiet end of that long living queen, this king's fair entrance, and our peace with spain, we and the dutch at length ourselves to sever; thus the world doth and evermore shall reel; yet to my goddess am i constant ever, howe'er blind fortune turn her giddy wheel; though heaven and earth prove both to me untrue, yet am i still inviolate to you. lii what dost thou mean to cheat me of my heart, to take all mine and give me none again? or have thine eyes such magic or that art that what they get they ever do retain? play not the tyrant but take some remorse; rebate thy spleen if but for pity's sake; or cruel, if thou can'st not, let us scorse, and for one piece of thine my whole heart take. but what of pity do i speak to thee, whose breast is proof against complaint or prayer? or can i think what my reward shall be from that proud beauty which was my betrayer! what talk i of a heart when thou hast none? or if thou hast, it is a flinty one. another to the river ankor liii clear ankor, on whose silver-sanded shore, my soul-shrined saint, my fair idea lives; o blessèd brook, whose milk-white swans adore thy crystal stream, refinèd by her eyes, where sweet myrrh-breathing zephyr in the spring gently distils his nectar-dropping showers, where nightingales in arden sit and sing amongst the dainty dew-impearlèd flowers; say thus, fair brook, when thou shalt see thy queen, "lo, here thy shepherd spent his wand'ring years and in these shades, dear nymph, he oft hath been; and here to thee he sacrificed his tears." fair arden, thou my tempe art alone, and thou, sweet ankor, art my helicon! liv yet read at last the story of my woe, the dreary abstracts of my endless cares, with my life's sorrow interlinèd so, smoked with my sighs, and blotted with my tears, the sad memorials of my miseries, penned in the grief of mine afflicted ghost, my life's complaint in doleful elegies, with so pure love as time could never boast. receive the incense which i offer here, by my strong faith ascending to thy fame, my zeal, my hope, my vows, my praise, my prayer, my soul's oblations to thy sacred name; which name my muse to highest heavens shall raise, by chaste desire, true love, and virtuous praise. lv my fair, if thou wilt register my love, a world of volumes shall thereof arise; preserve my tears, and thou thyself shall prove a second flood down raining from mine eyes; note but my sighs, and thine eyes shall behold the sunbeams smothered with immortal smoke; and if by thee my prayers may be enrolled, they heaven and earth to pity shall provoke. look thou into my breast, and thou shalt see chaste holy vows for my soul's sacrifice, that soul, sweet maid, which so hath honoured thee, erecting trophies to thy sacred eyes, those eyes to my heart shining ever bright, when darkness hath obscured each other light. an allusion to the eaglets lvi when like an eaglet i first found my love, for that the virtue i thereof would know, upon the nest i set it forth to prove if it were of that kingly kind or no; but it no sooner saw my sun appear, but on her rays with open eyes it stood, to show that i had hatched it for the air, and rightly came from that brave mounting brood; and when the plumes were summed with sweet desire, to prove the pinions it ascends the skies; do what i could, it needsly would aspire to my soul's sun, those two celestial eyes. thus from my breast, where it was bred alone, it after thee is like an eaglet flown. lvii you best discerned of my mind's inward eyes, and yet your graces outwardly divine, whose dear remembrance in my bosom lies, too rich a relic for so poor a shrine; you, in whom nature chose herself to view, when she her own perfection would admire; bestowing all her excellence on you, at whose pure eyes love lights his hallowed fire; even as a man that in some trance hath seen more than his wond'ring utterance can unfold, that rapt in spirit in better worlds hath been, so must your praise distractedly be told; most of all short when i would show you most, in your perfections so much am i lost. lviii in former times, such as had store of coin, in wars at home or when for conquests bound, for fear that some their treasure should purloin, gave it to keep to spirits within the ground; and to attend it them as strongly tied till they returned. home when they never came, such as by art to get the same have tried, from the strong spirit by no means force the same. nearer men come, that further flies away, striving to hold it strongly in the deep. ev'n as this spirit, so you alone do play with those rich beauties heav'n gives you to keep; pity so left to th' coldness of your blood, not to avail you nor do others good. to proverbs lix as love and i late harboured in one inn, with proverbs thus each other entertain. "in love there is no lack," thus i begin: "fair words make fools," replieth he again. "who spares to speak, doth spare to speed," quoth i. "as well," saith he, "too forward as too slow." "fortune assists the boldest," i reply. "a hasty man," quoth he, "ne'er wanted woe!" "labour is light, where love," quoth i, "doth pay." saith he, "light burden's heavy, if far born." quoth i, "the main lost, cast the by away!" "you have spun a fair thread," he replies in scorn. and having thus awhile each other thwarted, fools as we met, so fools again we parted. lx define my weal, and tell the joys of heaven; express my woes and show the pains of hell; declare what fate unlucky stars have given, and ask a world upon my life to dwell; make known the faith that fortune could no move, compare my worth with others' base desert, let virtue be the touchstone of my love, so may the heavens read wonders in my heart; behold the clouds which have eclipsed my sun, and view the crosses which my course do let; tell me, if ever since the world begun so fair a rising had so foul a set? and see if time, if he would strive to prove, can show a second to so pure a love. lxi since there's no help, come let us kiss and part, nay i have done, you get no more of me; and i am glad, yea glad with all my heart, that thus so cleanly i myself can free; shakes hands for ever, cancel all our vows, and when we meet at any time again, be it not seen in either of our brows that we one jot of former love retain. now at the last gasp of love's latest breath, when his pulse failing, passion speechless lies, when faith is kneeling by his bed of death, and innocence is closing up his eyes: now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, from death to life thou might'st him yet recover! lxii when first i ended, then i first began; then more i travelled further from my rest. where most i lost, there most of all i won; pinèd with hunger, rising from a feast. methinks i fly, yet want i legs to go, wise in conceit, in act a very sot, ravished with joy amidst a hell of woe, what most i seem that surest am i not. i build my hopes a world above the sky, yet with the mole i creep into the earth; in plenty i am starved with penury, and yet i surfeit in the greatest dearth. i have, i want, despair, and yet desire, burned in a sea of ice, and drowned amidst a fire. lxiii truce, gentle love, a parley now i crave, methinks 'tis long since first these wars begun; nor thou, nor i, the better yet can have; bad is the match where neither party won. i offer free conditions of fair peace, my heart for hostage that it shall remain. discharge our forces, here let malice cease, so for my pledge thou give me pledge again. or if no thing but death will serve thy turn, still thirsting for subversion of my state, do what thou canst, raze, massacre, and burn; let the world see the utmost of thy hate; i send defiance, since if overthrown, thou vanquishing, the conquest is mine own. fidessa more chaste than kind by b. griffin, gent. bartholomew griffin the author of _fidessa_ has gained undeserved notice from the fact that the piratical printer w. jaggard, included a transcript of one of his sonnets in a volume that he put forth in 1599, under the name of shakespeare. it would be easy to believe, in spite of the doubtful rimes characteristic of _fidessa_, that sonnet three was not griffin's, for no singer in the elizabethan choir was more skilful in turning his voice to other people's melodies than was he. he has been called "a gross plagiary;" yet it must be realised that the sonneteers of that time felt they had a right, almost a duty, to take up the poetic themes used by their models. griffin shows great ingenuity in the manipulation of the stock-themes, and the lover of petrarch and all the young abraham-slenders of the day must have been delighted with the familiar "designs" as they re-appeared in _fidessa_. bartholomew griffin was buried in coventry in 1602. in 1596 he dedicated his "slender work" _fidessa_ to william essex of lamebourne in berkshire. he adds an address to the gentlemen of the inns of court, whom he begs to "censure mildly as protectors of a poor stranger" and "judge the best as encouragers of a young beginner." of the poet little further is known. from the sonnets themselves we learn that fidessa was "of high regard," the child of a beautiful mother and of a renowned father; she sprang in fact from the same root with the poet himself, who writes "gent." after his name on the title-page. she had been kind to him in sickness and had "yielded to each look of his a sweet reply." after giving these slight hints, he pushes forth from the moorings of realism and sets sail on the ocean of the sonneteer's fancy, meeting the usual adventures. his sonnets, while showing versatility and ingenuity, lack spontaneous feeling and have serious defects in form; yet these defects are in part offset by their conversational ease and dramatic vividness. to fidessa i _fertur fortunam fortuna favere ferenti_ fidessa fair, long live a happy maiden! blest from thy cradle by a worthy mother, high-thoughted like to her, with bounty laden, like pleasing grace affording, one and other; sweet model of thy far renownèd sire! hold back a while thy ever-giving hand, and though these free penned lines do nought require, for that they scorn at base reward to stand, yet crave they most for that they beg the least dumb is the message of my hidden grief, and store of speech by silence is increased; o let me die or purchase some relief! bounteous fidessa cannot be so cruel as for to make my heart her fancy's fuel! ii how can that piercing crystal-painted eye, that gave the onset to my high aspiring. yielding each look of mine a sweet reply, adding new courage to my heart's desiring, how can it shut itself within her ark, and keep herself and me both from the light, making us walk in all misguiding dark, aye to remain in confines of the night? how is it that so little room contains it, that guides the orient as the world the sun, which once obscured most bitterly complains it, because it knows and rules whate'er is done? the reason is that they may dread her sight, who doth both give and take away their light. iii venus, and young adonis sitting by her, under a myrtle shade, began to woo him; she told the youngling how god mars did try her, and as he fell to her, so fell she to him. "even thus," quoth she, "the wanton god embraced me!" and then she clasped adonis in her arms; "even thus," quoth she, "the warlike god unlaced me!" as if the boy should use like loving charms. but he, a wayward boy, refused the offer, and ran away the beauteous queen neglecting showing both folly to abuse her proffer, and all his sex of cowardice detecting. o that i had my mistress at that bay, to kiss and clip me till i ran away! iv did you sometimes three german brethren see, rancour 'twixt two of them so raging rife, that th' one could stick the other with his knife? now if the third assaulted chance to be by a fourth stranger, him set on the three, them two 'twixt whom afore was deadly strife made one to rob the stranger of his life; then do you know our state as well as we. beauty and chastity with her were born, both at one birth, and up with her did grow. beauty still foe to chastity was sworn, and chastity sworn to be beauty's foe; and yet when i lay siege unto her heart, beauty and chastity both take her part. v arraigned, poor captive at the bar i stand, the bar of beauty, bar to all my joys; and up i hold my ever trembling hand, wishing or life or death to end annoys. and when the judge doth question of the guilt, and bids me speak, then sorrow shuts up words. yea, though he say, "speak boldly what thou wilt!" yet my confused affects no speech affords, for why? alas, my passions have no bound, for fear of death that penetrates so near; and still one grief another doth confound, yet doth at length a way to speech appear. then, for i speak too late, the judge doth give his sentence that in prison i shall live. vi unhappy sentence, worst of worst of pains, to be in darksome silence, out of ken, banished from all that bliss the world contains, and thrust from out the companies of men! unhappy sentence, worse than worst of deaths, never to see fidessa's lovely face! o better were i lose ten thousand breaths, than ever live in such unseen disgrace! unhappy sentence, worse than pains of hell, to live in self-tormenting griefs alone; having my heart, my prison and my cell, and there consumed without relief to moan! if that the sentence so unhappy be, then what am i that gave the same to me? vii oft have mine eyes, the agents of mine heart, false traitor eyes conspiring my decay, pleaded for grace with dumb and silent art, streaming forth tears my sorrows to allay; moaning the wrong they do unto their lord, forcing the cruel fair by means to yield; making her 'gainst her will some grace t'afford, and striving sore at length to win the field; thus work they means to feed my fainting hope, and strengthened hope adds matter to each thought; yet when they all come to their end and scope they do but wholly bring poor me to nought. she'll never yield although they ever cry, and therefore we must all together die. viii grief-urging guest, great cause have i to plain me, yet hope persuading hope expecteth grace, and saith none but myself shall ever pain me; but grief my hopes exceedeth in this case; for still my fortune ever more doth cross me by worse events than ever i expected; and here and there ten thousand ways doth toss me, with sad remembrance of my time neglected. these breed such thoughts as set my heart on fire, and like fell hounds pursue me to my death; traitors unto their sovereign lord and sire, unkind exactors of their father's breath, whom in their rage they shall no sooner kill than they themselves themselves unjustly spill. ix my spotless love that never yet was tainted, my loyal heart that never can be moved, my growing hope that never yet hath fainted, my constancy that you full well have proved, all these consented have to plead for grace these all lie crying at the door of beauty;- this wails, this sends out tears, this cries apace, all do reward expect of faith and duty; now either thou must prove th' unkindest one, and as thou fairest art must cruelest be, or else with pity yield unto their moan, their moan that ever will importune thee. ah, thou must be unkind, and give denial, and i, poor i, must stand unto my trial! x clip not, sweet love, the wings of my desire, although it soar aloft and mount too high: but rather bear with me though i aspire, for i have wings to bear me to the sky. what though i mount, there is no sun but thee! and sith no other sun, why should i fear? thou wilt not burn me, though thou terrify, and though thy brightness do so great appear. dear, i seek not to batter down thy glory, nor do i envy that thy hope increaseth; o never think thy fame doth make me sorry! for thou must live by fame when beauty ceaseth. besides, since from one root we both did spring, why should not i thy fame and beauty sing? xi winged with sad woes, why doth fair zephyr blow upon my face, the map of discontent? is it to have the weeds of sorrow grow so long and thick, that they will ne'er be spent? no, fondling, no! it is to cool the fire which hot desire within thy breast hath made. check him but once and he will soon retire. o but he sorrows brought which cannot fade! the sorrows that he brought, he took from thee, which fair fidessa span and thou must wear! yet hath she nothing done of cruelty, but for her sake to try what thou wilt bear. come, sorrows, come! you are to me assigned; i'll bear you all, it is fidessa's mind. xii o if my heavenly sighs must prove annoy, which are the sweetest music to my heart, let it suffice i count them as my joy, sweet bitter joy and pleasant painful smart! for when my breast is clogged with thousand cares, that my poor loaded heart is like to break, then every sigh doth question how it fares, seeming to add their strength, which makes me weak; yet for they friendly are, i entertain them, and they too well are pleasèd with their host. but i, had not fidessa been, ere now had slain them; it's for her cause they live, in her they boast; they promise help but when they see her face; they fainting yield, and dare not sue for grace. xiii compare me to the child that plays with fire, or to the fly that dieth in the flame, or to the foolish boy that did aspire to touch the glory of high heaven's frame; compare me to leander struggling in the waves, not able to attain his safety's shore, or to the sick that do expect their graves, or to the captive crying evermore; compare me to the weeping wounded hart, moaning with tears the period of his life, or to the boar that will not feel the smart, when he is stricken with the butcher's knife; no man to these can fitly me compare; these live to die, i die to live in care. xiv when silent sleep had closèd up mine eyes, my watchful mind did then begin to muse; a thousand pleasing thoughts did then arise, that sought by slights their master to abuse. i saw, o heavenly sight! fidessa's face, and fair dame nature blushing to behold it; now did she laugh, now wink, now smile apace, she took me by the hand and fast did hold it; sweetly her sweet body did she lay down by me; "alas, poor wretch," quoth she, "great is thy sorrow; but thou shall comfort find if thou wilt try me. i hope, sir boy, you'll tell me news to-morrow." with that, away she went, and i did wake withal; when ah! my honey thoughts were turned to gall. xv care-charmer sleep! sweet ease in restless misery! the captive's liberty, and his freedom's song! balm of the bruisèd heart! man's chief felicity! brother of quiet death, when life is too too long! a comedy it is, and now an history; what is not sleep unto the feeble mind! it easeth him that toils and him that's sorry; it makes the deaf to hear, to see the blind; ungentle sleep, thou helpest all but me! for when i sleep my soul is vexèd most. it is fidessa that doth master thee; if she approach, alas, thy power is lost! but here she is! see how he runs amain! i fear at night he will not come again. xvi for i have lovèd long, i crave reward; reward me not unkindly, think on kindness; kindness becometh those of high regard; regard with clemency a poor man's blindness; blindness provokes to pity when it crieth; it crieth "give!" dear lady, shew some pity! pity or let him die that daily dieth; dieth he not oft who often sings this ditty? this ditty pleaseth me although it choke me; methinks dame echo weepeth at my moaning, moaning the woes that to complain provoke me. provoke me now no more, but hear my groaning, groaning both day and night doth tear my heart, my heart doth know the cause and triumphs in the smart. xvii sweet stroke,--so might i thrive as i must praise- but sweeter hand that gives so sweet a stroke! the lute itself is sweetest when she plays. but what hear i? a string through fear is broke! the lute doth shake as if it were afraid. o sure some goddess holds it in her hand, a heavenly power that oft hath me dismayed, yet such a power as doth in beauty stand! cease lute, my ceaseless suit will ne'er be heard! ah, too hard-hearted she that will not hear it! if i but think on joy, my joy is marred; my grief is great, yet ever must i bear it; but love 'twixt us will prove a faithful page, and she will love my sorrows to assuage. xviii o she must love my sorrows to assuage. o god, what joy felt i when she did smile, whom killing grief before did cause to rage! beauty is able sorrow to beguile. out, traitor absence! thou dost hinder me, and mak'st my mistress often to forget, causing me to rail upon her cruelty, whilst thou my suit injuriously dost let; again her presence doth astonish me, and strikes me dumb as if my sense were gone; oh, is not this a strange perplexity? in presence dumb, she hears not absent moan; thus absent presence, present absence maketh, that hearing my poor suit, she it mistaketh. xix my pain paints out my love in doleful verse, the lively glass wherein she may behold it; my verse her wrong to me doth still rehearse, but so as it lamenteth to unfold it. myself with ceaseless tears my harms bewail, and her obdurate heart not to be moved; though long-continued woes my senses fail, and curse the day, the hour when first i loved. she takes the glass wherein herself she sees, in bloody colours cruelly depainted; and her poor prisoner humbly on his knees, pleading for grace, with heart that never fainted. she breaks the glass; alas, i cannot choose but grieve that i should so my labour lose! xx great is the joy that no tongue can express! fair babe new born, how much dost thou delight me! but what, is mine so great? yea, no whit less! so great that of all woes it doth acquite me. it's fair fidessa that this comfort bringeth, who sorry for the wrongs by her procured, delightful tunes of love, of true love singeth, wherewith her too chaste thoughts were ne'er inured. she loves, she saith, but with a love not blind. her love is counsel that i should not love, but upon virtues fix a stayèd mind. but what! this new-coined love, love doth reprove? if this be love of which you make such store, sweet, love me less, that you may love me more! xxi he that will cæsar be, or else not be- who can aspire to cæsar's bleeding fame, must be of high resolve; but what is he that thinks to gain a second cæsar's name? whoe'er he be that climbs above his strength, and climbeth high, the greater is his fall! for though he sit awhile, we see at length, his slippery place no firmness hath at all, great is his bruise that falleth from on high. this warneth me that i should not aspire; examples should prevail; i care not, i! i perish must or have what i desire! this humour doth with mine full well agree i must fidessa's be, or else not be! xxii it was of love, ungentle gentle boy! that thou didst come and harbour in my breast; not of intent my body to destroy, and have my soul, with restless cares opprest. but sith thy love doth turn unto my pain, return to greece, sweet lad, where thou wast born. leave me alone my griefs to entertain, if thou forsake me, i am less forlorn; although alone, yet shall i find more ease. then see thou hie thee hence, or i will chase thee; men highly wrongèd care not to displease; my fortune hangs on thee, thou dost disgrace me, yet at thy farewell, play a friendly part; to make amends, fly to fidessa's heart. xxiii fly to her heart, hover about her heart, with dainty kisses mollify her heart, pierce with thy arrows her obdurate heart, with sweet allurements ever move her heart, at midday and at midnight touch her heart, be lurking closely, nestle about her heart, with power--thou art a god!--command her heart, kindle thy coals of love about her heart, yea, even into thyself transform her heart! ah, she must love! be sure thou have her heart; and i must die if thou have not her heart; thy bed if thou rest well, must be her heart; he hath the best part sure that hath her heart; what have i not, if i have but her heart! xxiv striving is past! ah, i must sink and drown, and that in sight of long descrièd shore! i cannot send for aid unto the town, all help is vain and i must die therefore. then poor distressèd caitiff, be resolved to leave this earthly dwelling fraught with care; cease will thy woes, thy corpse in earth involved, thou diest for her that will no help prepare. o see, my case herself doth now behold; the casement open is; she seems to speak;- but she has gone! o then i dare be bold and needs must say she caused my heart to break. i die before i drown, o heavy case! it was because i saw my mistress' face. xxv compare me to pygmalion with his image sotted, for, as was he, even so am i deceived. the shadow only is to me allotted, the substance hath of substance me bereaved. then poor and helpless must i wander still in deep laments to pass succeeding days, welt'ring in woes that poor and mighty kill. o who is mighty that so soon decays! the dread almighty hath appointed so the final period of all worldly things. then as in time they come, so must they go; death common is to beggars and to kings for whither do i run beside my text? i run to death, for death must be the next. xxvi the silly bird that hastes unto the net, and flutters to and fro till she be taken, doth look some food or succour there to get, but loseth life, so much is she mistaken. the foolish fly that fleeth to the flame with ceaseless hovering and with restless flight, is burnèd straight to ashes in the same, and finds her death where was her most delight the proud aspiring boy that needs would pry into the secrets of the highest seat, had some conceit to gain content thereby, or else his folly sure was wondrous great. these did through folly perish all and die: and though i know it, even so do i. xxvii poor worm, poor silly worm, alas, poor beast! fear makes thee hide thy head within the ground, because of creeping things thou art the least, yet every foot gives thee thy mortal wound. but i, thy fellow worm, am in worse state, for thou thy sun enjoyest, but i want mine. i live in irksome night, o cruel fate! my sun will never rise, nor ever shine. thus blind of light, mine eyes misguide my feet, and baleful darkness makes me still afraid; men mock me when i stumble in the street, and wonder how my young sight so decayed. yet do i joy in this, even when i fall, that i shall see again and then see all. xxviii well may my soul, immortal and divine, that is imprisoned in a lump of clay, breathe out laments until this body pine, that from her takes her pleasures all away. pine then, thou loathèd prison of my life, untoward subject of the least aggrievance! o let me die! mortality is rife; death comes by wounds, by sickness, care, and chance. o earth, the time will come when i'll resume thee, and in thy bosom make my resting-place; then do not unto hardest sentence doom me; yield, yield betimes; i must and will have grace! richly shalt thou be entombed, since, for thy grave, fidessa, fair fidessa, thou shalt have! xxix earth, take this earth wherein my spirits languish; spirits, leave this earth that doth in griefs retain you; griefs, chase this earth that it may fade with anguish; spirits, avoid these furies which do pain you! o leave your loathsome prison; freedom gain you; your essence is divine; great is your power; and yet you moan your wrongs and sore complain you, hoping for joy which fadeth every hour. o spirits, your prison loathe and freedom gain you; the destinies in deep laments have shut you of mortal hate, because they do disdain you, and yet of joy that they in prison put you. earth, take this earth with thee to be enclosed; life is to me, and i to it, opposed! xxx weep now no more, mine eyes, but be you drowned in your own tears, so many years distilled. and let her know that at them long hath frowned, that you can weep no more although she willed; this hap her cruelty hath her allotten, who whilom was commandress of each part; that now her proper griefs must be forgotten by those true outward signs of inward smart. for how can he that hath not one tear left him, stream out those floods that are due unto her moaning, when both of eyes and tears she hath bereft him? o yet i'll signify my grief with groaning; true sighs, true groans shall echo in the air and say, fidessa, though most cruel, is most fair! xxxi tongue, never cease to sing fidessa's praise; heart, however she deserve conceive the best; eyes, stand amazed to see her beauty's rays; lips, steal one kiss and be for ever blest; hands, touch that hand wherein your life is closed; breast, lock up fast in thee thy life's sole treasure; arms, still embrace and never be disclosed; feet, run to her without or pace or measure; tongue, heart, eyes, lips, hands, breast, arms, feet, consent to do true homage to your queen, lovely, fair, gentle, wise, virtuous, sober, sweet, whose like shall never be, hath never been! o that i were all tongue, her praise to shew; then surely my poor heart were freed from woe! xxxii sore sick of late, nature her due would have, great was my pain where still my mind did rest; no hope but heaven, no comfort but my grave, which is of comforts both the last and least; but on a sudden, the almighty sent sweet ease to the distressed and comfortless, and gave me longer time for to repent, with health and strength the foes of feebleness; yet i my health no sooner 'gan recover, but my old thoughts, though full of cares, retained, made me, as erst, become a wretched lover of her that love and lovers aye disdained. then was my pain with ease of pain increased, and i ne'er sick until my sickness ceased. xxxiii he that would fain fidessa's image see, my face of force may be his looking-glass. there is she portrayed and her cruelty, which as a wonder through the world must pass. but were i dead, she would not be betrayed; it's i, that 'gainst my will, shall make it known. her cruelty by me must be bewrayed, or i must hide my head and live alone. i'll pluck my silver hairs from out my head, and wash away the wrinkles of my face; closely immured i'll live as i were dead, before she suffer but the least disgrace. how can i hide that is already known? i have been seen and have no face but one. xxxiv fie pleasure, fie! thou cloy'st me with delight; sweet thoughts, you kill me if you lower stray! o many be the joys of one short night! tush, fancies never can desire allay! happy, unhappy thoughts! i think, and have not. pleasure, o pleasing pain! shows nought avail me! mine own conceit doth glad me, more i crave not; yet wanting substance, woe doth still assail me. babies do children please, and shadows fools; shows have deceived the wisest many a time. ever to want our wish, our courage cools. the ladder broken, 'tis in vain to climb. but i must wish, and crave, and seek, and climb; it's hard if i obtain not grace in time. xxxv i have not spent the april of my time, the sweet of youth in plotting in the air, but do at first adventure seek to climb, whilst flowers of blooming years are green and fair. i am no leaving of all-withering age, i have not suffered many winter lours; i feel no storm unless my love do rage, and then in grief i spend both days and hours. this yet doth comfort that my flower lasted until it did approach my sun too near; and then, alas, untimely was it blasted, so soon as once thy beauty did appear! but after all, my comfort rests in this, that for thy sake my youth decayèd is. xxxvi o let my heart, my body, and my tongue bleed forth the lively streams of faith unfeigned, worship my saint the gods and saints among, praise and extol her fair that me hath pained! o let the smoke of my suppressed desire, raked up in ashes of my burning breast, break out at length and to the clouds aspire, urging the heavens to afford me rest; but let my body naturally descend into the bowels of our common mother, and to the very centre let it wend, when it no lower can, her griefs to smother! and yet when i so low do buried lie, then shall my love ascend unto the sky. xxxvii fair is my love that feeds among the lilies, the lilies growing in that pleasant garden where cupid's mount, that well beloved hill is, and where that little god himself is warden. see where my love sits in the beds of spices, beset all round with camphor, myrrh, and roses, and interlaced with curious devices, which her from all the world apart incloses. there doth she tune her lute for her delight, and with sweet music makes the ground to move; whilst i, poor i, do sit in heavy plight, wailing alone my unrespected love, not daring rush into so rare a place, that gives to her, and she to it, a grace. xxxviii was never eye did see my mistress' face, was never ear did hear fidessa's tongue, was never mind that once did mind her grace, that ever thought the travail to be long. when her i see, no creature i behold, so plainly say these advocates of love, that now do fear and now to speak are bold, trembling apace when they resolve to prove. these strange effects do show a hidden power, a majesty all base attempts reproving, that glads or daunts as she doth laugh or lower; surely some goddess harbours in their moving who thus my muse from base attempts hath raised, whom thus my muse beyond compare hath praised. xxxix my lady's hair is threads of beaten gold, her front the purest crystal eye hath seen, her eyes the brightest stars the heavens hold, her cheeks red roses such as seld have been; her pretty lips of red vermillion die, her hand of ivory the purest white, her blush aurora or the morning sky, her breast displays two silver fountains bright the spheres her voice, her grace the graces three: her body is the saint that i adore; her smiles and favours sweet as honey be; her feet fair thetis praiseth evermore. but ah, the worst and last is yet behind, for of a griffon she doth bear the mind! xl injurious fates, to rob me of my bliss, and dispossess my heart of all his hope! you ought with just revenge to punish miss, for unto you the hearts of men are ope. injurious fates, that hardened have her heart, yet make her face to send out pleasing smiles! and both are done but to increase my smart, and entertain my love with falsèd wiles. yet being when she smiles surprised with joy, i fain would languish in so sweet a pain, beseeching death my body to destroy, lest on the sudden she should frown again. when men do wish for death, fates have no force; but they, when men would live, have no remorse. xli the prison i am in is thy fair face, wherein my liberty enchainèd lies; my thoughts, the bolts that hold me in the place; my food, the pleasing looks of thy fair eyes. deep is the prison where i lie enclosed, strong are the bolts that in this cell contain me; sharp is the food necessity imposed, when hunger makes me feed on that which pains me. yet do i love, embrace, and follow fast, that holds, that keeps, that discontents me most; and list not break, unlock, or seek to waste the place, the bolts, the food, though i be lost; better in prison ever to remain, than being out to suffer greater pain. xlii when never-speaking silence proves a wonder, when ever-flying flame at home remaineth, when all-concealing night keeps darkness under, when men-devouring wrong true glory gaineth, when soul-tormenting grief agrees with joy, when lucifer foreruns the baleful night, when venus doth forsake her little boy, when her untoward boy obtaineth sight, when sisyphus doth cease to roll his stone, when otus shaketh off his heavy chain, when beauty, queen of pleasure, is alone, when love and virtue quiet peace disdain; when these shall be, and i not be, then will fidessa pity me. xliii tell me of love, sweet love, who is thy sire, or if thou mortal or immortal be? some say thou art begotten by desire, nourished with hope, and fed with fantasy, engendered by a heavenly goddess' eye, lurking most sweetly in an angel's face. others, that beauty thee doth deify;- o sovereign beauty, full of power and grace!- but i must be absurd all this denying, because the fairest fair alive ne'er knew thee. now, cupid, comes thy godhead to the trying; 'twas she alone--such is her power--that slew me; she shall be love, and thou a foolish boy, whose virtue proves thy power is but a toy. xliv no choice of change can ever change my mind; choiceless my choice, the choicest choice alive; wonder of women, were she not unkind, the pitiless of pity to deprive. yet she, the kindest creature of her kind, accuseth me of self-ingratitude, and well she may, sith by good proof i find myself had died, had she not helpful stood. for when my sickness had the upper hand, and death began to show his awful face, she took great pains my pains for to withstand, and eased my heart that was in heavy case. but cruel now, she scorneth what it craveth; unkind in kindness, murdering while she saveth. xlv mine eye bewrays the secrets of my heart, my heart unfolds his grief before her face; her face--bewitching pleasure of my smart!- deigns not one look of mercy and of grace. my guilty eye of murder and of treason,- friendly conspirator of my decay, dumb eloquence, the lover's strongest reason!- doth weep itself for anger quite away, and chooseth rather not to be, than be disloyal, by too well discharging duty; and being out, joys it no more can see the sugared charms of all deceiving beauty. but, for the other greedily doth eye it, i pray you tell me, what do i get by it? xlvi so soon as peeping lucifer, aurora's star, the sky with golden periwigs doth spangle; so soon as phoebus gives us light from far, so soon as fowler doth the bird entangle; soon as the watchful bird, clock of the morn, gives intimation of the day's appearing; soon as the jolly hunter winds his horn, his speech and voice with custom's echo clearing; soon as the hungry lion seeks his prey in solitary range of pathless mountains; soon as the passenger sets on his way, so soon as beasts resort unto the fountains; so soon mine eyes their office are discharging, and i my griefs with greater griefs enlarging. xlvii i see, i hear, i feel, i know, i rue my fate, my fame, my pain, my loss, my fall, mishap, reproach, disdain, a crown, her hue, cruel, still flying, false, fair, funeral, to cross, to shame, bewitch, deceive, and kill my first proceedings in their flowing bloom. my worthless pen fast chainèd to my will, my erring life through an uncertain doom, my thoughts that yet in lowliness do mount, my heart the subject of her tyranny; what now remains but her severe account of murder's crying guilt, foul butchery! she was unhappy in her cradle breath, that given was to be another's death. xlviii "murder! o murder!" i can cry no longer. "murder! o murder!" is there none to aid me? life feeble is in force, death is much stronger; then let me die that shame may not upbraid me; nothing is left me now but shame or death. i fear she feareth not foul murder's guilt, nor do i fear to lose a servile breath. i know my blood was given to be spilt. what is this life but maze of countless strays, the enemy of true felicity, fitly compared to dreams, to flowers, to plays! o life, no life to me, but misery! of shame or death, if thou must one, make choice of death and both are gone. xlix my cruel fortunes clouded with a frown, lurk in the bosom of eternal night; my climbing thoughts are basely haulèd down; my best devices prove but after-sight. poor outcast of the world's exilèd room, i live in wilderness of deep lament; no hope reserved me but a hopeless tomb, when fruitless life and fruitful woes are spent. shall phoebus hinder little stars to shine, or lofty cedar mushrooms leave to grow? sure mighty men at little ones repine, the rich is to the poor a common foe. fidessa, seeing how the world doth go, joineth with fortune in my overthrow. l when i the hooks of pleasure first devoured, which undigested threaten now to choke me, fortune on me her golden graces showered; o then delight did to delight provoke me! delight, false instrument of my decay, delight, the nothing that doth all things move, made me first wander from the perfect way, and fast entangled me in the snares of love. then my unhappy happiness at first began, happy in that i loved the fairest fair; unhappily despised, a hapless man; thus joy did triumph, triumph did despair. my conquest is--which shall the conquest gain?- fidessa, author both of joy and pain! li work, work apace, you blessed sisters three, in restless twining of my fatal thread! o let your nimble hands at once agree, to weave it out and cut it off with speed! then shall my vexèd and tormented ghost have quiet passage to the elysian rest, and sweetly over death and fortune boast in everlasting triumphs with the blest. but ah, too well i know you have conspired a lingering death for him that loatheth life, as if with woes he never could be tired. for this you hide your all-dividing knife. one comfort yet the heavens have assigned me; that i must die and leave my griefs behind me. lii it is some comfort to the wrongèd man, the wronger of injustice to upbraid. justly myself herein i comfort can, and justly call her an ungrateful maid. thus am i pleased to rid myself of crime and stop the mouth of all-reporting fame, counting my greatest cross the loss of time and all my private grief her public shame. ah, but to speak the truth, hence are my cares, and in this comfort all discomfort resteth; my harms i cause her scandal unawares; thus love procures the thing that love detesteth. for he that views the glasses of my smart must need report she hath a flinty heart. liii i was a king of sweet content at least, but now from out my kingdom banished; i was chief guest at fair dame pleasure's feast, but now i am for want of succour famished; i was a saint and heaven was my rest, but now cast down into the lowest hell. vile caitiffs may not live among the blest, nor blessed men amongst cursed caitiffs dwell. thus am i made an exile of a king; thus choice of meats to want of food is changed; thus heaven's loss doth hellish torments bring; self crosses make me from myself estranged. yet am i still the same but made another; then not the same; alas, i am no other! liv if great apollo offered as a dower his burning throne to beauty's excellence; if jove himself came in a golden shower down to the earth to fetch fair io thence; if venus in the curlèd locks was tied of proud adonis not of gentle kind; if tellus for a shepherd's favour died, the favour cruel love to her assigned; if heaven's winged herald hermes had his heart enchanted with a country maid; if poor pygmalion was for beauty mad; if gods and men have all for beauty strayed: i am not then ashamed to be included 'mongst those that love, and be with love deluded. lv o, no, i dare not! o, i may not speak! yes, yes, i dare, i can, i must, i will! then heart, pour forth thy plaints and do not break; let never fancy manly courage kill; intreat her mildly, words have pleasing charms of force to move the most obdurate heart, to take relenting pity of my harms, and with unfeignèd tears to wail my smart. is she a stock, a block, a stone, a flint? hath she nor ears to hear nor eyes to see? if so my cries, my prayers, my tears shall stint! lord! how can lovers so bewitchèd be! i took her to be beauty's queen alone; but now i see she is a senseless stone. lvi is trust betrayed? doth kindness grow unkind? can beauty both at once give life and kill? shall fortune alter the most constant mind? will reason yield unto rebelling will? doth fancy purchase praise, and virtue shame? may show of goodness lurk in treachery? hath truth unto herself procurèd blame? must sacred muses suffer misery? are women woe to men, traps for their falls? differ their words, their deeds, their looks, their lives? have lovers ever been their tennis balls? be husbands fearful of the chastest wives? all men do these affirm, and so must i, unless fidessa give to me the lie. lvii three playfellows--such three were never seen in venus' court--upon a summer's day, met altogether on a pleasant green, intending at some pretty game to play. they dian, cupid, and fidessa were. their wager, beauty, bow, and cruelty; the conqueress the stakes away did bear. whose fortune then was it to win all three? fidessa, which doth these as weapons use, to make the greatest heart her will obey; and yet the most obedient to refuse as having power poor lovers to betray. with these she wounds, she heals, gives life and death; more power hath none that lives by mortal breath. lviii o beauty, siren! kept with circe's rod; the fairest good in seem but foulest ill; the sweetest plague ordained for man by god, the pleasing subject of presumptuous will; th' alluring object of unstayèd eyes; friended of all, but unto all a foe; the dearest thing that any creature buys, and vainest too, it serves but for a show; in seem a heaven, and yet from bliss exiling; paying for truest service nought but pain; young men's undoing, young and old beguiling; man's greatest loss though thought his greatest gain! true, that all this with pain enough i prove; and yet most true, i will fidessa love. lix do i unto a cruel tiger play, that preys on me as wolf upon the lambs, who fear the danger both of night and day and run for succour to their tender dams? yet will i pray, though she be ever cruel, on bended knee and with submissive heart. she is the fire and i must be the fuel; she must inflict and i endure the smart. she must, she shall be mistress of her will, and i, poor i, obedient to the same; as fit to suffer death as she to kill; as ready to be blamed as she to blame. and for i am the subject of her ire, all men shall know thereby my love entire. lx o let me sigh, weep, wail, and cry no more; or let me sigh, weep, wail, cry more and more! yea, let me sigh, weep, wail, cry evermore, for she doth pity my complaints no more than cruel pagan or the savage moor; but still doth add unto my torments more, which grievous are to me by so much more as she inflicts them and doth wish them more. o let thy mercy, merciless, be never more! so shall sweet death to me be welcome, more than is to hungry beasts the grassy moor, as she that to affliction adds yet more, becomes more cruel by still adding more! weary am i to speak of this word "more;" yet never weary she, to plague me more! lxi fidessa's worth in time begetteth praise; time, praise; praise, fame; fame, wonderment; wonder, fame, praise, time, her worth do raise to highest pitch of dread astonishment. yet time in time her hardened heart bewrayeth and praise itself her cruelty dispraiseth. so that through praise, alas, her praise decayeth, and that which makes it fall her honour raiseth! most strange, yet true! so wonder, wonder still, and follow fast the wonder of these days; for well i know all wonder to fulfil her will at length unto my will obeys. meantime let others praise her constancy, and me attend upon her clemency. lxii most true that i must fair fidessa love. most true that fair fidessa cannot love. most true that i do feel the pains of love. most true that i am captive unto love. most true that i deluded am with love. most true that i do find the sleights of love. most true that nothing can procure her love. most true that i must perish in my love. most true that she contemns the god of love. most true that he is snarèd with her love. most true that she would have me cease to love. most true that she herself alone is love. most true that though she hated, i would love. most true that dearest life shall end with love. finis _talis apud tales, talis sub tempore tali: subque meo tali judice, talis ero._ chloris or, the complaint of the passionate despised shepherd by william smith william smith the sub-title of _chloris_ arouses an expectation that is gratified in the pastoral modishness of the sonnets. corin sits under the "lofty pines, co-partners of his woe," with oaten reed at his lips, and calls on sylvans, lambkins and all parnassans to testify to the beauty and cruelty of chloris. the attitude is a self-conscious one, yet the poem reveals little of the personality of the author beyond the facts of his youthfulness and of his devotion to "the most excellent and learned shepheard, colin cloute." it was in 1595, but one year before the publication of _chloris_, that spenser had sung his own sonnets of true love, and it is perhaps on this account that william smith finds him in a mood favourable to the defence of a young aspirant. at any rate, the language of the dedication rings with something more than mere desire for distinguished patronage. the youth looks with a beautiful humility upward toward the greater but "dear and most entire beloved" poet. his own sonnets, he says, are "of my study the budding springs"; they are but "young-hatched orphan things." he nowhere boasts that they will give immortal renown to the scornful beauty, but modestly promises that if her cruel disdain does not ruin him, the time shall come when he "more large" her "praises forth shall pen." chloris had once been favourable, as sonnet forty-eight distinctly shows, but the cycle does not bring any happy conclusion to the story. corin is left weeping but faithful, and the picture of chloris is composed of such faint outlines only as the sonneteer's conventions can delineate. beyond this no certain information in regard to poet or honoured lady has yet been unearthed. for all its formality, however, the sonnet-cycle is not wanting in touches of real feeling and lines of musical sweetness; the writer shows considerable skill in the management of rime, and in structure he adopts the form preferred by shakespeare, whose "sugared sonnets" may by this date have passed beneath his eye. the melodies piped by other sonnet-shepherds re-echo with a great deal of distinctness in covin's strains; nevertheless he has himself taken a draught from the true elizabethan fount of lyric inspiration, and the nymph chloris with her heart-robbing eye well deserves a place on the snow-soft downs where the sonneteering shepherds were wont to assemble. to the most excellent and learned shepherd colin clout i colin my dear and most entire beloved, my muse audacious stoops her pitch to thee, desiring that thy patience be not moved by these rude lines, written here you see; fain would my muse whom cruel love hath wronged, shroud her love labours under thy protection, and i myself with ardent zeal have longed that thou mightst know to thee my true affection. therefore, good colin, graciously accept a few sad sonnets which my muse hath framed; though they but newly from the shell are crept, suffer them not by envy to be blamed, but underneath the shadow of thy wings give warmth to these young-hatchèd orphan things. ii give warmth to these young-hatchèd orphan things, which chill with cold to thee for succour creep; they of my study are the budding springs; longer i cannot them in silence keep. they will be gadding sore against my mind. but courteous shepherd, if they run astray, conduct them that they may the pathway find, and teach them how the mean observe they may. thou shalt them ken by their discording notes, their weeds are plain, such as poor shepherds wear; unshapen, torn, and ragged are their coats, yet forth they wand'ring are devoid of fear. they which have tasted of the muses' spring, i hope will smile upon the tunes they sing. to all shepherds in general you whom the world admires for rarest style, you which have sung the sonnets of true love, upon my maiden verse with favour smile, whose weak-penned muse to fly too soon doth prove; before her feathers have their full perfection, she soars aloft, pricked on by blind affection. you whose deep wits, ingine, and industry, the everlasting palm of praise have won, you paragons of learnèd poesy, favour these mists, which fall before your sun, intentions leading to a more effect if you them grace but with your mild aspect. and thou the genius of my ill-tuned note, whose beauty urgèd hath my rustic vein through mighty oceans of despair to float, that i in rime thy cruelty complain: vouchsafe to read these lines both harsh and bad nuntiates of woe with sorrow being clad. chloris i courteous calliope, vouchsafe to lend thy helping hand to my untunèd song, and grace these lines which i to write pretend, compelled by love which doth poor corin wrong. and those thy sacred sisters i beseech, which on parnassus' mount do ever dwell, to shield my country muse and rural speech by their divine authority and spell. lastly to thee, o pan, the shepherds' king, and you swift-footed dryades i call; attend to hear a swain in verse to sing sonnets of her that keeps his heart in thrall! o chloris, weigh the task i undertake! thy beauty subject of my song i make. ii thy beauty subject of my song i make, o fairest fair, on whom depends my life! refuse not then the task i undertake, to please thy rage and to appease my strife; but with one smile remunerate my toil, none other guerdon i of thee desire. give not my lowly muse new-hatched the foil, but warmth that she may at the length aspire unto the temples of thy star-bright eyes, upon whose round orbs perfect beauty sits, from whence such glorious crystal beams arise, as best my chloris' seemly face befits; which eyes, which beauty, which bright crystal beam, which face of thine hath made my love extreme. iii feed, silly sheep, although your keeper pineth, yet like to tantalus doth see his food. skip you and leap, no bright apollo shineth, whilst i bewail my sorrows in yon wood, where woeful philomela doth record, and sings with notes of sad and dire lament the tragedy wrought by her sisters' lord; i'll bear a part in her black discontent. that pipe which erst was wont to make you glee upon these downs whereon you careless graze, shall to her mournful music tunèd be. let not my plaints, poor lambkins, you amaze; there underneath that dark and dusky bower, whole showers of tears to chloris i will pour. iv whole showers of tears to chloris i will pour, as true oblations of my sincere love, if that will not suffice, most fairest flower, then shall my sighs thee unto pity move. if neither tears nor sighs can aught prevail, my streaming blood thine anger shall appease, this hand of mine by vigour shall assail to tear my heart asunder thee to please. celestial powers on you i invocate; you know the chaste affections of my mind, i never did my faith yet violate; why should my chloris then be so unkind? that neither tears, nor sighs, nor streaming blood, can unto mercy move her cruel mood. v you fawns and silvans, when my chloris brings her flocks to water in your pleasant plains, solicit her to pity corin's strings, the smart whereof for her he still sustains. for she is ruthless of my woeful song; my oaten reed she not delights to hear. o chloris, chloris! corin thou dost wrong, who loves thee better than his own heart dear. the flames of aetna are not half so hot as is the fire which thy disdain hath bread. ah cruel fates, why do you then besot poor corin's soul with love, when love is fled? either cause cruel chloris to relent, or let me die upon the wound she sent! vi you lofty pines, co-partners of my woe, when chloris sitteth underneath your shade, to her those sighs and tears i pray you show, whilst you attending i for her have made. whilst you attending, droppèd have sweet balm in token that you pity my distress, zephirus hath your stately boughs made calm. whilst i to you my sorrows did express, the neighbour mountains bended have their tops, when they have heard my rueful melody, and elves in rings about me leaps and hops, to frame my passions to their jollity. resounding echoes from their obscure caves, reiterate what most my fancy craves. vii what need i mourn, seeing pan our sacred king was of that nymph fair syrinx coy disdained? the world's great light which comforteth each thing, all comfortless for daphne's sake remained. if gods can find no help to heal the sore made by love's shafts, which pointed are with fire, unhappy corin, then thy chance deplore, sith they despair by wanting their desire. i am not pan though i a shepherd be, yet is my love as fair as syrinx was. my songs cannot with phoebus' tunes agree, yet chloris' doth his daphne's far surpass. how much more fair by so much more unkind, than syrinx coy, or daphne, i her find! viii no sooner had fair phoebus trimmed his car, being newly risen from aurora's bed, but i in whom despair and hope did war, my unpenned flock unto the mountains led. tripping upon the snow-soft downs i spied three nymphs more fairer than those beautys three which did appear to paris on mount ide. coming more near, my goddess i there see; for she the field-nymphs oftentimes doth haunt, to hunt with them the fierce and savage boar; and having sported virelays they chaunt, whilst i unhappy helpless cares deplore. there did i call to her, ah too unkind! but tiger-like, of me she had no mind. ix unto the fountain where fair delia chaste the proud acteon turnèd to a hart, i drove my flock, that water sweet to taste, 'cause from the welkin phoebus 'gan depart. there did i see the nymph whom i admire, rememb'ring her locks, of which the yellow hue made blush the beauties of her curlèd wire, which jove himself with wonder well might view; then red with ire, her tresses she berent, and weeping hid the beauty of her face, whilst i amazèd at her discontent, with tears and sighs do humbly sue for grace; but she regarding neither tears nor moan, flies from the fountain leaving me alone. x am i a gorgon that she doth me fly, or was i hatchèd in the river nile? or doth my chloris stand in doubt that i with syren songs do seek her to beguile? if any one of these she can object 'gainst me, which chaste affected love protest, then might my fortunes by her frowns be checked, and blameless she from scandal free might rest. but seeing i am no hideous monster born, but have that shape which other men do bear, which form great jupiter did never scorn, amongst his subjects here on earth to wear, why should she then that soul with sorrow fill, which vowèd hath to love and serve her still? xi tell me, my dear, what moves thy ruthless mind to be so cruel, seeing thou art so fair? did nature frame thy beauty so unkind? or dost thou scorn to pity my despair? o no, it was not nature's ornament, but wingèd love's unpartial cruel wound, which in my heart is ever permanent, until my chloris make me whole and sound. o glorious love-god, think on my heart's grief; let not thy vassal pine through deep disdain; by wounding chloris i shall find relief, if thou impart to her some of my pain. she doth thy temples and thy shrines abject; they with amintas' flowers by me are decked. xii cease, eyes, to weep sith none bemoans your weeping; leave off, good muse, to sound the cruel name of my love's queen which hath my heart in keeping, yet of my love doth make a jesting game! long hath my sufferance laboured to inforce one pearl of pity from her pretty eyes, whilst i with restless oceans of remorse bedew the banks where my fair chloris lies, where my fair chloris bathes her tender skin, and doth triumph to see such rivers fall from those moist springs, which never dry have been since she their honour hath detained in thrall; and still she scorns one favouring smile to show unto those waves proceeding from my woe. xiii _a dream_ what time fair titan in the zenith sat, and equally the fixèd poles did heat, when to my flock my daily woes i chat, and underneath a broad beech took my seat, the dreaming god which morpheus poets call, augmenting fuel to my aetna's fire, with sleep possessing my weak senses all, in apparitions makes my hopes aspire. methought i saw the nymph i would imbrace, with arms abroad coming to me for help, a lust-led satyr having her in chase which after her about the fields did yelp. i seeing my love in perplexèd plight, a sturdy bat from off an oak i reft, and with the ravisher continue fight till breathless i upon the earth him left. then when my coy nymph saw her breathless foe, with kisses kind she gratifies my pain, protesting never rigour more to show. happy was i this good hap to obtain; but drowsy slumbers flying to their cell, my sudden joy converted was to bale; my wonted sorrows still with me do dwell. i lookèd round about on hill and dale, but i could neither my fair chloris view, nor yet the satyr which erstwhile i slew. xiv mournful amintas, thou didst pine with care, because the fates by their untimely doom of life bereft thy loving phillis fair, when thy love's spring did first begin to bloom. my care doth countervail that care of thine, and yet my chloris draws her angry breath; my hopes still hoping hopeless now repine, for living she doth add to me but death. thy phinis, dying, lovèd thee full dear; my chloris, living, hates poor corin's love, thus doth my woe as great as thine appear, though sundry accents both our sorrows move. thy swan-like songs did show thy dying anguish; these weeping truce-men show i living languish. xv these weeping truce-men show i living languish, my woeful wailings tells my discontent; yet chloris nought esteemeth of mine anguish, my thrilling throbs her heart cannot relent. my kids to hear the rimes and roundelays which i on wasteful hills was wont to sing, did more delight the lark in summer days, whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring. but now my flock all drooping bleats and cries, because my pipe, the author of their sport, all rent and torn and unrespected lies; their lamentations do my cares consort. they cease to feed and listen to the plaint which i pour forth unto a cruel saint. xvi which i pour forth unto a cruel saint, who merciless my prayers doth attend, who tiger-like doth pity my complaint, and never ear unto my woes will lend! but still false hope dispairing life deludes, and tells my fancy i shall grace obtain; but chloris fair my orisons concludes with fearful frowns, presagers of my pain. thus do i spend the weary wand'ring day, oppressèd with a chaos of heart's grief; thus i consume the obscure night away, neglecting sleep which brings all cares relief; thus do i pass my ling'ring life in woe; but when my bliss will come i do not know. xvii the perils which leander took in hand fair hero's love and favour to obtain, when void of fear securely leaving land, through hellespont he swam to cestos' main, his dangers should not counterpoise my toil, if my dear love would once but pity show, to quench these flames which in my breast do broil, or dry these springs which from mine eyes do flow. not only hellespont but ocean seas, for her sweet sake to ford i would attempt, so that my travels would her ire appease, my soul from thrall and languish to exempt. o what is't not poor i would undertake, if labour could my peace with chloris make! xviii my love, i cannot thy rare beauties place under those forms which many writers use: some like to stones compare their mistress' face; some in the name of flowers do love abuse; some makes their love a goldsmith's shop to be, where orient pearls and precious stones abound; in my conceit these far do disagree the perfect praise of beauty forth to sound. o chloris, thou dost imitate thyself, self's imitating passeth precious stones, or all the eastern indian golden pelf; thy red and white with purest fair atones; matchless for beauty nature hath thee framed, only unkind and cruel thou art named! xix the hound by eating grass doth find relief, for being sick it is his choicest meat; the wounded hart doth ease his pain and grief if he the herb dictamion may eat; the loathsome snake renews his sight again, when he casts off his withered coat and hue; the sky-bred eagle fresh age doth obtain when he his beak decayed doth renew. i worse than these whose sore no salve can cure, whose grief no herb nor plant nor tree can ease; remediless, i still must pain endure, till i my chloris' furious mood can please; she like the scorpion gave to me a wound, and like the scorpion she must make me sound. xx ye wasteful woods, bear witness of my woe, wherein my plaints did oftentimes abound; ye careless birds my sorrows well do know, they in your songs were wont to make a sound! thou pleasant spring canst record likewise bear of my designs and sad disparagement, when thy transparent billows mingled were with those downfalls which from mine eyes were sent! the echo of my still-lamenting cries, from hollow vaults in treble voice resoundeth, and then into the empty air it flies, and back again from whence it came reboundeth. that nymph unto my clamors doth reply, being likewise scorned in love as well as i. xxi being likewise scorned in love as well as i by that self-loving boy, which did disdain to hear her after him for love to cry, for which in dens obscure she doth remain; yet doth she answer to each speech and voice, and renders back the last of what we speak, but specially, if she might have her choice, she of unkindness would her talk forth break. she loves to hear of love's most sacred name, although, poor nymph, in love she was despised; and ever since she hides her head for shame, that her true meaning was so lightly prised; she pitying me, part of my woes doth bear, as you, good shepherds, listening now shall hear. xxii o fairest fair, to thee i make my plaint, (_my plaint_) to thee from whom my cause of grief doth spring; (_doth spring_) attentive be unto the groans, sweet saint, (_sweet saint_) which unto thee in doleful tunes i sing. (_i sing_) my mournful muse doth always speak of thee; (_of thee_) my love is pure, o do it not disdain! (_disdain_) with bitter sorrow still oppress not me, (_not me_) but mildly look upon me which complain. (_which complain_) kill not my true-affecting thoughts, but give (_but give_) such precious balm of comfort to my heart, (_my heart_) that casting off despair in hope to live, (_hope to live_) i may find help at length to ease my smart. (_to ease my smart_) so shall you add such courage to my love, (_my love_) that fortune false my faith shall not remove. (_shall not remove_) xxiii the phoenix fair which rich arabia breeds, when wasting time expires her tragedy, no more on phoebus' radiant rays she feeds, but heapeth up great store of spicery; and on a lofty towering cedar tree, with heavenly substance she herself consumes, from whence she young again appears to be, out of the cinders of her peerless plumes. so i which long have frièd in love's flame, the fire not made of spice but sighs and tears, revive again in hope disdain to shame, and put to flight the author of my fears. her eyes revive decaying life in me, though they augmenters of my thraldom be. xxiv though they augmenters of my thraldom be, for her i live and her i love and none else; o then, fair eyes, look mildly upon me, who poor, despised, forlorn must live alone else, and like amintas haunt the desert cells, and moanless there breathe out thy cruelty, where none but care and melancholy dwells. i for revenge to nemesis will cry; if that will not prevail, my wandering ghost, which breathless here this love-scorched trunk shall leave, shall unto thee with tragic tidings post, how thy disdain did life from soul bereave. then all too late my death thou wilt repent, when murther's guilt thy conscience shall torment. xxv who doth not know that love is triumphant, sitting upon the throne of majesty? the gods themselves his cruel darts do daunt, and he, blind boy, smiles at their misery. love made great jove ofttimes transform his shape; love made the fierce alcides stoop at last; achilles, stout and bold, could not escape the direful doom which love upon him cast; love made leander pass the dreadful flood which cestos from abydos doth divide; love made a chaos where proud ilion stood, through love the carthaginian dido died. thus may we see how love doth rule and reigns, bringing those under which his power disdains. xxvi though you be fair and beautiful withal, and i am black for which you me despise, know that your beauty subject is to fall, though you esteem it at so high a price. and time may come when that whereof you boast, which is your youth's chief wealth and ornament, shall withered be by winter's raging frost, when beauty's pride and flowering years are spent. then wilt thou mourn when none shall thee respect; then wilt thou think how thou hast scorned my tears; then pitiless each one will thee neglect, when hoary grey shall dye thy yellow hairs; then wilt thou think upon poor corin's case, who loved thee dear, yet lived in thy disgrace. xxvii o love, leave off with sorrow to torment me; let my heart's grief and pining pain content thee! the breach is made, i give thee leave to enter; thee to resist, great god, i dare not venter! restless desire doth aggravate mine anguish, careful conceits do fill my soul with languish. be not too cruel in thy conquest gained, thy deadly shafts hath victory obtained; batter no more my fort with fierce affection, but shield me captive under thy protection. i yield to thee, o love, thou art the stronger, raise then thy siege and trouble me no longer! xxviii what cruel star or fate had domination when i was born, that thus my love is crossed? or from what planet had i derivation that thus my life in seas of woe is crossed? doth any live that ever had such hap that all their actions are of none effect, whom fortune never dandled in her lap but as an abject still doth me reject? ah tickle dame! and yet thou constant art my daily grief and anguish to increase, and to augment the troubles of my heart thou of these bonds wilt never me release; so that thy darlings me to be may know the true idea of all worldly woe. xxix some in their hearts their mistress' colours bears; some hath her gloves, some other hath her garters, some in a bracelet wears her golden hairs, and some with kisses seal their loving charters. but i which never favour reapèd yet, nor had one pleasant look from her fair brow, content myself in silent shade to sit in hope at length my cares to overplow. meanwhile mine eyes shall feed on her fair face, my sighs shall tell to her my sad designs, my painful pen shall ever sue for grace to help my heart, which languishing now pines; and i will triumph still amidst my woe till mercy shall my sorrows overflow. xxx the raging sea within his limits lies and with an ebb his flowing doth discharge; the rivers when beyond their bounds they rise, themselves do empty in the ocean large; but my love's sea which never limit keepeth, which never ebbs but always ever floweth, in liquid salt unto my chloris weepeth, yet frustrate are the tears which he bestoweth. this sea which first was but a little spring is now so great and far beyond all reason, that it a deluge to my thoughts doth bring, which overwhelmed hath my joying season. so hard and dry is my saint's cruel mind, these waves no way in her to sink can find. xxxi these waves no way in her to sink can find to penetrate the pith of contemplation; these tears cannot dissolve her hardened mind, nor move her heart on me to take compassion; o then, poor corin, scorned and quite despised, loathe now to live since life procures thy woe; enough, thou hast thy heart anatomised, for her sweet sake which will no pity show; but as cold winter's storms and nipping frost can never change sweet aramanthus' hue, so though my love and life by her are crossed. my heart shall still be constant firm and true. although erynnis hinders hymen's rites, my fixèd faith against oblivion fights. xxxii my fixèd faith against oblivion fights, and i cannot forget her, pretty elf, although she cruel be unto my plights; yet let me rather clean forget myself, then her sweet name out of my mind should go, which is th' elixir of my pining soul, from whence the essence of my life doth flow, whose beauty rare my senses all control; themselves most happy evermore accounting, that such a nymph is queen of their affection, with ravished rage they to the skies are mounting, esteeming not their thraldom nor subjection; but still do joy amidst their misery, with patience bearing love's captivity. xxxiii with patience bearing love's captivity, themselves unguilty of his wrath alleging; these homely lines, abjects of poesy, for liberty and for their ransom pledging, and being free they solemnly do vow, under his banner ever arms to bear against those rebels which do disallow that love of bliss should be the sovereign heir; and chloris if these weeping truce-men may one spark of pity from thine eyes obtain, in recompense of their sad heavy lay, poor corin shall thy faithful friend remain; and what i say i ever will approve, no joy may be comparèd to thy love! xxxiv the bird of thrace which doth bewail her rape, and murthered itys eaten by his sire, when she her woes in doleful tunes doth shape, she sets her breast against a thorny briar; because care-charmer sleep should not disturb the tragic tale which to the night she tells, she doth her rest and quietness thus curb amongst the groves where secret silence dwells: even so i wake, and waking wail all night; chloris' unkindness slumbers doth expel; i need not thorn's sweet sleep to put to flight, her cruelty my golden rest doth quell, that day and night to me are always one, consumed in woe, in tears, in sighs and moan. xxxv like to the shipman in his brittle boat. tossèd aloft by the unconstant wind, by dangerous rocks and whirling gulfs doth float, hoping at length the wishèd port to find; so doth my love in stormy billows sail, and passeth the gaping scilla's waves, in hope at length with chloris to prevail and win that prize which most my fancy craves, which unto me of value will be more then was that rich and wealthy golden fleece. which jason stout from colchos' island bore with wind in sails unto the shore of greece. more rich, more rare, more worth her love i prize then all the wealth which under heaven lies. xxxvi o what a wound and what a deadly stroke, doth cupid give to us perplexèd lovers, which cleaves more fast then ivy doth to oak, unto our hearts where he his might discovers! though warlike mars were armèd at all points, with that tried coat which fiery vulcan made, love's shafts did penetrate his steelèd joints, and in his breast in streaming gore did wade. so pitiless is this fell conqueror that in his mother's paps his arrows stuck; such is his rage that he doth not defer to wound those orbs from whence he life did suck. then sith no mercy he shows to his mother, we meekly must his force and rigour smother. xxxvii each beast in field doth wish the morning light; the birds to hesper pleasant lays do sing; the wanton kids well-fed rejoice in night, being likewise glad when day begins to spring. but night nor day are welcome unto me, both can bear witness of my lamentation; all day sad sighing corin you shall see, all night he spends in tears and exclamation. thus still i live although i take no rest, but living look as one that is a-dying; thus my sad soul with care and grief oppressed, seems as a ghost to styx and lethe flying. thus hath fond love bereft my youthful years of all good hap before old age appears. xxxviii that day wherein mine eyes cannot her see, which is the essence of their crystal sight, both blind, obscure and dim that day they be, and are debarrèd of fair heaven's light; that day wherein mine ears do want to hear her, hearing that day is from me quite bereft; that day wherein to touch i come not near her, that day no sense of touching i have left; that day wherein i lack the fragrant smell, which from her pleasant amber breath proceedeth, smelling that day disdains with me to dwell, only weak hope my pining carcase feedeth. but burst, poor heart, thou hast no better hope, since all thy senses have no further scope! xxxix the stately lion and the furious bear the skill of man doth alter from their kind; for where before they wild and savage were, by art both tame and meek you shall them find. the elephant although a mighty beast, a man may rule according to his skill; the lusty horse obeyeth our behest, for with the curb you may him guide at will. although the flint most hard contains the fire, by force we do his virtue soon obtain, for with a steel you shall have your desire, thus man may all things by industry gain; only a woman if she list not love, no art, nor force, can unto pity move. xl no art nor force can unto pity move her stony heart that makes my heart to pant; no pleading passions of my extreme love can mollify her mind of adamant. ah cruel sex, and foe to all mankind, either you love or else you hate too much! a glist'ring show of gold in you we find, and yet you prove but copper in the touch. but why, o why, do i so far digress? nature you made of pure and fairest mould, the pomp and glory of man to depress, and as your slaves in thraldom them to hold; which by experience now too well i prove, there is no pain unto the pains of love. xli fair shepherdess, when as these rustic lines comes to thy sight, weigh but with what affection thy servile doth depaint his sad designs, which to redress of thee he makes election. if so you scorn, you kill; if you seem coy, you wound poor corin to the very heart; if that you smile, you shall increase his joy; if these you like, you banish do all smart. and this i do protest, most fairest fair, my muse shall never cease that hill to climb, to which the learnèd muses do repair, and all to deify thy name in rime; and never none shall write with truer mind, as by all proof and trial you shall find. xlii die, die, my hopes! for you do but augment the burning accents of my deep despair; disdain and scorn your downfall do consent; tell to the world she is unkind yet fair! o eyes, close up those ever-running fountains, for pitiless are all the tears you shed wherewith you watered have both dales and mountains! i see, i see, remorse from her is fled. pack hence, ye sighs, into the empty air, into the air that none your sound may hear, sith cruel chloris hath of you no care, although she once esteemèd you full dear! let sable night all your disgraces cover, yet truer sighs were never sighed by lover. xliii thou glorious sun, from whence my lesser light the substance of his crystal shine doth borrow, let these my moans find favour in thy sight. and with remorse extinguish now my sorrow! renew those lamps which thy disdain hath quenched, as phoebus doth his sister phoebe's shine; consider how thy corin being drenched in seas of woe, to thee his plaints incline, and at thy feet with tears doth sue for grace, which art the goddess of his chaste desire; let not thy frowns these labours poor deface although aloft they at the first aspire; and time shall come as yet unknown to men when i more large thy praises forth shall pen! xliv when i more large thy praises forth shall show, that all the world thy beauty shall admire, desiring that most sacred nymph to know which hath the shepherd's fancy set on fire; till then, my dear, let these thine eyes content, till then, fair love, think if i merit favour, till then, o let thy merciful assent relish my hopes with some comforting savour; so shall you add such courage to my muse that she shall climb the steep parnassus hill, that learnèd poets shall my deeds peruse when i from thence obtainèd have more skill; and what i sing shall always be of thee as long as life or breath remains in me! xlv when she was born whom i entirely love, th' immortal gods her birth-rites forth to grace, descending from their glorious seat above, they did on her these several virtues place: first saturn gave to her sobriety, jove then induèd her with comeliness, and sol with wisdom did her beautify, mercury with wit and knowledge did her bless, venus with beauty did all parts bedeck, luna therewith did modesty combine, diana chaste all loose desires did check, and like a lamp in clearness she doth shine. but mars, according to his stubborn kind, no virtue gave, but a disdainful mind. xlvi when chloris first with her heart-robbing eye inchanted had my silly senses all, i little did respect love's cruelty, i never thought his snares should me enthrall; but since her tresses have entangled me, my pining flock did never hear me sing those jolly notes which erst did make them glee, nor do my kids about me leap and spring as they were wont, but when they hear me cry they likewise cry and fill the air with bleating; then do my sheep upon the cold earth lie, and feed no more, my griefs they are repeating. o chloris, if thou then saw'st them and me i'm sure thou wouldst both pity them and me! xlvii i need not tell thee of the lily white, nor of the roseate red which doth thee grace, nor of thy golden hairs like phoebus bright, nor of the beauty of thy fairest face. nor of thine eyes which heavenly stars excel, nor of thine azured veins which are so clear, nor of thy paps where love himself doth dwell, which like two hills of violets appear. nor of thy tender sides, nor belly soft, nor of thy goodly thighs as white as snow, whose glory to my fancy seemeth oft that like an arch triumphal they do show. all these i know that thou dost know too well, but of thy heart too cruel i thee tell. xlviii but of thy heart too cruel i thee tell, which hath tormented my young budding age, and doth, unless your mildness passions quell, my utter ruin near at hand presage. instead of blood which wont was to display his ruddy red upon my hairless face, by over-grieving that is fled away, pale dying colour there hath taken place. those curlèd locks which thou wast wont to twist unkempt, unshorn, and out of order been; since my disgrace i had of them no list, since when these eyes no joyful day have seen nor never shall till you renew again the mutual love which did possess us twain. xlix you that embrace enchanting poesy, be gracious to perplexèd corin's lines; you that do feel love's proud authority, help me to sing my sighs and sad designs. chloris, requite not faithful love with scorn, but as thou oughtest have commiseration; i have enough anatomised and torn my heart, thereof to make a pure oblation. likewise consider how thy corin prizeth thy parts above each absolute perfection, how he of every precious thing deviseth to make thee sovereign. grant me then affection! else thus i prize thee: chloris is alone more hard than gold or pearl or precious stone. 