<FILE bacpoems.d>
<AUTH> Francis Bacon
<TITLE> Poems & Translations
<NOTES> Typed and proofed by Ward Elliott, 12 Dec 1987  
<POEM>
The man of life upright, whose guiltless heart is free
From all dishonest deeds and thoughts of vanity:
The man whose silent days in harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude, nor fortune discontent;
That man needs neither towers nor armor for defense,
Nor secret vaults to fly from thunder's violence:
He only can behold with unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deep and terrors of the skies;
Thus scorning all the care that fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heaven his book, his wisdom heavenly things; 
Good thoughts his only friends, his wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober inn and quiet pilgrimage.
<POEM>
The world's a bubble; and the life of man less than a span.
In his conception wretched; from the womb so to the tomb:
Curst from the cradle, and brought up to years, with cares and fears.
Who then to frail mortality shall trust, 
But limns the water, or but writes in dust.
Yet, since with sorrow here we live oppress'd, what life is best?
Courts are but only superficial schools to dandle fools:
The rural parts are turn'd into a den of savage men:
And where's a city from all vice so free,
But may be term'd the worst of all the three?
<STANZA>
Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, or pains his head:
Those that live single, take it for a curse, or do things worse:
Some would have children; those that have them none; or wish them gone.
What is it then to have no wife, but single thralldom or a double strife?
Our own affections still at home to please, is a disease:
To cross the sea to any foreign soil, perils and toil:
Wars with their noise affright us: when they cease,
W' are worse in peace:
What then remains, but that we still should cry,
Not to be born, or being born, to die.
<POEM>
Who never gave to wicked read,
A yielding and attentive care:
Who never sinners' paths did tread,
Nor sat him down in scorner's chair:
But maketh it his whole delight,
On law of God to meditate,
And therein spendeth day and night; 
That man is in a happy state.
<STANZA>
He shall be like the fruitful tree,
Planted along a running spring,
Which, in due season constantly,
A goodly yield of fruit doth bring.
Whose leaves continue always green,
And are no prey to winter's power:
So shall that man not once be seen
Surprised with an evil hour.
With wicked men it is not so,
Their lot is of another kind:
All as the chaff, which to and fro,
Is toss'd at mercy of the wind.
And when he shall in judgment plead,
A casting sentence bide he must:
So shall he not lift up his head,
In the assembly of the just.
<STANZA>
For why?  The Lord hath special eye,
To be the godly's stay at call:
And hath given over, righteously,
The wicked man to take his fall.
<POEM>
Help Lord, for godly men have took their flight,
And left the earth to be the wicked's den:
Not one that standeth fast to Truth and Right,
But fears, or seeks to please, the eyes of men.
When one with other fall's to take apart,
Their meaning goeth not with their words in proof;
But fair they flatter, with a cloven heart,
By pleasing words, to work their own behoof.
<STANZA>
But God cut off the lips, that are all set,
To trap the harmless soul, that peace hath vow'd;
And pierce the tongues, that seek to counterfeit
The confidence of truth, by lying loud:
Yet so they think to reign, and work their will,
By subtle speech, which enters every where:
And say, our tongues are ours, to help us still,
What need we any higher power to fear?
<STANZA>
Now for the bitter sighing of the poor,
The lord hath said, I will no more forbear,
The wicked's kingdom to invade and scour,
And set at large the men restrain'd in fear.
And sure, the word of God is pure, and fine,
And in the trial never loseth weight;
Like noble gold, which, since it left the mine,
Hath seven times passed through the fiery straight.
<STANZA>
And now thou wilt not first thy word forsake,
Nor yet the righteous man, that leans thereto;
But will't his safe protection undertake,
In spite of all, their force and wiles can do.
And time it is, O Lord, thou didst draw nigh,
The wicked daily do enlarge their bands;
And that, which makes them follow ill a vie,
Rule is betaken to unworthy hands.
<POEM>
O Lord, thou art our home, to whom we fly,
And so hast always been from age to age.
Before the hills did intercept the eye,
Or that the frame was up of earthly stage,
One God thou wert, and art, and still shalt be;
The line of time, it does not measure thee.
<STANZA>
Both death and life obey thy holy lore,
And visit in their turns, as they are sent.
A thousand years with thee, they are no more
Than yesterday, which ere it is, is spent:
        Or as a watch by night, that course doth keep,
        And goes, and comes, unawares to them that sleep.
<STANZA>
Thou carriest man away as with a tide:
Then down swim all his thoughts, that mounted high;
Much like a mocking dream, that will not bide,
But flies before the sight of waking eye;
        Or as the grass, that cannot term obtain,
        To see the summer come about again.
<STANZA>
At morning, fair it musters, on the ground,
At even, it is cut down, and laid along:
And though it spared were and favor found,
The whether would perform the mowers wrong:
        Thus hast thou hang'd our life on brittle pins,
        To let us know, it will not bear our sins.
<STANZA>
Thou buriest not within oblivious tomb
Our trespasses, but ent'rest them aright:
Even those that are conceiv'd in darkness' womb,
To thee appear, as done at broad day light.
        As a tale told, which sometimes men attend,
        And sometimes not, our life steals to an end.
<STANZA>
The life of man is threescore years and ten,
Or if that he be strong, perhaps fourscore,
Yet all things are but labor to him then,
New sorrows still come on, pleasures no more:
        Why should there be such turmoil and such strife,
        To spin in length this feeble line of life?
<STANZA>
But who considers duly of thine ire?
Or doth the thoughts thereof wisely embrace?
For thou, O God, art a consuming fire,
Frail man, how can he stand before thy face?
        If thy displeasure thou dost not refrain,
        A moment brings all back to dust again.
<STANZA>
Teach us, O Lord, to number well our days,
Thereby our hearts to wisdom to apply;
For that, which guides man best in all his ways,
Is meditation of mortality.
        This bubble light, this vapor of our breath,
        Teach us to consecrate to hour of death.
<STANZA>
Return unto us Lord, and balance now
With days of joy our days of misery;
Help us right soon, our knees to thee we bow,
Depending wholly on thy clemency:
        Then shall thy servants both with heart and voice
        All the days of their life, in thee rejoice.
<STANZA>
Begin thy work O Lord, in this our age,
Show it unto thy servants that now live;
But to our children raise it many a stage
That all the world to thee may glory give.
        Our handy work likewise, as fruitful tree,
        Let it, O Lord, blessed not blasted be.
<POEM>
Father and king of powers, both high and low
Whose sounding fame all creatures serve to blow;
My soul shall with the rest strike up they praise,
And carol of thy works and wondrous ways.
But who can blaze they beauties, Lord, aright?
They turn the brittle beams of mortal sight.
Upon thy head thou wear'st a glorious crown,
All set with virtues, polish'd with renown:
Thence round about a silver veil doth fall
Of crystal light, mother of colors all.
The compass heaven, smooth without grain, or fold,
All set with spangs of glitt'ring stars untold,
And stripp'd with golden beams of power unpent,
Is raised up for a removing tent.
Vaulted and arched are his chamber beams,
Upon the seas, the waters, and the streams:
The clouds as chariots swift do scour the sky;
The stormy winds upon their wings do fly.
His angels spirits are that wait his will,
As flames of fire his anger they fulfill.
In the beginning with a mighty hand,
He made the earth by counterpoise to stand;
Never to move, but to be fixed still;
Yet hath no pillars but his sacred will.
The earth as with a veil once covered was,
The waters overflowed all the mass:
But upon his rebuke away they fled,
And then the hills began to show their head;
The vales their hollow bosoms opened plain,
The streams ran trembling down the vales again:
And that the earth no more might drowned be
He set the sea his bounds of liberty;
And though his waves resound, and beat the shore,
Yet is it bridled by his holy lore.
Then did the rivers seek their proper places
And found their heads, their issues, and their races:
The springs do feed the rivers all the way
And so the tribute to the sea repay:
Running along through many a pleasant field,
Much fruitfulness unto the earth they yield:
That know the beasts and cattle feeding by,
Which for to slake their thirst do thither hie.
Nay desert grounds the streams do not forsake,
But through the unknown ways their journey take:
The asses wild that bide in wilderness,
Do thither come, their thirst for to refresh.
The shady trees along their banks do spring
In which the birds do build and sit and sing;
Stroking the gentle air with pleasant notes,
Plaining of chirping through their warbling throats.
The higher grounds where waters cannot rise,
By rain and dews are watered from the skies;
Causing the earth put forth the grass for beasts,
And garden herbs serv'd at the greatest feasts;
And bread that is all viands' firmament,
And gives a firm and solid nourishment;
And wine man's spirit for to recreate;
And oil his face for to exhilarate.
The sappy cedars tall like stately towers,
High flying birds do harbor in their bowers:
The holy storks that are the travellers,
Choose for to dwell and build among the firs:
The climbing goats hang on steep mountains' side;
The digging conies in the rocks do bide.
The moon, so constant in inconstancy,
Doth rule the monthly seasons orderly:
The sun, eye of the world, doth know his race,
And when to show, and when to hide his face.
Thou makes darkness that it may be night,
When as the savage beasts, that fly the light,
(As conscious man's hatred leave their den,
And range abroad, secur'd from sight of men.
Then do the forests ring of lions roaring,
That ask their meat of God, their strength restoring:
But when the day appears, they back do fly,
And in their dens again do lurking lie,
Then man goes forth to labor in the field,
Whereby his ground more rich increase may yield.
O Lord, thy providence sufficeth all,
They goodness not restrain'd, but general
Over thy creatures; the whole earth doth flow 
With thy great largesse pour'd forth here below.
Nor is it earth alone exalts thy name,
But seas and streams likewise do spread the same.
The rolling seas unto the lot do fall,
Of beasts innumerable, great and small:
There do the stately ships plow up the floods,
The fishes there far voyages do make,
To divers shores their journey they do take:
There has thou set the great Leviathan,
That makes the seas to seethe like boiling pan:
All these do ask of thee their meat to live,
Which in due season thou to them dost give.
Ope thou thy hand,and then they have good fare,
Shut thou they hand, and then they troubled are.
All life, and spirit, form they breath proceed,
They word doth all things generate and feed;
If thou withdraw'st it then they cease to be,
And straight return to dust and vanity:
But when thy breath dost send forth again,
Then all things do renew, and spring amain;
So that the earth but lately desolate
Both now return unto the former state.
The glorious majesty of God above,
Shall ever reign in mercy and in love:
God shall rejoice all his fair works to see,
For, as they came from him, all perfect be.
The earth shall quake if aught his wrath provoke,
Let him but touch the mountains, they shall smoke.
As long as life doth last, I hymns will sing,
With cheerful voice to the eternal king:
As long as I have being, I will praise
The works of God, and all his wondrous ways.
I know that he my words will not despise;
Thanksgiving is to him a sacrifice.
But as for sinners, they shall be destroy'd
From off the earth, their places shall be void,
Let all his works praise him with one accord;
O praise the Lord, my soul, praise ye the Lord
<POEM>
When God return'd us graciously 
Unto our native land,
We seem'd as in a dream to be 
And in a maze to stand.
<STANZA>
The heathen likewise they could say,
The God, that these men serve,
Hath done great things for them this day,
Their nation to preserve.
<STANZA>
Tis true, God hath pour'd out his grace
On us abundantly,
For which we yield him psalms and praise,
And thanks, with jubilee.
<STANZA>
O Lord, turn our captivity,
As winds that blow at South,
Do pour the tides with violence
Back to the river's mouth.
<STANZA>
Who sows in tears shall reap in joy,
The Lord doth so ordain:
So that his seed be pure and good,
His harvest shall be gain.
<POEM>
When as se sat all sad and desolate,
By Babylon, upon the river's side,
Eas'd from the tasks, which in our captive state,
We were enforced daily to abide:
Our harps we had brought with us to the filed,
Some solace to our heavy souls to yield.
<STANZA>
But soon we found, we fail'd to our account,
For when our minds some freedom did obtain,
Straight-ways the memory of Zion Mount,
Did cause afresh our wounds to bleed again;
So that with present griefs, and future fears,
Our eyes burst forth into a stream of tears.
<STANZA>
As for our harps, since sorrow struck them dumb,
We hang'd them on the willow trees were near;
Yet did our cruel masters to us come,
Asking of us some Hebrew songs to hear;
Taunting us rather in our misery,
Than much delighting in our melody.
<STANZA>
Alas (said we) who can once force or frame,
His grieved and oppressed heart to sing,
The praises of Jehovah';s glorious name,
In banishment, under a foreign king?
In Zion is his seat, and dwelling place,
Thence doth he show the brightness of his face.
<STANZA>
Jerusalem, where God his throne hath set,
Shall any hour absent thee from my mind?
Then let my right hand quite her skill forget,
Then let my voice, and words, no passage find;
Nay if I do not thee prefer in all,
That in the compass of my thoughts can fall.
<STANZA>
Remember thou, O Lord, the cruel cry
Of Edom's children, which did ring and sound,
Inciting the Chaldeans' cruelty,
"Down with it, down with it, even unto the ground."
In that good day, repay it unto them,
When thou shalt visit thy Jerusalem
<STANZA>
And thou, O Babylon, shalt have thy turn
By just revenge; and happy shalt thou be,
That thy proud walls and towers shall waste and burn,
And as thou didst by us to do by thee.
Yea, happy he, that take they children's bones,
And dasheth them against the pavement stones.
<POEM>
O sing a new song, to our God above,
Avoid profane ones, 'tis for holy choir:
Let Israel sing song of holy love
To him that made them, with their hearts on fire:
Let Zion's sons life up their voice, and sing
Carols and anthems to their heavenly king.
<STANZA>
Let not your voice alone his praise forth tell,
But move withal, and praise him in the dance;
Cymbals and harps, let them be tuned well,
'Tis he that doth the poor's estate advance:
Do this not only on the solemn days,
But on your secret beds you spirits raise.
<STANZA>
O let the saints bear in their mouth his praise,
And a two-edged sword drawn in their hand,
Therewith for to revenge the former days,
Upon all nations, that their zeal withstand;
To bind their kings in chains of iron strong,
And manacle their nobles for their wrong.
<STANZA>
Expect the time, for 'tis decreed in heaven,
Such honor shall unto his saints be given.
</FILE>
<FILE dandelia.d>
<AUTH> Samuel Daniel
<TITLE> Delia
<NOTES>source SC Summer 1988,edited by BUZZ, Sept 1988,sorted by KCK Sept 1988
cleaned up and spell checked by  Chris Mehnert, Feb 1989
<POEM>
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 the   accounts of all my care
Here have I summ'd my sighs.  Here I enroll
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.
<STANZA>
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 dried up my blood,
And starved you, in succors 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 the  unkind how dearly I have loved her.
<STANZA>
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 untouch'd 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.
<STANZA>
These plaintive verse, the poets of my desire,
Which haste for succor to her slow regard,
bear not report of any slender fire,
Forging a grief to win a fame's reward.
Nor are my passions limn'd for outward hue,
for that no colors can depaint my sorrows
Delia herself, and all the world may view
Best in my face where cares have till'd 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 to unburden mine own heart;
My love affects no fame nor esteems of art.
<STANZA>
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 betrayed,
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.
<STANZA>
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 favors honey;
a modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honor,
Whose feet do tread green paths of youth 
and love the wonder of all eyes that look upon her,
Sacred on earth, design'd a saint above.
Chastity and beauty, which were deadly foes,
Live reconciled 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
<STANZA>
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 betrayed,
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 fail'd and heart had broken.
<STANZA>
Thou, poor heart, sacrific'd 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.
<STANZA>
If this be love, to draw a weary breath,
To paint on floods till the shore cry to the  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,
tie 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.
<STANZA> 
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 rulest 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 she hath done enough to prove me,
And let her pity if she cannot love me
<STANZA>
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 favor though the cruel Fair allows,
Yet will I weep, vow, pray to cruel she;
Flint, frost, disdain, wears, melts and yields, we see.
<STANZA>
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.
My ambitious thoughts, confined in her face,
Affect no honor 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.
<STANZA>
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 joy'd his stone and art
Unhappy I, to love a stony heart
<STANZA>
Those snary locks are those same nets, my dear,
Wherewith my liberty thou didst surprise
Love was the flame that fired 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
<STANZA>
If that a loyal heart and faith unfeigned,
If a sweet languish with a chaste desire,
If hunger-starven thoughts so long retain'd
Fed but with smoke, and cherished but with fire;
And if a brow with care's character 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 honor lies,
And she, the  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.
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
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 my afflicted Muse so much endeavor
Such honor 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 
That passions would her milder favors move
Favors, I think, would sense quite overcome
And that makes happy lovers ever dumb
<STANZA>
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 fateful 
Her eyes exact it, though her heart disdains me.
See what reward he hath that serves the ungrateful?
So true and loyal love no favor 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.
<STANZA>
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;
to Arabian odors give thy breathing sweet
Restore thy blush unto Aurora bright
To Thetis give the honor of thy feet.
let Venus have the graces she resign'd,
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.
<STANZA>
If beauty thus be clouded with a frown 
That pity shines no comfort to my bliss,
And vapors 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 untun'd 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.
<STANZA>
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 to opinion and disdain.
Yet spare her, Time; let her exempted be;
She may become more kind to thee or me.
<STANZA>
These sorrowing sighs, the smoke of mine annoy,
These tears, which heat of sacred Flame distills,
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 raise
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 
<STANZA>
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.
O 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.
<STANZA>
Look in my griefs, and blame me not mourn 
From care to care that leads a life so bad
the  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 joy'd;
The impression of her eyes do pierce so deep,
That thus I live both day and night annoy'd.
Yet since the sweetest root yields fruit so sour,
Her praise from my complaint I may not part
I love the  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.
<STANZA>
Reign in 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 reign'd 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 
Alluding to the sparrow pursued by a hawk, that
flew into the bosom of Zenocrates
<STANZA>
Whilst by thy eyes pursued, my poor heart flew
Into the sacred refuge of thy breast
Thy rigor in that sanctuary slew
That which thy succoring mercy should have blest.
No privilege of faith could it protect,
Faith being with blood and five years witness sign'd,
Wherein no show gave cause of least suspect,
For well thou sawest 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 succor 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.
<STANZA>
Still in the trace of one perplexed 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 fulfill
The work of rigor, 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 will 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.
<STANZA>
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 honors you!
<STANZA>
The star of my mishap impos'd 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 succor find I now when most I need
My heats must drown in the  ocean of my tears,
Which still must bear the title of my wrong,
Caus'd by those cruel beams that were so strong
<STANZA>
And yet I cannot reprehend the flight,
Or blame the  attempt, presuming so to soar
The mounting venture for a high delight
Did make the honor of the fall the more.
For who gets wealth, that puts not from the shore? 
Danger hath honors, great designs their fame,
Glory doth follow, courage goes before
And though the event oft answers not the same,
Suffice that high attempts have never shame.
The mean observer whom base safety keeps,
Lives without honor, dies without a name,
And in eternal darkness ever sleeps.
And therefore, Delia, 'tis to me no blot
To have attempted though attain'd thee not.
<STANZA>
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 the  attempt was far above my art
Her pride brook'd 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 remain'd 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.
<STANZA>
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 to a flower in such a case.
And you are changed, but not to a hyacinth;
I fear your eye hath turned your heart to flint.
<STANZA>
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 deck'd her pride so long.
When if she grieve to gaze her in her glass,
Which then presents her winter-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.
<STANZA>
Look, Delia, how we esteem the half-blown rose,
The image of thy blush, and summer's honor,
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 scorn'd 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.
<STANZA>
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 spreadest 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 unveil and shadow most
Men do not weigh the stalk for that it was,
When once they find her flower, her glory pass.
<SATNZA>
When men shall find thy flower, thy glory pass,
and thou with careful brow sitting alone
received 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 fadest,
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 scorn'd my tears,
when winter snows upon thy sable hairs.
<STANZA>
When winter snows upon thy sable hairs and frost of age hath
nipp'd 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,
Limn'd with a pencil not all unworthy;
Here see the gift 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 colors 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.
<STANZA>
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 limn'd be,
Suffice, thou shalt be loved as well as she.
<STANZA>
Be not displeas'd 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 warmed heart.
Think not, sweet Delia, this shall be thy shame,
My  muse should sound thy praise with mournful warble.
Now 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
<STANZA>
Delia, these eyes that so admireth thine,
Have seen those walls which proud ambition rear'd
To check the world, how they entombed have lain
Within themselves, and on them ploughs have ear'd;
Yet never found that barbarous hand attain'd
The spoil of fame deserved by virtuous men,
Whose glorious actions luckily had gained the 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.
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
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 honored 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 honored still.
<STANZA>
My Delia hath the waters of mine eyes,
The ready handmaids on her grace to 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 naught the rock of that hard heart can move,
Where heat 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?
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
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!
<STANZA>
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?
Rearing the wound, I needs must feel the pain.
<STANZA>
Drawn with the  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 desired most;
There where my Delia, fairer than the sun,
Deck'd with her youth whereon the world doth smile,
Joys in that honor which her eyes have won,
the  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 disarm'd peace deck her and thee;
And Muse foe Mars abroad far fostered be!
<STANZA>
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)adventur'd 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.
<STANZA>
Let others sing of knights and paladins,
In aged 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 the   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 the  error of my youth in them appear,
Suffice, they show I lived and loved thee, dear.
<STANZA>
As to the Roman that would free his land,
His error was his honor 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 I 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 honor to the face.
Yet happy Delia that thou wast unkind,
Though happier far, if thou wouldst change thy mind.
<STANZA>
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 honor to her eyes;
Else harsh my style, untuneable 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.
<STANZA>
None other fame mine unambitious Muse
Affected ever but to eternize thee;
All other honors 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, no 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.
<STANZA>
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 my infant style the cradle amid the grave.
What though my Muse no honor get thereby;
Each bird sings to herself,and so will I.
<STANZA>
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
the  affliction her unkind disdain cloth 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.
<STANZA>
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 favor of thy bliss! 
This deed of thine will show a goddess' power,
In so long death to grant one living hour.
<STANZA>
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 bet upon my breast
Martyr my life and plague me in this wise
With ling'ring pain to perish in unrest.
Naught could, save this, my sweetest fair suffice,
To try her art on him that loves her best.
<STANZA>
The tablet of my heavy fortunes here Upon thine altar
Paphian Power I place,
The grievous shipwreck of my travels dear
In bulged bark, all perish'd 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 the inconstant sands of false relief
were two bright stars which led my view apart.
A siren's voice allur'd 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
<STANZA>
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,
With holds 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
<STANZA>
Oft and in vain my rebel thoughts have ventured
To stop the passage of my vanquished heart
And shut those bays 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
<STANZA>     
Like as the spotless ermelin distressed
Circumpassed round with filth and loathsome mud,
pines in her grief, imprisoned to her nest,
And cannot issue forth to seek her good;
So I environed with a hateful 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 woeful 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 clouds' obscure,
Thus shades my life so long as wants endure.
<STANZA>
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,
to 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.
<STANZA>
Come time, the anchor hold of my desire,
My last resort whereto my hopes appeal;
Cause once the date of her disdain to expire,
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 consumed with despair.
This heart made now the perspective of care
By loving her, the cruell'st fair that lives,
The cruell'st 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.
<STANZA>
What it is to breathe and live without life;
How to be pale with anguish, red with fear,
To have peace abroad, and nought within but strife;
Wish to be present, and yet shun to appear;
How to be bold far off, and bashful near;
How to think much, and have no words to speak;
To have 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;
To affect this life and yet this life dislike,
Grateful to another, to myself unkind:
This cruel knowledge of these contraries,
Delia, my heart hath learned out of these eyes.
</FILE>
<FILE Didea.d>
<AUTH> Michael Drayton
<TITLE> Idea
<NOTES> scanned by Michelle Caroll from Smith 1879,proofed by Ward Elliot Dec.
27 1989
<POEM>
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
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 dour 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.
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
Bright star of beauty, on whose eyelids sit
A thousand nymph-like and enamored 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 blessed paradise did prove,
And leave his mother's lap to sport him there
  Let others strive to enter 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!                        
<STANZA>
Nothing but "No" and "I" 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!"
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
Love, in a humor, 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!
<STANZA>
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 art placed,
Only two loopholes that I might behold;
  That lovely arched ivory-polished brow
Defaced with wrinkles, that I might but see;
The dainty hair, so curled and crisped now,
Like grizzled moss upon some aged tree;
The cheek now flush with roses, sunk and lean;
The lips, with age as any wafer thin!
The pearly teeth out of thy head so clean,
That when thou feed'st thy nose shall touch thy chin!
These lines that now thou scorn'st, which should delight thee,
Then would I make thee read but to despite thee.
<STANZA>
As other men, so I myself do muse
Who 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.
 <STANZA>
 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.
<STANZA>
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!
<STANZA>
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.
<Anima.>      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.
<STANZA>
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 colors 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.
<STANZA>
If he, from heaven that filched that living fire,
Condemned by Jove to endless torment he,
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, honor, 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.
<STANZA>
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 honor 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 deceased 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!
<STANZA>
'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 burned in that sacred flee,
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.
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
You cannot love, my pretty heart, and why?
There was a time you told me that you would,
But now 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.
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
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 doted 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!
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
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 aims of such as passed by.
  I, like a man devout and charitable,
Clothed 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.
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
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 charmed with my verse.
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
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 ean 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.
<STANZA>
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, unskillful how to use,
And I give much because I gain thereby.
I that thus take or they that thus refuse,
Whether are these deceived then, or I?
In everything I hold this maxim still,
The circumstance doth make it good or ill.
<STANZA>
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' offense.
  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.
<STANZA>
Those priests which first the vestal fire begun,
Which might be borrowed from no earthly flame,
Devised a vessel to receive the sun,
Being steadfastly opposed 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.
  The blessed eyes, the sun which lIghts this fire,
My holy thoughts, they be the vestal flame,
The precious odors 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.
<STANZA>
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 Vigor 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.
<STANZA>
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!
<STANZA>
Whilst yet mine eyes do surfeit with delight,
My woeful heart imprisoned in my breast,
Wisheth to be transformed 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.
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
Some misbelieving and profane in love,
When I do speak of miracles by thee,
May say that thou art flattered 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 healed 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.
<STANZA>
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 loved 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!
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
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, vexed at the spleen,
And scorning reason's maimed argument,
Straight taxeth reason, wanting to invent
Where she with love conversing hath not been.
Reason reproached 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.
<STANZA>
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 Atrea,
  Only I call on my divine Idea!
<STANZA>
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 labor 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 damned Ixion.
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
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 humor 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.
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
Whilst thus my pen strives to eternize 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 tyrannizing tunes,
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.
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
Plain-pathed experience, the unlearned'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.
<STANZA>
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 thronged 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 eternize you.
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
Thou leaden brain, which censur'st what I write,
And say'st 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 scorned 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!
<STANZA>
As in some countries far remote from hence,
The wretched creature destined to die,
Having the judgment due to his offense,
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.
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
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 canst 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.
<STANZA>
CLEAR Ankor, on whose silver-sanded shore,
My soul-shrined saint, my fair Idea lives;
O blessed brook, whose milk-white swans adore
The crystal stream, refined by her eyes,
  Where sweet myrrh-breathing Zephyr in the spring
Gently distills his nectar-dropping showers,
Where nightingales in Arden sit and sing
Amongst the dainty dew-impearled 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!
<STANZA>
YET read at last the story of my woe,
The dreary abstracts of my endless cares,
With my life's sorrow interlined so,
Smoked with my sighs, and blotted with my tears,
The sad memorials of my miseries,
Penned in the grief of the afflicted ghost,
My life's complaint in doleful elegies,
With so pure love as time could never boost.
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.
<STANZA>
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 honored thee,
Erecting trophies to thy sacred eyes,
Whose eyes to my heart shining ever bright,
When darkness hath obscured each other light.
<STANZA>
WHEN like an aglet 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 aglet flown.
<STANZA>
You best discerned of my mind's inward eyes,
And yet your graces outwardly divine,
Whose clear 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.
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
As Love and I late harbored 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!"
"Labor 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.
<STANZA>
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.
<STANZA>
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!
<STANZA>
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;
Pined 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.
<STANZA>
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.
</FILE>
<FILE Dypoems.d>
<AUTH> Sir Edward Dyer
<TITLE> 14 Poems
<NOTES> 1-6 proofed by Ward Elliott,7-14 scanned, proofed Buzz Porter, Chris 
Mehnert,Oct & Feb 1988. From Sargent 1935
<14 Poems by Sir Edward Dyer.  Dyepoems.d>
<1-6 proofed by Ward Elliott, 1988>
<7-14 scanned, proofed Buzz Porter, Chris Mehnert>
<Oct. & Feb. 1988. From Sargent, 1935>
<POEM>
PROMETHEUS, when first from heaven high,
He brought down fire, ere then on earth not seen,
Fond of delight, a Satyr standing by,
Gave it a kiss, as it like sweet had been;
Feeling forthwith the outward burning power,
Wood with the smart, with shouts and shrieking shrill,
He sought his ease in river, field, and bower,
But for the time his grief went with him still.
So silly I, with that unwonted sight,
In human shape an Angel from above,
Feeding mine eyes, th'impression there did light,
That since I run and rest as pleaseth love,
The difference is, the Satyr's lips, my heart,
He for a while, I evermore have smart.
<POEM>
DIVIDE my times, and rate my wretched hours,
From day to month, from month to many years,
And then compare my sweetest to my sours,
To see which more in equal view appears;
And judge, if for my days and years of care,
I have not hours of comfort to compare.
<STANZA>
Just and not much, it were in these extremes,
So hard a touch and torment of the thought,
For any mind that any right esteems,
To yield so small delight, so dearly bought;
But he that lives but in his own despite
Is not to find his fortune by his right.
<STANZA>
The life that still runs forth her weary ways,
With sour to sauce the dainties of delight,
And care to choke the pleasure of her days,
And no reward those many wrongs to quite;
No blame to hold such irksome time in hate,
As but to lose, prolongs a wretched state.
<STANZA>
And so I loath even to behold the light,
That shines without all pleasure to mine eyes;
With greedy wish I wait still for the night,
Yet neither this I find that may suffice:
Not that I hold the day is more delight,
But that alike I loath both day and night. 
<STANZA>
The day I see yields but increase to care,
The night that should by nature serve to rest,
Against her kind denies such ease to spare,
As pity would afford the soul oppress'd;
And broken sleep's ofttimes present in sight,
A dreaming wish beguil'd with false delight.
<STANZA>
The sleep, or else what so for sweet appear,
Is unto me but pleasure in despite:
The flower of age, the name of younger years,
Do but usurp the title of delight;
For careful thought, and sorrow sundry ways,
Consumes my youth before my aged days.
<STANZA>
The touch, the sting, the torment of desire,
To strive beyond the compass of restraint,
Kept from the reach whereto it would aspire,
Gives cause (God knows) too just to my complaint,
Besides the wrongs, which now with my distress,
My meaning is in silence to suppress.
<STANZA>
Often with my self I enter in device,
To reconcile these weary thoughts to peace:
I treat for truce, I flatter and entice
My wrangling wits, to work for their release;
But all in vain I seek the means to find,
That might appease the discord of my mind.
<STANZA>
For when I force a feigned mirth in show,
And would forget, and so beguile my grief,
I cannot rid myself of sorrow so,
Although I feed upon a false belief:
For inward touch of uncontented mind,
Returns my cares by course unto their kind.
<STANZA>
Wain'd from my will, and thus by trial taught
How for to hold all fortune in regard,
Though here I boast a knowledge dearly bought,
Yet this poor gain I reap for my reward:
I learn hereby to harden and prepare
A ready mind for all assaults of care.
<STANZA>
Whereto, as one even from my cradle born
And not to look for better to ensue,
I yield my self, and wish these times outworn,
That but remain my torments to renew,
And leave to those, these days of my despite,
Whose better hap may live to more delight.
<POEM>
I would it were not as it is,
Or that I cared not yea or no;
I would I thought it not amiss,
Or that amiss might blameless go;
I would it were, yet would I not;
I might be glad, yet could I not.
<STANZA>
I would desire to know the mean,
Or that the mean desire sought;
I would I could my fancy wean
From such sweet joys as love hath wrought;
Only my wish is least of all:
A badge whereby to know a thrall.
<STANZA>
O happy man, which dost aspire
To that which seemly thou dost crave;
Thrice happy man, if thy desire
May win with hope, good hap to have;
But woe to me, unhappy man,
Whom hope nor hap acquiet can.
<STANZA>
The buds of hope are starved with fear,
And still his foe presents his face;
My state, if hope the palm should bear
Unto my hap, would be disgrace;
As diamond in wood were set,
Or Irus' rags in gold yfrett.
<STANZA>
For look, my tired shoulders bear
Desires' weary beating wings,
And at my feet a clog I wear,
Tied on with false disdaining strings;
My wings to mount aloft make haste,
My clog doth sink me down as fast.
<STANZA>
That is our state, lo thus we stand,
There rise to fall, that climb too high;
The boy that fled king Minos' land
May learn the wise more low to fly;
What gain'd his point against the sun,
He drown'd in seas, his noon that won.
<STANZA>
Yet Icarus more happy was,
By present death his cares to end,
Than I poor man, on whom, alas,
Ten thousand deaths their pains do send;
Now grief, now hope, now love, now spite,
Long sorrow mix'd with short delight.
<STANZA>
The fere and fellow of thy smart,
Prometheus, I am indeed,
Upon whose ever living heart
The greedy gryphs do daily feed;
        But he that lifts his heart too high
        Must be content to pine and die.
<POEM>
AMIDST the fairest mountain tops,
Where Zephyrus doth breathe
The pleasant gale, that clothes with flowers
The valleys underneath,
A shepherd liv'd, that dearly lov'd;
Dear Love, time brought to pass
A Forest Nymph, who was a fair
As ever woman was.
<STANZA>
His thoughts were higher then the hills
Whereof he had the keep,
But all his actions innocent,
As humble as his sheep:
Yet had he power, but her pure thoughts
Debarr'd his powers to rise
Higher then the kissing of her hands,
Or looking in her eyes.
<STANZA>
One day, (I need not name the day
To lovers of their sorrows,
But say, as one a shepherd said,
Their many nights have no morrows,)
He from his sheep cot led his sheep
To pasture in the lease,
And there to feed while he, the while,
Might dream of his disease.
<STANZA>
And all alone (if he remain
Alone, that is in love,)
Unto himself alone, he mourn'd
The passions he did prove.
<STANZA>
Oh Heavens! (quoth he), are these the effect
Of faithful love's deserts
Will Cynthia now forsake my love?
Have women faithless hearts?
<STANZA>
And will nor wits, nor words, nor works,
Nor long-endur'd laments,
Bring to my plaints, pity or peace:
Or to my tears, contents?
I, that enchain'd my love desires,
From changing thoughts as free, 
As ever were true thoughts to her,
Or her thoughts false to me;
<STANZA>
I, that for her my wand'ring sheep
Forsook, forgot, forwent;
Nor of my self, nor them took keep,
But in her love's content:
Shall I, like meads with winter's rain,
Be turned into tears,
Shall I, of whose true feeling pain,
These greens the record bears:
<STANZA>
Causeless be scorn'd, disdain'd, despis'd?
Then witness this desire;
Love was in women's weed disguis'd,
And not in men's attire.
And thus he said, and down he lies,
Sighing as life would part.
Oh, Cynthia, thou hast angel's eyes,
But yet a woman's heart!
<POEM>
He that his mirth hath lost, whose comfort is dismay'd,
Whose hope is vain, whose faith is scorn'd, whose trust is
all betray'd;
<STANZA>
If he have held them dear, and cannot cease to moan,
Come, let him take his place by me: he shall not rue alone.
<STANZA>
But if the smallest sweet be mix'd with all his sour,
If in the day, the month, the year, he feel one lightening hour,
<STANZA>
Then rest he by himself, he is no mate for me,
Whose fere is fallen, whose succor void, whose hurt his
death must be;
<STANZA>
Yet not the wished death, that hath not plaint nor lack,
Which making free the better part, is only nature's wrack;
<STANZA>
Oh no, that were too well: my death is of the mind,
Which always yields extremest pains, yet keeps the most behind.
<STANZA>
As one that lives in show, but inwardly doth die,
Whose knowledge is a bloody field where all help slain doth lie;
<STANZA>
Whose heart the Altar is, whose spirit the sacrifice
Unto the Powers, whom to appease no sorrows can suffice:
<STANZA>
My fancies are like thorns, on which I go by night,
Mine arguments are like an host, that force hath put 
to flight:
<STANZA>
My sense my passions spy, my thoughts like ruins old
Of famous Carthage or the town that Sinon bought and sold,
<STANZA>
Which still before my face my mortal foe doth lay,
Whom love and fortune once advanced and now hath cast 
away.
<STANZA>
Oh thoughts, no thoughts, but wounds, sometimes the 
seat of Joy,
Sometimes the chair of quiet rest, but now of all Annoy!
<STANZA>
I sowed the soil of peace, my bliss was in the spring,
And day by day I ate the fruits, that my Lives' tree did bring.
<STANZA>
To nettles now my Corn, my field is turn'd to flint,
Where, sitting in the Cypress' shade, I read the Hyacinth.
<STANZA>
The peace, the rest, the life, that I enjoyed of yore,
Came to my lot, that by my loss, my smart might smart the more.
<STANZA>
Thus to unhappy man, the best frames to the worst,
O time, o place, o words, o looks dear then, but now accurs'd:
<STANZA>
In was stands my delight, in is and shall my woe;
My horror hast'ned in the yea, my hope hangs in the no.
<STANZA>
I look for no release, release will come too late,
Too late I find, I find too well, too well stood my estate.
<STANZA>
Behold, such is the end, and nothing here is sure:
Oh, nothing else but plaints and cares, doth to the world endure.
<STANZA>
Forsaken first was I, then utterly forgotten,
And he that came not to my faith, lo, my reward hath gotten.
Then love, where is thy sauce, that makes thy torments sweet:
Where is the cause, that some have thought their death  through
thee but meet?
<STANZA>
The stately chaste disdain, the secret thankfulness,
The grace reserved, the common light that shines in     
worthiness?
<STANZA>
O that it were not so, or that I could excuse,
O that the wrath of Jealousy my Judgement might abuse!
<STANZA>
O frail unconstant kind, and safe in trust to no man!
No women angels be, and love, my mistress is a woman;
<STANZA>
Yet hate I but the fault, and not the faulty one,
Nor can I rid me of the bands wherein I lie alone.
<STANZA>
Alone I lie, whose like by love was never yet,
Nor rich, nor poor, nor young, nor old, nor fond, nor full of wit.
<STANZA>
Hers still remain must I, by wrong, by death, by shame:
I cannot blot out of my mind that love wrought in her name:
<STANZA>
I cannot set at nought that I have held so dear:
I cannot make it seem so far, that is indeed so near.
<STANZA>
Not that I mean henceforth this strange will to profess:
I never will betray such trust and build on fickleness;
<STANZA>
Nor shall it ever fail that my word have in hand:
I gave my word, my word gave me; both word and gift shall stand.
<STANZA>
Sith then it must be thus, and this is all to ill,
I yield me Captive to my curse, my hard fate to fulfill.
<STANZA>
The solitary woods my City shall become:
The darkest den shall be my lodge, whereto no light shall come:
<STANZA>
Of ebon black my board, the worms my feast shall be,
Wherewith my Carcass shall be fed, till they do feed on me:
<STANZA>        
My wine of Niobe, my bed the craggy rock,
The serpent's hiss my harmony, the screeching owl my clock:  
<STANZA>
Mine Exercise naught else but raging agonies,
My book of spiteful fortunes foils and dreary tragedies:
<STANZA>
My walks the paths of plaint, my prospect into Hell,
With Sisyphus and all his feres in endless pains to dwell.
<STANZA>
And though I seem to use the Poet's feigned style,
To figure forth my woeful plight, my fall, and my exile;
<STANZA>
Yet is my grief not feign'd, wherein I strive and pine:
Who feeleth most, shall find it least, comparing his with mine.
<STANZA>
My song, if any ask whose grievous Case is such,
Dy er thou let his name be known: his folly shows too much,
<STANZA>
But best were thee to hide, and never come to light,
For in the world can none but thee these accents sound  aright.
<STANZA>
And so an end, my Tale is told: his life is but disdain'd,
Whose sorrows present pain him so, his pleasures are full
feign'd. 
<POEM>
The man whose thoughts against him do conspire, 
In whom mishap her story did depaint; 
The man of woo, the matter of desire, 
Free of the dead that lives in endless plaint; 
His sprite am I which in this desert won, 
To rue his case whose cause I cannot shun. 
<STANZA> 
Despair my name who never seek relief, 
Friended of none, unto my self my foe, 
An idle care maintained by firm belief, 
That praise of faith shall through my torments grow, 
And count the hopes that other hearts do ease, 
But base conceits the common sort to please. 
<STANZA> 
I am most sure that I shall not attain, 
The only good wherein the joy doth lie; 
I have no power my passions to refrain, 
But wail the want which naught else may supply; 
Whereby my life the shape of death must bear, 
That death, which feels the worst that life doth fear. 
<STANZA> 
But what avails with Tragical complaint, 
Not hoping help, the furies to awake? 
Or why should I the happy minds acquaint 
With doleful tunes, their settled peace to shake? 
  O ye that here behold infortune's fare, 
  There is no grief that may with mine compare! 
<POEM>
Alas, my heart, mine eye hath wronged thee, 
Presumptuous eye, to gaze on Phyllis' face, 
Whose heavenly eye no mortal man may see, 
But he must die, or purchase Phyllis' grace: 
  Poor Corydon, the nymph whose eye doth move thee, 
  Doth love to draw, but is not drawn to love thee. 
<STANZA>
Her beauty, Nature's pride, and Shepherd's praise, 
Her eye, the heavenly Planet of my life, 
Her matchless wit and grace her fame displays, 
As if that Jove had made her for his wife; 
Only her eyes shoot fiery darts to kill, 
Yet is her heart as cold as Caucase hill. 
<STANZA> 
My wings too weak to fly against the Sun, 
Mine eyes unable to sustain her light, 
My heart doth yield that I am quite undone; 
Thus hath fair Phyllis slain me with her sight: 
My bud is blasted, withered is my leaf, 
And all my corn is rotted in the sheaf. 
<STANZA> 
Phyllis, the golden fetter of my mind, 
My fancy's Idol, and my vital power; 
Goddess of nymphs, and honor of thy kind, 
This age's Phoenix, beauty's richest bower: 
Poor Corydon for love of thee must die, 
Thy beauty's thrall, and conquest of thine eye. 
<STANZA> 
Leave, Corydon, to plough the barren field, 
Thy buds of hope are blasted with disgrace; 
For Phyllis' looks no hearty love do yield, 
Nor can she love, for all her lovely face, 
  Die, Corydon, the spoil of Phyllis' eye: 
She cannot love, and therefore thou must die. 
<POEM> 
Where one would be there not to be, 
What is a greater pain; 
Or what more grief there not to be, 
Where thou wouldst be full fain? 
<STANZA> 
Long time seems short when thou art there 
Where thou wouldst gladly be: 
Art thou not there where thou wouldst be, 
Then each day seemeth three. 
<STANZA> 
Unrip but that with thread is sewn, 
How loath it doth depart; 
Much loather then must needs be pulled 
The body from the heart. 
<STANZA> 
Then do thou haste thee to the stafe, 
With speed thy thread untwine; 
Each loving's heart would see his friend, 
And so would I do mine. 
<POEM> 
As rare to hear as seldom to be seen, 
It can not be, nor ever yet hath been, 
That fire should burn, with perfect heat and flame, 
Without some matter for to yield the same. 
<STANZA> 
A stranger case, yet true by proof I know: 
A man in joy that liveth still in woe, 
Burnt with desire, and doth possess at will, 
Enjoying all, yet all desiring still, 
<STANZA> 
Who hath enough, yet thinks he lives without; 
To want no love and yet to stand in doubt: 
What discontent to live in such desire, 
To have his will, yet ever to require! 
<POEM>
Amarillis was full fair, the goodliest maid was she, 
From the East unto the West, that heaven's eye could see, 
<STANZA> 
To Diana at her birth her parents did her give, 
All untouch'd a maiden's life during her days to live; 
<STANZA> 
Whose behest she constant kept, and wholly was inclin'd 
To be free to get great fame and win each worthy mind. 
<STANZA> 
As there was good cause Enough, so was she honored most: 
They that had her seen abroad, at home would make their 
    boast. 
<STANZA> 
Two there were that her beheld, and would have done so ever: 
Happy they, yea happy twice, if they had done so never! 
<STANZA> 
Corydon and Charimell, that long in dear accord 
Led their lives, and neither wished of other to be lord: 
<STANZA> 
All the goods that each possessed, of body, wealth, and mind, 
Were employed to others' use, as each by proof did find. 
<STANZA> 
They had no cause to envy aught the ancient world's praise 
Of Damon and of Pythias, and others in those days. 
<STANZA> 
Good and sure their friendship was, till Amarillis Fine 
Had the power, perhaps the will, the bands for to untwine. 
<STANZA> 
But the boy, that blinded god, in great despite complained, 
That one on earth there was alone that his laws quite disdained.
<STANZA> 
Whereupon his strongest bow and arrows sharp he sent; 
And in Amarillis' eye he slily pight his tent. 
<STANZA> 
Where he lay to mark both time and place for his avail, 
For the wights that wist not yet what foe should them assail. 
<STANZA> 
One of his two shafts was dipped in bitter sauce as gall, 
The other in a pleasant wine and poison mixed with all. 
<STANZA> 
And as they smacked of diverse sauce, so diversely they wrought:
By despair the one to death, by vain hope the other brought. 
<STANZA> 
With the first was Corydon through pierced to the heart: 
Charamell within his breast felt of the second smart. 
<STANZA> 
But with gold both headed were, which bred a like desire; 
Fain they would within their breast have hidden deep the fire. 
<STANZA> 
But without it must appear, that burned so hot within: 
Hard it is the flame to hide that it no issue win. 
<STANZA> 
And in time strange looks began, that sprang of Jealousy; 
Full of care each lay in wait, his fellow to descry. 
<STANZA> 
In the end, 'twixt these two friends, all friendly parts decayed:
Both were bent to please themselves; their friend's case nothing
weigh'd. 
<STANZA> 
Amarillis' love was sought with all they could devise, 
Yea, with all the power of man, and prayer to the skies. 
<STANZA> 
All she saw, and heard their moan, as asps doth the charm; 
Now and then she blames them both, as guilty of their harm. 
<STANZA> 
Now to the one she would give ear, then put the other off; 
By and by each did suspect his friend the cause thereof. 
<STANZA> 
But the trust by trial past made them their doom suspend, 
And in deed she used them most when passion did offend. 
<STANZA> 
He had need of store of time that would his pen prepare, 
To set forth all their agonies, their dread, hope, joy, and care.
<STANZA> 
But in vain  they spent their days, their labor all was lost: 
She was furthest from their meed when they forweaned most. 
<STANZA> 
Corydon wax'd pale and lean, his young hairs turned hoar; 
Feats of arms, the horse, the hank, he left and used no more. 
<STANZA> 
He had found that amarillis sought glory more than love, 
And that she forced not his harms her beauty's power to prove. 
<STANZA> 
Yet he could not leave to love, but yielding to despair, 
Bent his head, his corpse fell done, his ghost fled in the air. 
<STANZA> 
Charamell thought women kind, was apt to change and bow, 
And believed, to please him self, what fancy did allow. 
<STANZA> 
But belief ne makes the cause, nor weaving works the web: 
In the tide his travail came, he thrived in the ebb. 
<STANZA> 
At the last his wan hope him no longer could sustain: 
In his longing he consumed, life could him not retain. 
<STANZA> 
Amarillis heard of this, and pity moved withal; 
Much did rue so hard a hap on such faith should befall. 
<STANZA> 
To Diana straight she hies, whom waited on she found, 
With a train of all the dames whose chaste names' fame doth 
sound. 
<STANZA> 
Unto her in humble wise she said she came to sue, 
That those two to loving things might be transformed anew. 
<STANZA> 
In her arms the goddess mild, her darling soft did strain: 
What is that, that you, quoth she, of me may not obtain? 
<STANZA> 
There withal sir Charamell a yellow flower became, 
Sweet of scent and much esteemed, and heart's ease hath to name.
<STANZA>
Amarillis pluck'd the flower, and wore it on her head; 
Sometime she laid it on her lap, and sometime on her bed. 
<STANZA> 
Charamell, most happy flower, and most unhappy man: 
In thy life thou hadst thy death, in death this life began. 
<STANZA> 
Corydon, turned to an owl, fled to the wilderness; 
And never flocks, but leads life in solitariness. 
<STANZA> 
Not his eyes can yet behold the dear light of the sun; 
But aloofly steals his flight, and in the dark doth con. 
<STANZA> 
Amarillis to the wood at sometime will repair, 
And delights to hear the lay and tune of his despair. 
<STANZA> 
Well I wot what here is meant, and though a tale it seem, 
Shadows have their bodies by, and so of this esteem. 
<STANZA> 
Ye behind that chance to hear, and do not praise their speed, 
Give them thanks, for you by them are warned to take heed. 
<POEM> 
But now my Dear (for so my love makes me to call you still) 
That love I say, that luckless love, that works me all this ill.
<STANZA>
<The Encounter, or the Quarreller> 
Nor love hath now the force on me which it once had, 
Your frowns can neither make me mourn, nor favors make 
me glad. 
<STANZA> 
<Congeries, or the Heaping Figure>
But if my faith, my hope, my love, my true intent, 
My liberty, my service vowed, my time and all be spent 
In vain, andc. 
<POEM> 
The lowest trees have tops, the ant her gall, 
The fly her spleen, the little spark his heat: 
The slender hairs cast shadows, though but small, 
And bees have stings, although they be not great; 
  Seas have their source, and so have shallow springs: 
  And love is love, in beggars and in Kings. 
<STANZA> 
Where waters smoothest run, there deepest are the fords, 
The dial stirs, yet none perceives it move; 
The firmest faith is found in fewest words, 
The turtles do not sing, and yet they love; 
  True hearts have ears and eyes, no tongues to speak: 
  They hear and see, and sigh, and then they break. 
<POEM> 
Silence augmenteth grief, writing increaseth rage, 
Stalled are my thoughts, which loved, and lost, the wonder of our age; 
Yet quicken'd now with fire, though dead with frost ere now, 
Enrag'd I write, I know not what: dead, quick, I know not how.
<STANZA>  
Hard hearted minds relent, and rigor's tears abound, 
And ennui strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she found, 
Knowledge her light hath lost, valor hath slain her knight, 
Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the world's delight. 
<STANZA> 
Place pensive wails his fall, whose presence was her pride, 
Time crieth out, my ebb is come: his life was my spring tide, 
Fame mourns in that she lost, the ground of her reports, 
Each living wight laments his lack, and all in sundry sorts. 
<STANZA> 
He was (woe worth that word) to each well thinking mind, 
A spotless friend, a matchless man, whose virtue ever shin'd, 
Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ, 
Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit. 
<STANZA> 
He only like himself, was second unto none, 
Whose death (though life) we rue, and wrong, and all in vain do moan, 
Their loss, not him wail they, that fill the world with cries, 
Death slew not him, but he made death his ladder to the skies. 
<STANZA> 
Now sink of sorrow I, who live, the more the wrong, 
Who wishing death, whom death denies, whose thread is all too long, 
Who tied to wretched life, who looks for no relief, 
Must spend my ever dying days, in never ending grief. 
<STANZA> 
Heart's ease and only I, like parallels run on, 
Whose equal length, keep equal breadth, and never meet in one; 
Yet for not wronging him, my thoughts, my sorrow's cell, 
Shall not run out, though leak they will, for liking him so well.
<STANZA> 
Farewell to you my hopes, my wonted waking dreams, 
Farewell sometimes enjoyed joy, eclipsed are thy beams, 
Farewell self pleasing thoughts, which quietness brings forth, 
And farewell friendship's sacred league, uniting minds of worth; 
<STANZA> 
And farewell merry heart, the gift of guiltless minds, 
And all sports, which for lives restore, variety assigns, 
Let all that sweet is, void; in me no mirth may dwell, 
Philip, the cause of all this woe, my life's content farewell. 
<STANZA> 
Now rhyme, the son of rage, which art no kin to skill, 
And endless grief, which deads my life, yet knows not how to kill, 
Go seek that hapless tomb, which if ye hap to find, 
Salute the stones, that keep the limbs, that held so good a mind. 
<POEM> 
My mind to me a kingdom is, 
Such perfect joy therein I find, 
That it excels all other bliss 
That world affords or grows by kind: 
  Though much I want which most would have, 
  Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 
<STANZA> 
No princely pomp, no wealthy store, 
No force to win the victory, 
No wily wit to salve a sore, 
No shape to feed a loving eye; 
  To none of these I yield as thrall: 
  For why? my mind doth serve for all. 
<STANZA> 
I see how plenty suffers oft, 
And hasty climbers soon do fall: 
I see that those which are aloft 
Mishap doth threaten most of all: 
  They get with toil, they keep with fear; 
  Such cares my mind could never bear. 
<STANZA> 
Content I live, this is my stay: 
I seek no more than may suffice, 
I press to bear no haughty sway; 
Look, what I lack my mind supplies: 
  Lo, thus I triumph like a king, 
  Content with that my mind doth bring. 
<STANZA> 
Some have too much, yet still do crave, 
I little have, and seek no more: 
They are but poor, though much they have, 
And I am rich with little store: 
  They poor, I rich; they beg, I give: 
  They lack, I leave; they pine, I live. 
<STANZA> 
I laugh not at another's loss, 
I grudge not at another's gain: 
No worldly waves my mind can toss, 
My state at one doth still remain: 
  I fear no foe, I fawn no friend, 
  I loathe not life, nor dread no end. 
<STANZA> 
Some weigh their pleasure by their lust, 
Their wisdom by their rage of will: 
Their treasure is their only trust, 
A cloaked craft their store of skill: 
  But all the pleasure that I find 
  Is to maintain a quiet mind. 
<STANZA> 
My wealth is health and perfect ease, 
My conscience clear my chief defense: 
I neither seek by bribes to please, 
Nor by desert to breed offense: 
  Thus do I live, thus will I die; 
  Would all did so, as well as I.
</FILE>
<FILE Oxapoc.d>
<AUTH> Earl of Oxford, Richard de Vere
<TITLE> Apocrypha
<NOTES>
<POEM>
Sitting alone upon my thought in melancholy mood,
In sight of sea and at my back an ancient, hoary wood,
I saw a fair young lady come her secret tears to wail,
Clad all in color of a vow and covered with a vail.
Yet for the day was clear and calm, I might discern her face,
As one might see a damask rose though hid with crystal	glass.
Three times with her soft hand full hard upon her heart
she knocks,
And sighed so sore as might have moved some mercy in the	
rocks;
From sighs and shedding amber tears into sweet song she	
brake,
And thus the echo answered her to every word she spake.

"O heavens," quoth she, "who was the first that bred in
me this fever?"	
vere	 
"Who was the first that gave the wound whose scar I wear
forever?"			
vere
"What tyrant, Cupid, to my harms usurps thy golden
quiver?"			
vere
"What wight first caught this heart and can from bondage
it deliver?"		
vere
"Yet who doth most adore this wight?  O hollow caves
tell true;"		
you
"What nymph deserves his liking best? yet doth in sorrow
rue?"			
you
"What makes him not regard good will with some remorse or
ruth?"			
youth
"What makes him show besides his birth such pride and
such untruth?"		
youth

"May I his beauty match with love if he my love will
try?"			
I
"May I requite his birth with faith? then faithful will I
die."			
I
And I that knew this lady well said lord, how great a
miracle,
To hear the echo tell her truth as 'twere Apollo's
oracle.
Vavaser
<POEM>
My mind to me a kingdom is, such perfect joy therein I find,
That it excel all other bliss that world affords or grows
by kind;
Though much I want which most men have, yet still my mind
forbids to crave.
No princely pomp, no wealthy store, no force to win the
victory,
No wily wit to salve a sore, no shape to feed each gazing eye,
To none of these I yield as thrall; for why? my mind doth serve
for all.
I see how plenty suffers oft, how hasty Climbers soon do
fall;
I see that those that are aloft, mishap doth threaten most of
all;
They get with toil, they keep with fear, such cares my mind
could never bear.
Content I live, this is my stay, I seek no more than may suffice;
I press to bear no haughty sway, look what I lack my mind
supplies.
Lo thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth
bring.
Some have to much yet still do crave, I little have and seek
no more;
They are but poor though much they have and I am rich with
little store.
They poor, I rich, they beg, I give, They lack I leave, they
pine, I live.
I laugh not at another's loss, I grudge not at another's gain,
No worldly waves my mind can toss, my state at one doth still
remain;
I fear no foe nor fawning friend, I loath not lie nor dread
my end.
Some weigh their pleasure by their lust, their wisdom by their
rage of will;
Their treasure is their only trust, and cloaked craft their
store of skill;
But all the pleasure that I find, is to maintain a quiet mind.
My wealth is health and perfect ease, my conscience clear my
chief defense;
I neither seek by bribes to please, nor by desert to breed
offense.
Thus do I live, thus will I die, would all did so as well as I.
<POEM>
If women could be fair and yet not fond,
Or that there love were firm, not fickle still,
I would not marvel that they make men bond,
By service long to purchase their good will; 
But when I see how frail those creatures are,
I muse that men forget themselves so far.  
To make the choice they make and how they change,
How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan,
Unsettled still like haggard wild they range,
These gentle birds that fly from man to man;
Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist,
And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list?
<STANZA>
Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both,
To pass the time when nothing else can please,
And train them to our lure with subtle oath,
Till weary of their wiles our selves we ease;
And then we say when we their fancy try,
To play with fools, oh what a fool was I.
<POEM>
In Peascod time when hound to horn gives ear while Buck is
kill'd,
And little boys with pipes of Corn, sit keeping beasts in field,
I went to gather Strawberries though when woods and groves
were fair,
And parch'd my face with Phoebus lo, by walking in the air.
I lay me down all by a stream and banks all over head,
And there I found the strangest dream, that ever young man had.
<STANZA>
Me thought I saw each Christmas game, both revels all and some,
And each thing else that man could name or might by fancy come,
The substance of the thing I saw, in Silence pass it shall,
Because I lack the skill to draw, the order of them all;
But Venus shall not scape my pen, whose maidens in disdain,
Sit feeding on the hearts of men, whom Cupid's bow hath slain.
<STANZA>
And that blind Boy sat all in blood, bebathed to the Ears,
And like a conqueror he stood, and scorned lovers' tears.
"I have more hearts" quoth he, "at call, then Caesar could command,
And like the deer I make them fall, that overcross the land."
"I do increase their wandering wits, till that I dim their sight,
"Tis I that do bereave them of their Joy and chief delight."
<STANZA>
Thus did I see this bragging Boy advance himself even then,
Deriding at the wanton toys, of foolish loving men. 
Which when I saw for anger than my panting breast did beat,
To see how he sat taunting them, upon his royal seat.
O then I wish'd I had been free, and cured were my wound;  
Me thought I could display his arms, and coward deeds expound
<STANZA>
But I perforce must stay my muse, full sore against my heart.
For that I am a Subject wight, and lanced with his dart.
But if that I achieve the fort, which I have took in charge,
My Hand and Head with quivering quill, shall blaze his name at large
</FILE>
<FILE Oxpoems.d>
<AUTH> Earl of Oxford, Edward de Vere
<TITLE> Poems
<NOTES> Typed and proofed by Ward Elliott june 18 1989
<POEM>
The laboring man that tills the fertile soil, 
And reaps the harvest fruit, hath not in deed 
The gain but pain, and if for all his toil 
He gets the straw, the lord will have the seed. 
The manchet fine falls not unto his share; 
On coarsest cheat his hungry stomach feeds. 
The landlord doth possess the finest fare; 
He pulls the flowers,the other plucks but weeds. 
The mason poor that builds the lordly halls, 
Dwells not in them, they are for high degree; 
His cottage is compact in paper walls, 
And not with brick or stone, as others be. 
The idle drone that labors not at all, 
Sucks up the sweet of honey from the Bee. 
Who worketh most, to their share least doth fall, 
With due desert reward will never be. 
The swiftest Hare unto the Mastiff slow 
Oft-times doth fall, to him as for a prey; 
The Greyhound thereby doth miss his game we know, 
For which he made such speedy haste away. 
So he that takes the pain to pen the book, 
Reaps not the gifts of goodly golden Muse; 
But those gain that who on the work shall look, 
And from the sour the sweet by skill doth choose; 
For he that beats the bush the bird not gets, 
But who sits still, and holdeth fast the nets. 
Ev'n as the wax doth melt, or dew consume away, 
Before the sun, so I behold, through careful thoughts decay; 
For my best luck leads me to such sinister state, 
That I do waste with others' love, that hath myself in hate. 
And he that beats the bush the wished bird not gets, 
But such, I see as sitteth still, and holds the fowling nets. 
The Drone more honey sucks, that laboreth not at all, 
Than doth the Bee, to whose most pain, least pleasure doth befall:
The gard'ner sows the seeds, whereof the flowers do grow, 
And others yet do gather them, that took less pain I trow. 
So I the pleasant grape have pulled from the vine, 
And yet I languish in great thirst, while others drink the wine.
Thus like a woeful wight I wove my web of woe, 
The more I would weed out my cares, the more they seem to grow: 
The which betokeneth hope, forsaken is of me, 
That with the careful culver climbs the worn and withered tree, 
To entertain my thoughts, and there my hap to moan, 
That never am less idle lo! than when I am alone. 
A crown of bays shall that man wear, 
That triumphs over me; 
For black and tawny will I wear, 
Which mourning colors be. 
The more I follow'd on, 
The more she fled away, 
As Daphne did full long agone, 
Apollo's wishful prey. 
The more my plaints resound, 
The less she pities me; 
The more I sought the less I found, 
That mine she meant to be. 
Melpomene, alas with doleful tunes help then, 
And sing Bis woe worth on me, forsaken man; 
Then Daphne's bays shall that man wear,
That triumphs over me,
For black and tawny will I wear,
Which mourning colors be. 
Drown me you trickling tears,
You wailful wights of woe,
Come help these hands to rend my hairs,
My rueful haps to show.
On whom the scorching flames
Of love, doth feed you see,
Ah a lalalantida my dear dame, 
Hath thus tormented me. 
Wherefore you Muses nine, with doleful tunes help then, 
And sing Bis woe worth on me forsaken man; 
Then Daphne's bays shall that man wear,
That triumphs over me,
For black and tawny will I wear, 
Which mourning colors be.
An anchor's life to lead, 
With nails to scratch my grave, 
Where earthly worms on me shall feed, 
Is all the joys I crave; 
And hide myself from shame, 
Sith that mine eyes do see, 
Ah a lalalantida my dear dame,
Hath thus tormented me. 
And all that present be, with doleful tunes help then;
And sing Bis woe worth on me, forsaken man. 
Fram'd in the front of forlorn hope, past all recovery, 
I stayless stand, t' abide the shock of shame and infamy. 
My life,through ling'ring long,is lodg'd in lair of loathsome ways, 
My death delay'd to keep from life the harm of hapless days. 
My sprites, my heart,my wit and force,in deep distress are drown'd; 
The only loss of my good name, is of these griefs the ground. 
And since my mind, my wit, my head, my voice and tongue are weak,
To utter, move, devise, conceive, sound forth, declare and speak,
Such piercing plaints as answer might, or would my woeful case, 
Help, crave I must, and crave I will, with tears upon my face, 
Of all that may in heaven or hell, in earth or air be found, 
To wail with me this loss of mine, as of these griefs the ground
Help Gods, help saints, help sprites and powers that in the 
heaven do dwell, 
Help ye that are to wail aye wont, ye howling hounds of hell;
Help man, help beasts, help birds and worms, that on the earth 
doth toil; 
Help fish, help fowl, that flock and feed upon the salt sea soil,
Help echo that in air doth flee, shrill voices to resound, 
To wail this loss of my good name, as of these griefs the ground,
I am not as I seem to be, 
For when I smile I am not glad; 
A thrall, although you count me free, 
I most in mirth, most pensive sad, 
I smile to shade my bitter spite,
As Hannibal that saw in sight 
His country soil, with Carthage town, 
By Roman force, defaced down. 
And Caesar that presented was, 
With noble Pompey's princely head; 
As 'twere some judge, to rule the case, 
A flood of tears he seemed to shed.
Although in deed it sprung of joy;
Yet others thought it was annoy.
Thus contraries be used I find,
Of wise to cloak the covert mind.
I Hannibal that smiles for grief, 
And let you Caesar's tears suffice:
The one that laughs at his mischief' 
The other all for joy that cries. 
I smile to see me scorned so, 
You weep for joy to see me woe:
And I a heart by Love slain dead, 
Presents in place of Pompey's head. 
O cruel hap and hard estate,
That forceth me to love my foe; 
Accursed by so foul a fate, 
My choice for to prefix it so. 
So long to fight with secret sore, 
And find no secret salve therefor; 
Some purge their pain by plaint I find, 
But I in vain do breathe my wind. 
If care or skill could conquer vain desire,  
Or reason's reins my strong affection stay,
Then should my sights, to quiet breast retire,  
And shun such signs as secret thoughts bewray.   
Uncomely Love, which now lurks in my breast,  
Should cease my grief, through wisdom's power oppress'd.
But who can leave to look on Venus's face,
Or yieldeth not to Juno's high estate?
What wit so wise, as gives not Pallas place?
These virtues rare, each God did yield amate,   
Save her alone, who yet on earth doth reign, 
Whose beauties' string, no God can well distrain.
What worldly wight can hope for heavenly hire,
When only sights must make his secret moan?
A silent suit doth seld to Grace aspire.
My hapless hap doth roll the restless stone;   
Yet Phoebe fair disdain'd the heavens above,  
To joy on earth her poor Endymion's love.   
Rare is reward where none can justly crave,
For chance is choice where reason makes no claim;  
Yet luck sometimes despairing souls doth save,
A happy star made Gyges joy attain.
A slavish Smith, of rude and rascal race,
Found means in time to gain a Goddess' grace.
Then lofty Love, thy sacred sails advance,
My sithing seas shall flow with streams of tears:
Amidst disdain drive forth thy doleful chance,
A valiant mind no deadly danger fears.
Who loves aloft and sets  his heart on high,
Deserves no pain, though he do pine and die. 
My meaning is to work what wonders love hath wrought,
Wherewith I muse why men of wit have love so dearly bought;
For love is worse than hate, and eke more harm hath done,
Record I take of those that rede of Paris, Priam's son. 
It seemed the god of sleep had mazed so much his wits, 
When he refused wit for love, which cometh but by fits; 
But why accuse I him, whom earth hath covered long? 
There be of his posterity alive, I do him wrong;
Whom I might well condemn, to be a cruel judge 
Unto myself who hath the crime in others that I grudge. 
The Lively Lark stretch'd forth her wing, 
The messenger of morning bright, 
And with her Cheerful voice did sing 
The day's approach, discharging Night; 
When that Aurora blushing Red, 
Descried the guilt of Thetis' bed. 
I went abroad to take the air, 
And in the meads I met a knight
Clad in Carnation Color fair, 
I did salute this gentle wight,
Of him I did his name inquire,
He sigh'd, and said it was Desire. 
Desire I did desire to stay,
Awhile with him I Crav'd to talk,
The Courteous knight said me no nay, 
But hand in hand with me did walk.
Then of Desire I ask'd again, 
What things did please and what did pain? 
He smiled, and thus he answered then: 
Desire can have no greater pain, 
Than for to see another man, 
That he desireth to obtain,
Nor greater Joy Can be than this, 
Than to enjoy that others miss. 
The trickling tears that falls along my cheeks,
The secret sighs that shows my inward grief,   
The present pains perforce, that Love aye seeks,  
Bids me renew my cares without relief,
In woeful song, in dole display,  
My pensive heart for to bewray. 
Bewray my grief, thou woeful heart with speed,  
Resign thy voice to her that caus'd thy woe;
With irksome cries bewail thy late done deed,
For she thou lovest is sure thy mortal foe;  
And help for thee there is none sure,
But still in pain thou must endure.
The stricken deer hath help to heal his wound,
The haggard hawk with toil is made full tame,
The strongest tower,the Cannon lays on ground,  
The wisest wit that ever had the fame, 
Was thrall to love by Cupid's sleights:   
Then weigh my case with equal wights. 
She is my joy, she is my care and woe,
She is my pain, she is my ease therefor;
She is my death, she is my life also,
She is my salve, she is my wounded sore;
In fine, she hath the hand and knife,
That may both save and end my life.
And shall I live on earth to be her thrall?
And shall I live and serve her all in vain?
And kiss the steps that she lets fall,  
And shall I pray the Gods to keep the pain 
From her that is so cruel still?
No, no, on her work all your will.
And let her feel the power of all your might,
And let her have her most desire with speed,
And let her pine away both day and night,
And let her moan and none lament her need;
And let all those that shall her see,
Despise her state and pity me.
Fain would I sing but fury makes me fret,
And rage hath sworn to seek revenge of wrong;
My mazed mind in malice so is set,
As Death shall daunt my deadly dolors long.
Patience perforce is such a pinching pain,
As die I will or suffer wrong again.
I am no sot to suffer such abuse
As doth bereave my heart of his delight,
Nor will I frame myself to such as use
With calm consent to suffer such despite; 
No quiet sleep shall once possess mine eye, 
Till wit have wrought his will on Injury.
My heart shall fail and hand shall lose his force,
But some device shall pay despite his due;
And Fury shall consume my careful corse,
Or raze the ground whereon my sorrow grew.
Lo, thus in rage of ruthful mind refus'd,
I rest reveng'd on whom I am abus'd.
When wert thou born desire? 
In pomp and prime of May.
By whom sweet boy wert thou begot?
By good Conceit, men say.
Tell me who was thy Nurse? 
Fresh youth,in sugar'd Joy.
What was thy meat and daily food?
Sad sighs with great annoy. 
What had'st thou then to drink? 
Unfeigned lover's tears.
What cradle wert thou rocked in?
In Hope devoid of Fears.
What brought thee asleep? 
Sweet speech that liked me best.
And where is now thy dwelling place?
In gentle hearts I rest.
Doth company displease?
It doth in many a one.
Where would desire then choose to be?
He likes to muse alone.
What feedeth most your sight?
To gaze on Favor still.
What find'st thou most to be thy foe?
Disdain of my good will.
Will ever age or death
Bring thee unto decay?
No, no, Desire both lives and dies 
Ten thousand times a day.
Wing'd with desire, I seek to mount on high;
Clogg'd with mishap yet am I kept full low;
Who seeks to live and finds the way to die,
Sith comfort ebbs, and cares do daily flow. 
But sad despair would have me to retire,
When smiling hope sets forward my desire.
I still do toil and never am at rest,
Enjoying least when I do covet most;
With weary thoughts are my green years oppress'd,
To danger drawn from my desired coast.
Now crazed with Care, then haled up with Hope,
With world at will yet wanting wished scope.
I like in heart, yet dare not say I love,
And looks alone do lend me chief relief.
I dwelt sometimes at rest yet must remove, 
With feigned joy I hide my secret grief. 
I would possess yet needs must flee the place 
Where I do seek to win my chiefest grace. 
Lo this I live 'twixt fear and comfort toss'd, 
With least abode where best I feel content; 
I seld resort where I should settle most, 
My sliding times too soon with her are spent. 
I hover high and soar where Hope doth tower,
Yet froward Fate defers my happy hour.
I live abroad but still in secret grief, 
Then least alone when most I seem to lurk; 
I speak of peace, and live in endless strife, 
And when I play then are my thoughts at work; 
In person far that am in mind full near, 
Making light show where I esteem most dear. 
A malcontent yet seem I pleased still, 
Bragging of heaven yet feeling pains of hell. 
But Time shall frame a time unto my will, 
Whenas in sport this earnest will I tell; 
Till then (sweet friend) abide these storms with me, 
Which shall in joys of either fortunes be. 
Whereas the Heart at Tennis plays and men to gaming fall, 
Love is the Court, Hope is the House, and Favor serves the Ball.
The Ball itself is True Desert, the Line which Measure shows 
Is Reason, whereon Judgment looks how players win or lose. 
The Jetty is deceitful Guile, the Stopper, Jealousy, 
Which hath Sir Argoes' hundred Eyes, wherewith to watch and pry.
The Fault wherewith fifteen is lost is want of wit and Sense, 
And he that brings the Racket in, is Double Diligence. 
And lo the Racket is Free will, which makes the Ball rebound, 
And Noble Beauty is the chase, of every game the ground. 
But Rashness strikes the Ball awry, and so the Ball takes flight.
<STANZA>
Now in the end Good liking proves 
Content the game and gain. 
Thus in a Tennis knit I Love, 
A Pleasure mix'd with Pain. 
What cunning can express  
The favor of her face?   
To whom in this distress,  
I do appeal for grace.   
A thousand Cupids fly,  
About her gentle eye. 
From whence each throws a dart,  
That kindleth soft sweet fire:   
Within my sighing heart,  
Possessed by Desire.   
No sweeter life I try,  
Than in her love to die. 
The lily in the field,  
That glories in his white,  
For pureness now must yield,  
And render up his right;
Heav'n pictur'd in her face,  
Doth promise joy and grace. 
Fair Cynthia's silver light,  
That beats on running streams,  
Compares not with her white,  
Whose hairs are all sunbeams;  
Her virtues so do shine,  
As day unto my eyne. 
With this there is a Red,  
Exceeds the Damask Rose,  
Which in her cheeks is spread,  
Whence every favor grows;   
In sky there is no star,  
That she surmounts not far. 
When Phoebus from the bed,
Of Thetis doth arise,  
The morning blushing red,  
In fair carnation wise;  
He shows it in her face,  
As Queen of every grace. 
This pleasant lily white,  
This taint of roseate red;   
This Cynthia's silver light,  
This sweet fair Dea spread,   
These sunbeams in mine eye,  
These beauties make me die. 
Who taught thee first to sigh, alas, my heart? 
Who taught thy tongue the woeful words of plaint?
Who fill'd thine eyes with tears of bitter smart? 
Who gave thee grief and made thy joys so faint? 
love.
Who first did paint with colors pale thy face?  
Who first did break thy sleeps of quiet rest? 
Above the rest in Court who gave thee Grace? 
Who made thee strive in virtue to be best? 
Love.
In Constant troth to bide so firm and sure, 
To scorn the world regarding but thy friend? 
With patient mind each passion to endure, 
In one desire to settle to thy end? 
Love
Love then thy Choice, wherein such faith doth bind, 
As nought but death may ever Change thy mind. 
Were I a king I might command content; 
Were I obscure unknown would be my cares, 
And were I dead no thoughts should me torment, 
Nor words, nor wrongs, nor love, nor hate, nor fears; 
A doubtful choice of these things which to crave, 
A kingdom or a cottage or a grave. 
</FILE>
<FILE  qe1poems.ed>
<AUTH> Queen Elizabeth I
<TITLE> Poems
<NOTES>
<POEM>
Fools that true faith yet never had
Saith in their hearts, there is no God.  
Filthy they are in their practice, 
Of them not one is godly wise.  
From heaven the Lord on man did look 
To know what ways he undertook.  
All they were vain and went astray, 
Not one he found in the right way. 
In heart and tongue they have deceit, 
Their lips throw forth a poisoned bait. 
Their minds are mad, their mouths are wood, 
And swift they be in shedding blood.  
So blind they are, no truth they know,
No fear of God in them will grow.  
How can that cruel sort be good,
Of God's dear flock which suck the blood?  
On him rightly shall they not call, 
Despair will so their hearts appall.  
At all times God is with the just, 
Because they put in him their trust.  
Who shall therefore from Zion give 
That health which hangeth in our belief?  
When God shall take from his the smart, 
Then will Jacob rejoice in heart.  
Praise to God.
<POEM>
Amazed to see nought under heaven's cope 
Steady and fast, thus to myself I spake: 
Advise thee well -- on whom doth hang thy hope?  
On God, said I, that promise never break 
With those that trust in him.  But now I know 
How erst the fickle world abused me, 
Eke what I am and was.  And now to go 
Or rather fly the nimble time I see, 
Blame would I, wist I whom; for all the crime 
Is mine that should (not slacking till the last) 
Have erst unclosed mine eyes before this time.  
For truth to say, old wax I all too fast, 
But over late God's grace came never yet.  
In me also I trust there shall be wrought 
Works wonderful and strange by means of it.  
These said and answer made, thus more I thought: 
If none of all these things do stand in stay 
That heaven turns and guides, what end at last 
Shall follow of their ever turning sway?  
While deeper yet my searching mind I cast, 
A world all new even then it seemed me 
In ever changing and ever living age, 
The sun, the sky with all her stars to see 
Dissolved quite with earth and seas that rage, 
One made more fair and pleasant in his place.  
When him that never stayed but erst to change 
Each thing was wont wandering in divers race 
Stand on one foot I saw; how seemed it strange 
All his three parts brought into only one, 
And that one fast, so that as wont it was 
No more swift it hasted to be gone 
But had one show as earth despoiled of grass.  
There were not shall be, hath been, after erst 
To irksome, weak and divers state that brought 
Our life.  As sun doth pierce the glass, so pierced 
My thought, yea more, for nothing stoppeth thought.  
Even face to face the greatest good of all 
(No ill which only time gives and again 
As first it came with time eke part it shall).  
The Bull or Fish lodge shall no more the sun, 
Whose change doth make a toil now die, now spring, 
Now waste, now grow.  Oh happy sprites that won 
Or shall hereafter stand in the chief ring, 
Whose names aye memory writes in her book!  
Oh happy he to find, whose hap shall be, 
The deep channel of this swift running brook, 
Whose name is life, that many wish to see. 
Wretched and blind the common sort that stay 
Their hope on things which time reaves in a trice, 
All deaf, naked and subject to decay, 
Quite void of reason and of good advice 
And wretched mortal men throughout diseased.  
Whose beck doth guide the world, by whom at jar 
Are set the elements and eke appeased, 
Whose skill doth stretch beyond my reach so far 
That even the angels are content and joy 
Of thousand parts but one to see, and bend 
Their wits to this, and this wish to enjoy.  
Oh happy wandering mind, aye hungering to the end, 
What mean so many thoughts?  One hour doth reave 
That many years gathered with much ado.  
Tomorrow, yesterday, morning and eve, 
That press our soul and it encumber so, 
Before him pass shade-like at once away, 
For was or shall be no place shall be found 
But for the time of is, now and today, 
Only eternity knit fast and sound. 
Huge hills shall be made plain that stopped clean 
Our sight, nor shall there anything remain 
Whereon may hope or our remembrance lean, 
Whose change make other do that is but vain, 
And life to seem a sport.  Even with this thought, 
What shall I be, what was I heretofore, 
All shall be one nor piece-meal parted ought. 
Summer shall be nor winter any more, 
But time shall die, and place be changed withal, 
And years shall bear no rule on mortal fame, 
But his renown forever flourish shall 
That once achieved to be of flowering name.  
Oh happy souls that now the path doth tread 
Or henceforth shall, when so it haps to be, 
Which to the end whereof I speak doth lead. 
Of fair and wandering sprites yet happiest she 
Whom death hath slain for short of nature's bound.  
The heavenly talk, good words and thoughts so chaste 
Open shall lie unfolded in that stound,  
Which kind within a youthful heart hath placed.
<POEM>
What harming hurl of fortune's arm thou dreadest, 
Let fraught of faith the burden of care relieve, 
And take thou such, to fear approved by proof, 
The unpicked locks of certain trust to hold; 
For reason is the faith, and rarely kept is trust, 
Where puffed sails from best forewinds be fallen.  
The weight of scepter's sway if choice must bear, 
Albeit the vulgar crew fill full thy gates, 
And hundred thresholds with their feet be smoothed: 
Though with thy gleaves and axes thou be armed, 
And root full great do glory give thy name, 
Amid the view of all these sundry sorts 
One faultless faith her room even scant may claim. 
The golden ledge full wrathful spites besets, 
And where the gates their posts draw forth by breadth 
More easy way to guiles and passed safe.  
Heed then the clocks of warned harms with good, 
And let the hidden blade not wrong thee work, 
For when most show by gazer's eyes is spied, 
And presence great thy honor most advance, 
This gift retain as fellow to thy room: 
Disdain may frown, but envy thrust thee through.  
No ofter dost the east the night's care release 
And makes the shady dark with light abash 
Than kings be made in an instant short, and marred; 
So icy is their joy and hopeless woe.  
The love of kingdom's rule observed with care, 
But for himself a king but few regard.  
The court's luster a stale guest made for me, 
Delighted with the shine no woe forthought. 
And this man seeks the nearest room to prince, 
To glittering view amid the streets he comes; 
While broiled is with cark the miser's breast 
In search of gainful grasp his name to spread.  
In compass of the hoarded heaps to find 
One bit to slake desire's wave he seeks. 
Not all the coast where Istrus' trade doth haunt, 
With gems bedecked through hue of diverse kind, 
Nor Lydia fair with sweetest streams suffice 
To quench nor answer all such thirst by half; 
Nor yet the soil that bides Zephirus' slave, 
Abashed at golden shining Tagus' beams, 
Nor Hebrus' service may content at full, 
Rich though Hydaspes' hedge his fields throw out, 
Though Ganges' course his confines all do graze 
With filled force to water all his lands.  
To greedy grating wights enough not all 
That nature well doth please his lack not so.  
This man doth homage unto kingly force, 
And harbor Rome adores where last he haunts, 
Not meaning that this plowshare should advance 
Like crooked hind his master's gain with clots 
By murdering the ground; no ease of toil 
Though thousand leas his husbandmen turn up.  
Well pleased rests his hearth with goods even such 
As pleasure may by gift another need.  
A badder sort the prince's court regard 
With foiled foot that stumble give at all 
And each to lose with no avail to one.  
That might may equal harm they power achieve 
Whose living's thread drawn out is of such length 
Whom hap nor takes ere nature calls away.  
The horned newed moon them blessed calls 
Whose wane them misers judges when day doth fall.  
A man full rarely happy is and old.  
More surer sleeps thee downy turfs procure: 
All Tyre, where purple woven is and made, 
Not so sound slumber doth his owner yield. 
The gilded roofs the quiet rest bereave, 
And waking nights the purple draws from ease.  
O that the breasts of rich men naked were, 
The smoothed dreads of lofty lucks that hide; 
The Brutian stream more milder course doth hold 
When eastern wind him strikes with force's stroke.  
In franched mind from care the silly soul possest, 
A pot of beechen tree full sure he keeps 
With steady hand that fears no snatch from hold.  
No sudden fright affrays, no thief he dreads; 
With ease y-got and single show he feeds 
And recks not for the girded blades to thigh.  
The golden cup of bloody mixture keeps.  
The wife that is y-tied to man of mean estate 
No carking hath in order pain to set, 
Nor shining gift of reddy sea she wears 
Her ears free from the pluck of gemmy weight; 
No stone of Eoas' waves her cumber makes.  
Soft wool ingrained with Sidon's purple fair 
Drinks not the red for use that her befalls; 
No Maeon needle filleth she with skeins 
By parted hues that give the shade with art.  
The silky land that lies to sunny east 
Needs not the fruit from eastern tree to pluck; 
Every herb the colors' die may mix 
That distaff fills with yarn that skill not spun. 
She nursed not the doubts of wedlock bed; 
Of lewd suspect of weary works she shuns.  
The wrathful lamp Erinis lighteth up 
The feastful day adorns by pestering rout.  
The poor man deemeth not his happy state 
Till wealthy folk by fall it show.  
Who so, therefore, the middle way eschews 
The wry and crooked balk's most sure to tread.  
While Phaeton boy one day of father got 
To rule the reins and eke his wain to guide 
In leaving wonted walk and worned ways 
Which by slide, while the uncouth skies he shares 
Such place as heat of Phoebus' flame knew not.  
His ruin was the world his fellow plain.  
Daedalus yet more larger scope and broader took, 
Who never yet a sea by name did grace. 
Though Icarus sought the true and living birds 
By guile to pass and win the tryer's right, 
His father's feathered wings despised with scorn, 
To Phoebus near with swifty gait he hies, 
And christened by this slip the sea was sure.  
Evil bought the great where ill exceeds the good.  
Let one full happy be and highly flee.  
God shield that mighty me the vulgar call.  
The lee of shore my silly boat shall loathe, 
Let no full wind to depth my bark bequeath. 
From safest creeks doth fortune glide and shun, 
With search in middest sea for tallest ship 
And takes its dearest prey the nearer to cloud.  
<POEM>
Rhymes that my growing study once performed, 
In tears, alas, compelled, woeful staves begin.  
My muses torn, behold, what right I should, indicts, 
Where true woeful verse my face with dole bedews.  
This at last no terror might constrain, 
<POEM>
Much suspected by me, 
Nothing proved can be, 
Quoth Elizabeth prisoner.  
<POEM>
Oh fortune, thy wresting wavering state 
Hath fraught with cares my troubled wit, 
Whose witness this present prison late 
Could bear, where once was joy's loan quit.  
Thou causedst the guilty to be loosed 
From bands where innocents were enclosed, 
And caused the guiltless to be reserved, 
And freed those that death had well deserved.  
But all herein can be nothing wrought, 
So God send to my foes all they have thought.  
<POEM>
No crooked leg, no bleared eye, 
No part deformed out of kind, 
Nor yet so ugly half can be 
As is this inward suspicious mind.  
<POEM>
The doubt of future foes exiles my present joy, 
And wit me warns to shun such snares as threaten mine annoy; 
For falsehood now doth flow, and subjects' faith doth ebb, 
Which should not be if reason ruled or wisdom weaved the web.  
But clouds of joys untried do cloak aspiring minds, 
Which turn to rain of late repent by changed course of winds.  
The top of hope supposed the root upreared shall be, 
And fruitless all their grafted guile, as shortly ye shall see.  
The dazzled eyes with pride, which great ambition blinds, 
Shall be unsealed by worthy wights whose foresight falsehood finds. 
The daughter of debate that discord aye doth sow 
Shall reap no gain where former rule still peace hath taught to know.  
No foreign banished wight shall anchor in this port; 
Our realm brooks not seditious sects, let them elsewhere resort. 
My rusty sword through rest shall first his edge employ 
To poll their tops that seek such change or gape for future joy. 
<POEM>
Never think you fortune can bear the sway 
Where virtue's force can cause her to obey.  
<POEM>
I grieve and dare not show my discontent, 
I love and yet am forced to seem to hate, 
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant, 
I seem stark mute but inwardly do prate.  
I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned, 
Since from myself another self I turned.  
<STANZA>
My care is like my shadow in the sun, 
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it, 
Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done.  
His too familiar care doth make me rue it.  
No means I find to rid him from my breast, 
Till by the end of things it be suppressed.  
<STANZA>
Some gentler passion slide into my mind, 
For I am soft and made of melting snow; 
Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind.  
Let me or float or sink, be high or low.  
Or let me live with some more sweet content, 
Or die and so forget what love ere meant.
</FILE>
<FILE spamoret>
<AUTH> Edmund Spenser
<TITLE> Amoretti or Sonnets
<NOTES> proofed by Ward Elliott June 21 1989
<POEM>
Happy, ye leaves!  when as those lily hands, 
Which hold my life in their dead-doing might, 
Shall handle you, and hold in love's soft bands, 
Like captives trembling at the victor's sight. 
And happy lines! on which, with starry light, 
Those lamping eyes will deign sometimes to look, 
And read the sorrows of my dying sprite, 
Written with tears in heart's close-bleeding book. 
And happy rhymes! bath'd in the sacred brook 
Of Helicon, whence she derived is; 
When ye behold that angel's blessed look, 
My soul's long-lacked food, my heaven's bliss; 
  Leaves, lines, and rhymes, seek her to please alone: 
  Whom if ye please, I care for other none!
<POEM>                     
Unquiet thought!  whom at the first I bred 
Of th' inward bale of my love-pined heart; 
And sithence have with sighs and sorrows fed, 
Till greater than my womb thou waxen art: 
Break forth at length out of th' inner part, 
In which thou lurkest like to viper's brood; 
And seek some succor both to ease my smart, 
And also to sustain thyself with food. 
But, if in presence of that fairest Proud 
Thou chance to come, fall lowly at her feet; 
And, with meek humblesse and afflicted mood, 
Pardon for thee, and grace for me, entreat: 
  Which if she grant, then live, and my love cherish: 
  If not, die soon; and I with thee will perish. 
<POEM>
The sovereign beauty which I do admire, 
Witness the world how worthy to he praised! 
The light whereof hath kindled heavenly fire 
In my frail spirit, by her from baseness raised; 
That being now with her huge brightness dazed, 
Base thing I can no more endure to view: 
But, looking still on her, I stand amazed 
At wondrous sight of so celestial hue. 
So when my tongue would speak her praises due, 
It stopped is with thought's astonishment; 
And, when my pen would write her titles true, 
It ravish'd is with fancy's wonderment: 
  Yet in my heart I then both speak and write 
  The wonder that my wit cannot indite. 
<POEM>
New year, forth looking out of Janus' gate,
Doth seem to promise hope of new delight: 
And, bidding th' old adieu, his passed date 
Bids all old thoughts to die in dumpish sprite: 
And, calling forth out of sad Winter's night 
Fresh Love, that long hath slept in cheerless bower, 
Wills him awake, and soon about him digt 
His wanton wings and darts of deadly power. 
For lusty Spring now in his timely hour 
Is ready to come forth, him to receive; 
And warns the Earth with divers-color'd flower 
To deck herself, and her fair mantle weave. 
  Then you, fair flower! in whom fresh youth doth reign, 
  Prepare yourself new love to entertain. 
<POEM>                       
Rudely thou wrongest my dear heart's desire, 
In finding fault with her too portly pride: 
The thing which I do most in her admire, 
Is of the world unworthy most envied: 
For in those lofty looks is close implied, 
Scorn of base things, and sdeign of foul dishonor; 
Threat'ning rash eyes which gaze on her so wide, 
That loosely they ne dare to look upon her. 
Such pride is praise; such portliness is honor; 
That bold'ned innocence bears in her eyes; 
And her fair countenance, like a goodly banner, 
Spreads in defiance of all enemies. 
  Was never in this world ought worthy tried, 
  Without some spark of such self-pleasing pride. 
<POEM>                
Be nought dismay'd that her unmoved mind 
Doth still persist in her rebellious pride: 
Such love, not like to lusts of baser kind, 
The harder won, the firmer will abide. 
The dureful oak, whose sap is not yet dried, 
Is long ere it conceive the kindling fire; 
But, when it once doth burn, it doth divide 
Great heat, and makes his flames to heaven aspire. 
So hard it is to kindle new desire 
In gentle breast, that shall endure for ever: 
Deep is the wound, that dints the parts entire 
With chaste affects, that naught but death can sever. 
  Then think not long in taking little pain 
  To knit the knot, that ever shall remain. 
<POEM>                      
Fair eyes! the mirror of my mazed heart, 
What wondrous virtue is contain'd in you, 
The which both life and death forth from you dart 
Into the object of your mighty view? 
For, when ye mildly look with lovely hue, 
Then is my soul with life and love inspired: 
But when ye lour, or look on me askew, 
Then do I die, as one with lightning fired. 
But, since that life is more than death desired, 
Look ever lovely, as becomes you best; 
That your bright beams, of my weak eyes admired, 
May kindle living fire within my breast. 
  Such life should be the honor of your light, 
  Such death the sad ensample of your might. 
<POEM>          
More than most fair, full of the living fire, 
Kindled above unto the Maker near; 
No eyes but joys, in which all powers conspire, 
That to the vorld naught else be counted dear: 
Through your bright beams doth not the blinded guest
Shoot out his darts to base affection's wound; 
But angels come to lead frail minds to rest 
In chaste desires, on heavenly beauty bound. 
You frame my thoughts, and fashion me within ; 
Non stop my tongue, and teach my heart to speak; 
You calm the storm that passion did begin, 
Strong through your cause, but by your virtue weak. 
  Dark is the world, where your light shined never; 
  Well is he born, that may behold you ever. 
<POEM>
Long-while I sought to what I might compare 
Those powerful eyes, which lighten my dark sprite: 
Yet find I nought on earth, to which I dare 
Resemble th' image of their goodly light. 
Not to the sun; for they do shine by night; 
Nor to the moon; for they are changed never; 
Nor to the stars; for they have purer sight; 
Nor to the fire; for they consume not ever; 
Nor to the lightning; for they still persever; 
Nor to the diamond; for they are more tender; 
Nor unto crystal; for nought may them sever; 
Nor unto glass; such baseness might offend her. 
  Then to the Maker self they likest be, 
  Whose light doth lighten all that here we see. 
<POEM>
Unrighteous Lord of love, what law is this, 
That me thou makest thus tormented be, 
The whiles she lordeth in licentious bliss 
Of her free will, scorning both thee and me? 
See! how the tyranness doth joy to see 
The huge massacres which her eyes do make; 
And humbled hearts brings captive unto thee, 
That thou of them mayst mighty vengeance take. 
But her proud heart do thou a little shake, 
And that high look, with which she doth control 
All this world's pride, bow to a baser make, 
And all her faults in thy black book enroll: 
  That I may laugh at her in equal sort,
  As she doth laugh at me, and makes my pain her sport.
<POEM>
Daily when I do seek and sue for peace, 
And hostages do offer for my truth; 
She, cruel warrior, doth herself address 
To battle, and the weary war renew'th; 
Ne will be mov'd with reason, or with ruth, 
To grant small respite to my restless toil; 
But greedily her fell intent pursu'th, 
Of my poor life to make unpitied spoil. 
Yet my poor life, all sorrows to assoil,
I would her yield, her wrath to pacify: 
But then she seeks, with torment and turmoil, 
To force me live, and will not let me die.
  All pain hath end, and every war hath peace; 
  But mine, no price nor prayer may surcease. 
<POEM>
One day I sought with her heart-thrilling eyes 
To make a truce, and terms to entertain; 
All fearless then of so false enemies, 
Which sought me to entrap in treason's train. 
So, as I then disarmed did remain, 
A wicked ambush which lay hidden long, 
In the close covert of her guileful eyne, 
Thence breaking forth, did thick about me throng. 
Too feeble I t' abide the brunt so strong, 
Was forc'd to yield myself into their hands; 
Who, me captiving straight with rigorous wrong, 
Have ever since kept me in cruel bands. 
  So, Lady, now to you I do complain, 
  Against your eyes, that justice I may gain. 
<POEM>
In that proud port, which her so goodly graceth, 
Whiles her fair face she rears up to the sky, 
And to the ground her eyelids low embaseth, 
Most goodly temperature ye may descry; 
Mild humblesse, mix'd with aweful majesty. 
For, looking on the earth whence she was born, 
Her mind rememb'reth her mortality, 
Whatso is fairest shall to earth return. 
But that same lofty countenance seems to scorn 
Base thing, and think how she to heaven may climb; 
Treading down earth as loathsome and forlorn, 
That hinders heavenly thoughts with drossy slime. 
  Yet lowly still vouchsafe to look on me; 
  Such lowliness shall make you lofty be. 
<POEM>
Return again, my forces late dismay'd, 
Unto the siege by you abandon'd quite. 
Great shame it is to leave, like one afraid, 
So fair a piece,1 for one repulse so light. 
`Gainst such strong castles needeth greater might 
Than those small forts which ye were wont belay 
Such haughty minds, inured to hardy fight, 
Disdain to yield unto the first assay. 
Bring therefore all the forces that ye may, 
And lay incessant battery to her heart; 
Plaints, prayers, vows, ruth, sorrow, and dismay; 
Those engines can the proudest love convert: 
  And, if those fail, fall down and die before her; 
  So dying live, and living do adore her. 
<POEM>
Ye tradeful merchants, that, with weary toil, 
Do seek most precious things to make your gain; 
And both the Indias of their treasure spoil; 
What needeth you to seek so far in vain? 
For lo, my Love doth in herself contain 
All this world's riches that may far be found: 
If sapphires, lo, her eyes be sapphires plain; 
If rubies, lo, her lips be rubies sound; 
If pearls, her teeth be pearls, both pure and round;
If ivory, her forehead ivory ween; 
If gold, her locks are finest gold on ground; 
If silver, her fair hands are silver sheen:
  But that which fairest is, but few behold, 
  Her mind adorn'd with virtues manifold. 
<POEM>
One day as I unwarily did gaze 
On those fair eyes, my love's immortal light; 
The whilst my `stonish'd heart stood in amaze, 
Through sweet illusion of her looks' delight; 
I might perceive how, in her glancing sight, 
Legions of Loves with little wings did fly; 
Darting their deadly arrows, fiery bright, 
At every rash beholder passing by. 
One of those archers closely I did spy, 
Aiming his arrow at my very heart: 
When suddenly, with twinkle of her eye, 
The damsel broke his misintended dart. 
  Had she not so done, sure I had been slain; 
  Yet as it was, I hardly scap'd with pain. 
<POEM>
The glorious portrait of that angel's face, 
Made to amaze weak men's confused skill, 
And this world's worthless glory to embase, 
What pen, what pencil, can express her fill? 
For though be colors could devise at will, 
And eke his learned hand at pleasure guide, 
Lest, trembling, it his workmanship should spill;
Yet many wondrous things there are beside: 
The sweet eye-glances, that like arrows glide; 
The charming smiles, that rob sense from the heart; 
The lovely pleasance; and the lofty pride; 
Cannot expressed be by any art. 
  A greater craftsman's hand thereto doth need, 
  That can express the life of things indeed. 
<POEM>
The rolling wheel that runneth often round, 
The hardest steel, in tract of time doth tear: 
And drizzling drops, that often do redound, 
The firmest flint doth in continuance wear: 
Yet cannot I, with many a drooping tear: 
And long entreaty, soften her hard heart; 
That she will once vouchsafe my plaint to hear, 
Or look with pity on my painful smart. 
But, when I plead, she bids me play my part; 
And, when I weep, she says, Tears are but water; 
And, when I sigh, she says, I know the art; 
And, when I wail, she turns herself to laughter. 
  So do I weep, and wail, and plead in vain, 
  Whiles she as steel and flint doth still remain. 
<POEM>
The merry cuckoo, messenger of Spring, 
His trumpet shrill hath thrice already sounded, 
That warns all lovers wait upon their king, 
Who now is coming forth with garland crowned. 
With noise whereof the choir of birds resounded 
Their anthems sweet, devised of love's praise, 
That all the woods their echoes back rebounded, 
As if they knew the meaning of their lays. 
But `mongst them all, which did Love's honor raise, 
No word was heard of her that most it ought; 
But she his precept proudly disobeys, 
And doth his idle message set at nought. 
  Therefore, O Love, unless she turn to thee 
  Ere cuckoo end, let her a rebel be! 
<POEM>
In vain I seek and sue to her for grace, 
And do mine humbled heart before her pour; 
The whiles her foot she in my neck doth place, 
And tread my life down in the lowly floor.
And yet the lion that is lord of power, 
And reigneth over every beast in field, 
In his most pride disdaineth to devour 
The silly lamb that to his might doth yield. 
Rut she, more cruel, and more savage wild, 
Than either lion, or the lioness, 
Shames not to be with guiltless blood defil'd, 
But taketh glory in her cruelness. 
  Fairer than fairest! let none ever say, 
  That ye were blooded in a yielded prey. 
<POEM>
Was it the work of Nature or of Art, 
Which temper'd so the feature of her face, 
That pride and meekness, mix'd by equal part; 
Do both appear t' adorn her beauty's grace? 
For with mild pleasance, which doth pride displace, 
She to her love doth lookers' eyes allure; 
And, with stern countenance, back again doth chase 
Their looser looks that stir up lusts impure; 
With such strange terms her eyes she doth inure, 
That, with one look, she doth my life dismay; 
And with another doth it straight recure; 
Her smile me draws; her frown me drives away. 
  Thus doth she train and teach me with her looks; 
  Such art of eyes I never read in books! 
<POEM>
Tis holy season, fit to fast and pray, 
Men to devotion ought to be inclin'd: 
Therefore, I likewise, on so holy day, 
For my sweet saint some service fit will find. 
Her temple fair is built within my mind, 
In which her glorious image placed is; 
On which my thoughts do day and night attend, 
Like sacred priests that never think amiss: 
There I to her, as th' author of my bliss, 
Will build an altar to appease her ire; 
And on the same my heart will sacrifice, 
Burning in flames of pure and chaste desire: 
  The which vouchsafe, O Goddess, to accept, 
  Amongst thy dearest relics to be kept. 
<POEM>
Penelope, for her Ulysses' sake, 
Devis'd a web her wooers to deceive; 
In which the work that she all day did make, 
The same at night she did again unreave: 
Such subtle craft my damsel doth conceive, 
Th' importune suit of my desire to shun: 
For all that I in many days do weave, 
In one short hour I find by her undone. 
So, when I think to end that I begun, 
I must begin and never bring to end: 
For, with one look, she spills' that long I spun; 
And, with one word, my whole year's work doth rend. 
  Such labor like the spider's web I find, 
  Whose fruitless work is broken with least wind. 
<POEM>
When I behold that beauty's wonderment, 
And rare perfection of each goodly part; 
Of Nature's All the only complement; 
I honor and admire the Maker's art. 
But when I feel the bitter baleful smart, 
Which her fair eyes unwares do work in me, 
That death out of their shiny beams do dart; 
I think that I a new Pandora see, 
Whom all the gods in council did agree 
Into this sinful world from heaven to send; 
That she to wicked men a scourge should be, 
For all their faults with which they did offend. 
  But, since ye are my scourge, I will entreat, 
  That for my faults ye will me gently beat. 
<POEM>
How long shall this like dying life endure, 
And know no end of her own misery, 
But waste and wear away in terms unsure, 
`Twixt fear and hope depending doubtfully! 
Yet better were at once to let me die, 
And shew the last ensample of your pride; 
Than to torment me thus with cruelty,
To prove your power, which I too well have tried. 
But yet if in your harden'd breast ye hide 
A close intent at last to shew me grace; 
Then all the woes and wrecks, which I abide, 
As means of bliss I gladly will embrace; 
  And wish that more and greater they might be, 
  That greater meed at last may turn to me. 
<POEM>
Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brier; 
Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough; 
Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh near; 
Sweet is the firbloom, but his branches rough; 
Sweet is the cypress, but his rind is tough; 
Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill; 
Sweet is the broom-flower, but yet sour enough; 
And sweet is moly, but his root is ill. 
So every sweet with sour is temper'd still, 
That maketh it be coveted the more: 
For easy things, that may be got at will, 
Most sorts of men do set but little store. 
  Who then should I account of little pain,
  That endless pleasure shall unto me gain! 
<POEM>
Fair proud! now tell me, why should fair be proud, 
Sith all world's glory is but dross unclean, 
And in the shade of death itself shall shroud, 
However now thereof ye little ween! 
That goodly idol, now so gay beseen, 
Shall doff her flesh's borrow'd fair attire; 
And be forgot as it had never been; 
That many now much worship and admire! 
Ne any then shall after it inquire, 
Ne any mention shall thereof remain, 
But what this verse, that never shall expire, 
Shall to you purchase with her thankless pain! 
  Fair! be no longer proud of that shall perish; 
  But that, which shall you make immortal, cherish. 
<POEM>
The laurel-leaf, which you this day do wear, 
Gives me great hope of your relenting mind: 
For since it is the badge which I do bear, 
Ye, bearing it, do seem to me inclin'd: 
The power thereof, which oft in me I find, 
Let it likewise your gentle breast inspire 
With sweet infusion, and put you in mind 
Of that proud maid, whom now those leaves attire: 
Proud Daphne, scorning Phoebus' lovely fire, 
On the Thessalian shore from him did fly: 
For which the gods, in their revengeful ire, 
Did her transform into a laurel-tree. 
  Then fly no more, fair Love, from Phoebus' chase, 
  But in your breast his leaf and love embrace. 
<POEM>
See!  how the stubborn damsel doth deprave 
My simple meaning with disdainful scorn; 
And by the bay, which I unto her gave,
Accounts myself her captive quite forlorn; 
The bay, quoth she, is of the victors borne, 
Yielded them by the vanquish'd as their meeds, 
And they therewith do Poets' heads adorn, 
To sing the glory of their famous deeds. 
But sith she will the conquest challenge needs, 
Let her accept me as her faithful thrall; 
That her great triumph, which my skill exceeds, 
I may in trump of fame blaze over all. 
  Then would I deck her head with glorious bays, 
  And fill the world with her victorious praise. 
<POEM>
My Love is like to ice, and I to fire; 
How comes it then that this her cold so great 
Is not dissolv'd through my so hot desire, 
But harder grows the more I her entreat!
Or how comes it that my exceeding heat 
Is not delay'd' by her heart-frozen cold; 
But that I burn much more in boiling sweat, 
And feel my flames augmented manifold! 
What more miraculous thing may be told, 
That fire, which all things melts, should harden ice; 
And ice, which is congeal'd with senseless cold, 
Should kindle fire by wonderful device! 
  Such is the power of love in gentle mind, 
  That it can alter all the course of kind. 
<POEM>
Ah! why hath Nature to so hard a heart 
Given so goodly gifts of beauty's grace! 
Whose pride depraves each other better part, 
And all those precious ornaments deface. 
Sith to all other beasts, of bloody race, 
A dreadful countenance she given hath: 
That with their terror all the rest may chase, 
And warn to shun the danger of their wrath. 
But my proud one doth work the greater scath,
Through sweet allurement of her lovely hue; 
That she the better may, in bloody bath 
Of such poor thralls, her cruel hands imbrue. 
  But, did she know how ill these two accord, 
  Such cruelty she would have soon abhor'd. 
<POEM>
The painful smith, with force of fervent heat, 
The hardest iron soon doth mollify; 
That with his heavy sledge he can it beat, 
And fashion to what he it list apply. 
Yet cannot all these flames, in which I fry, 
Her heart more hard than iron soft a whit; 
Ne all the plaints and prayers, with which I 
Do beat on th' anvil of her stubborn wit; 
But still, the more she fervent sees my fit, 
The more she freezeth in her willful pride; 
And harder grows, the harder she is smit 
With all the plaints which to her be applied. 
  What then remains but I to ashes burn, 
  And she to stones at length all frozen turn! 
<POEM>
Great wrong I do, I can it not deny, 
To that most sacred empress, my dear dread,
Not finishing her Queen of Faery, 
That might enlarge her living praises, dead: 
But Lodwick, this of grace to me aread;
Do ye not think th' accomplishment of it, 
Sufficient work for one man's simple head, 
All were it, as the rest, but rudely writ? 
How then should I, without another wit, 
Think ever to endure so tedious toil! 
Sith that this one is toss'd with troublous fit 
Of a proud Love, that doth my spirit spoil. 
  Cease then, till she vouchsafe to grant me rest; 
  Or lend you me another living breast. 
<POEM>
Like as a ship, that through the ocean wide, 
By conduct of some star, doth make her way; 
Whenas a storm hath dimm'd her trusty guide, 
Out of her course doth wander far astray! 
So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray 
Me to direct, with clouds is overcast, 
Do wander now, in darkness and dismay, 
Through hidden perils round about me plac'd; 
Yet hope I well that, when this storm is past, 
My Helice, the lodestar of my life, 
Will shine again, and look on me at last, 
With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief. 
  Till then I wander careful, comfortless, 
  In secret sorrow, and sad pensiveness. 
<POEM>
My hungry eyes, through greedy covetise 
Still to behold the object of their pain, 
With no contentment can themselves suffice; 
But, having, pine; and, having not, complain. 
For, lacking it, they cannot life sustain; 
And, having it, they gaze on it the more; 
In their amazement like Narcissus vain, 
Whose eyes him starv'd: so plenty makes me poor. 
Yet are mine eyes so filled with the store 
Of that fair sight, that nothing else they brook, 
But loathe the things which they did like before, 
And can no more endure on them to look. 
All this world's glory seemeth vain to me, 
And all their shows but shadows, saving she. 
<POEM>
Tell me, when shall these weary woes have end, 
Or shall their ruthless torment never cease; 
But all my days in pining languor spend, 
Without hope of assuagement or release? 
Is there no means for me to purchase peace, 
Or make agreement with her thrilling eyes; 
But that their cruelty doth still increase, 
And daily more augment my miseries? 
But, when ye have show'd all extremities, 
Then think how little glory ye have gained 
By slaying him, whose life, though ye despise, 
Might have your life in honor long maintained. 
  But  by his death, which some perhaps will moan, 
  Ye shall condemned be of many a one. 
<POEM>
What guile is this, that those her golden tresses 
She doth attire under a net of gold; 
And with sly skill so cunningly them dresses, 
That which is gold, or hair, may scarce be told? 
Is it that men's frail eyes, which gaze too bold, 
She may entangle in that golden snare; 
And, being caught, may craftily enfold 
Their weaker hearts, which are not well aware? 
Take heed, therefore, mine eyes, how ye do stare 
Henceforth too rashly on that guileful net, 
In which if ever ye entrapped are, 
Out of her bands ye by no means shall get. 
  Fondness it were for any, being free, 
  To covet fetters though they golden be! 
<POEM>
Arion, when, through tempest's cruel wrack, 
He forth was thrown into the greedy seas; 
Through the sweet music, which his harp did make, 
Allur'd a dolphin him from death to ease. 
But my rude music, which was wont to please 
Some dainty ears, cannot, with any skill, 
The dreadful tempest of her wrath appease, 
Nor move the dolphin from her stubborn will; 
But in her pride she doth persever still, 
All careless how my life for her decays: 
Yet with one word she can it save or spill. 
To spill were pity, but to save were praise! 
  Choose rather to be prais'd for doing good, 
  Than to be blam'd for spilling guiltless blood. 
<POEM>
Sweet smile! the daughter of the Queen of Love, 
Expressing all thy mother's powerful art, 
With which she wonts to temper angry Jove, 
When all the gods he threats with thund'ring dart: 
Sweet is thy virtue, as thyself sweet art. 
For, when on me thou shinedst late in sadness, 
A melting pleasance ran through every part, 
And me revived with heart-robbing gladness. 
Whilst rapt with joy resembling heavenly madness, 
My soul was ravish'd quite as in a trance; 
And, feeling thence no more her sorrow's sadness, 
Fed on the fullness of that cheerful glance. 
  More sweet than nectar, or ambrosial meat, 
  Seem'd every bit which thenceforth I did eat. 
<POEM>
Mark when she smiled with amiable cheer, 
And tell me whereto can ye liken it; 
When on each eyelid sweetly do appear 
An hundred Graces as in shade to sit. 
Likest it seemeth, in my simple wit, 
Unto the fair sunshine in summer's day; 
That, when a dreadful storm away is flit,
Through the broad world doth spread his goodly ray;
At sight whereof, each bird that sits on spray, 
And every beast that to his den was fled, 
Comes forth afresh out of their late dismay, 
And to the light lift up their drooping head. 
  So my storm-beaten heart likewise is cheered 
  With that sunshine, when cloudy looks are cleared. 
<POEM>
Is it her nature, or is it her will, 
To be so cruel to an humbled foe? 
If nature; then she may it mend with skill: 
If will; then she at will may will forgo. 
But if her nature and her will be so, 
That she will plague the man that loves her most, 
And take delight t' increase a wretch's woe; 
Then all her nature's goodly gifts are lost: 
And that same glorious beauty's idle boast 
Is but a bait such wretches to beguile, 
As, being long in her love's tempest toss'd, 
She means at last to make her piteous spoil. 
  O fairest fair! let never it be named, 
  That so fair beauty was so foully shamed. 
<POEM>
The love, which me so cruelly tormenteth, 
So pleasing is in my extremest pain, 
That, all the more my sorrow it augmenteth, 
The more I love and do embrace my bane. 
Ne do I wish (for wishing were but vain) 
To be acquit from my continual smart; 
But joy, her thrall for ever to remain, 
And yield for pledge my poor and captived heart; 
The which, that it from her may never start, 
Let her, if please her, bind with adamant chain; 
And from all wand'ring loves, which might pervart 
His safe assurance, strongly it restrain. 
  Only let her abstain from cruelty, 
  And do me not before my time to die. 
<POEM>
Shall I then silent be, or shall I speak? 
And, if I speak, her wrath renew I shall; 
And, if I silent be, my heart will break, 
Or choked be with overflowing gall. 
What tyranny is this, both my heart to thrall, 
And eke my tongue with proud restraint to tie; 
That neither I may speak nor think at all, 
But like a stupid stock in silence die! 
Yet I my heart with silence secretly 
Will teach to speak, and my just cause to plead; 
And eke mine eyes, with meek humility, 
Love-learned letters to her eyes to read;
  Which her deep wit, that true heart's thought can spell,
  Will soon conceive, and learn to construe well. 
<POEM>
When those renowned noble peers of Greece, 
Through stubborn pride, among themselves did jar, 
Forgetful of the famous golden fleece 
Then Orpheus with his harp their strife did bar. 
By this continual, cruel, civil war, 
The which myself against myself do make; 
Whilst my weak powers of passions warrey'd are; 
No skill can stint, nor reason can aslake. 
But, when in hand my tuneless harp I take, 
Then do I more augment my foe's despite; 
And grief renew, and passions do awake 
To battle, fresh against myself to fight. 
  Mongst whom the more I seek to settle peace, 
  The more I find their malice to increase. 
<POEM>
Leave, Lady! in your glass of crystal clean, 
Your goodly self for evermore to dew: 
And in myself, my inward self, I mean, 
Most lively like behold your semblant true. 
Within my heart, though hardly it can shew 
Thing so divine to view of earthly eye, 
The fair idea of your celestial hue 
And every part remains immortally: 
And were it not that, through your cruelty, 
With sorrow dimmed and deform'd it were, 
The goodly image of your visnomy, 
Clearer than crystal, would therein appear. 
  But, if yourself in me ye plain will see, 
  Remove the cause by which your fair beams dark'ned be. 
<POEM>
When my abode's prefixed time is spent, 
My cruel fair straight bids me wend my way: 
But then from heaven most hideous storms are sent, 
As willing me against her will to stay. 
Whom then shall I, or heaven or her, obey? 
The heavens know best what is the best for me: 
But as she will, whose will my life doth sway, 
My lower heaven, so it perforce must be. 
But ye high heavens, that all this sorrow see, 
Sith all your tempests cannot hold me back, 
Assuage your storms; or else both you, and she, 
Will both together me too sorely wrack. 
  Enough it is for one man to sustain 
  The storms, which sith alone on me doth rain. 
<POEM>
Trust not the treason of those smiling looks, 
Until ye have their guileful trains well tried: 
For they are like but unto golden hooks, 
That from the foolish fish their baits do hide: 
So she with flatt'ring smiles weak hearts doth guide 
Unto her love, and tempt to their decay; 
Whom, being caught, she kills with cruel pride, 
And feeds at pleasure on the wretched prey: 
Yet, even whilst her bloody hands them slay, 
Her eyes look lovely, and upon them smile; 
That they take pleasure in their cruel play, 
And, dying, do themselves of pain beguile. 
  O mighty charm! which makes men love their bane, 
  And think they die with pleasure, live with pain. 
<POEM>
Innocent paper! whom too cruel hand 
Did make the matter to avenge her ire; 
And, ere she could thy cause well understand, 
Did sacrifice unto the greedy fire. 
Well worthy thou to have found better hire, 
Than so bad end for heretics ordained; 
Yet heresy nor treason didst conspire, 
But plead thy master's cause, unjustly pained. 
Whom she, all careless of his grief, constrained
To utter forth the anguish of his heart: 
And would not hear, when he to her complained 
The piteous passion of his dying smart. 
  Yet live for ever, though against her will, 
  And speak her good, though she requite it ill. 
<POEM>
Fair Cruel! why are ye so fierce and cruel? 
Is it because your eyes have power to kill? 
Then know that mercy is the Mighty's jewel; 
Greater glory think to save than spill. 
But if it be your pleasure, and proud will, 
To shew the power of your imperious eyes; 
den not on him that never thought you ill, 
But bend your force against your enemies: 
Let them feel the utmost of your cruelties; 
And kill with looks, as cockatrices do: 
But him, that at your footstool humbled lies, 
With merciful regard give mercy to. 
  Such mercy shall you make admir'd to be; 
  So shall you live, by giving life to me. 
<POEM>
Long languishing in double malady 
Of my heart's wound, and of my body's grief; 
There came to me a leech, that would apply 
Fit med'cines for my body's best relief. 
Vain man, quoth I, that hast but little prief
In deep discovery of the mind's disease; 
Is not the heart of all the body chief, 
And rules the members as itself doth please? 
Then, with some cordials, seek for to appease 
The inward languor of my wounded heart; 
And then my body shall have shortly ease: 
But such sweet cordials pass physician's art. 
  Then, my life's leech! do you your skill reveal; 
  And, with one salve, both heart and body heal. 
<POEM>
Do I not see that fairest images 
Of hardest marble are of purpose made, 
For that they should endure through many ages, 
Ne let their famous monuments to fade? 
Why then do I, untrain'd in lovers' trade, 
Her hardness blame, which I should more commend? 
Sith never ought was excellent assay'd 
Which was not hard t' achieve and bring to end. 
Ne ought so hard, but he, that would attend, 
Might soften it and to his will allure: 
So do I hope her stubborn heart to bend, 
And that it then more steadfast will endure. 
Only my pains will be the more to get her; 
But, having her, my joy will be the greater. 
<POEM>
So oft as homeward I from her depart, 
I go like one that, having lost the field, 
Is prisoner led away with heavy heart, 
Despoil'd of warlike arms and knowen shield. 
So do I now myself a prisoner yield 
To sorrow and to solitary pain; 
From presence of my dearest dear exil'd, 
Long-while alone in languor to remain. 
There let no thought of joy, or pleasure vain, 
Dare to approach, that may my solace breed; 
But sudden dumps, and dreary sad disdain 
Of all world's gladness, more my torment feed. 
  So I her absence will my penance make, 
  That of her presence I my meed may take. 
<POEM>
The panther, knowing that his spotted hide 
Doth please all beasts, but that his looks them fray; 
Within a bush his dreadful head doth hide, 
To let them gaze, whilst he on them may prey: 
Right so my cruel fair with me doth play; 
For, with the goodly semblance of her hue, 
She doth allure me to mine own decay, 
And then no mercy will unto me shew. 
Great shame it is, thing so divine in view, 
Made for to be the world's most ornament, 
To make the bait her gazers to embrue: 
Good shames to be to ill an instrument! 
  But mercy doth with beauty best agree, 
  As in their Maker ye them best may see. 
<POEM>
Of this world's theatre in which we stay, 
My Love, like the spectator, idly sits; 
Beholding me, that all the pageants play,
Disguising diversely my troubled wits. 
Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits, 
And mask in mirth like to a comedy: 
Soon after, when my joy to sorrow flits, 
I wail, and make my woes a tragedy. 
Yet she, beholding me with constant eye, 
Delights not in my mirth, nor rues my smart: 
But, when I laugh, she mocks; and, when I cry, 
She laughs, and hardens evermore her heart. 
  What then can move her? if nor mirth, nor moan, 
  She is no woman, but a senseless stone. 
<POEM>
So oft as I her beauty do behold, 
And therewith do her cruelty compare, 
I marvel of what substance was the mould, 
The which her made at once so cruel fair. 
Not earth; for her high thoughts more heavenly are: 
Not water; for her love doth burn like fire: 
Not air; for she is not so light or rare: 
Not fire; for she doth freeze with faint desire. 
Then needs another element inquire 
Whereof she might be made; that is, the sky. 
For, to the heaven her haughty looks aspire ; 
And eke her love is pure immortal high. 
  Then, sith to heaven ye likened are the best, 
  Be like in mercy as in all the rest. 
<POEM>
Fair ye be sure, but cruel and unkind, 
As is a tiger, that with greediness 
Hunts after blood; when he by chance doth find 
A feeble beast, doth felly him oppress. 
Fair be ye sure, but proud and pitiless, 
As is a storm, that all things doth prostrate; 
Finding a tree alone all comfortless, 
Beats on it strongly, it to ruinate. 
Fair be ye sure, but hard and obstinate, 
As is a rock amidst the raging floods; 
Gainst which, a ship, of succor desolate, 
Doth suffer wrack both of herself and goods. 
  That ship, that tree, and that same beast, am I, 
  Whom ye do wrack, do ruin, and destroy. 
<POEM>
Sweet warrior! when shall I have peace with you? 
High time it is this war now ended were; 
Which I no longer can endure to sue, 
Ne your incessant batt'ry more to bear: 
So weak my powers, so sore my wounds, appear, 
That wonder is how I should live a jot, 
Seeing my heart through-lanced every where 
With thousand arrows, which your eyes have shot: 
Yet shoot ye sharply still, and spare me not, 
But glory think to make these cruel stoures.
Ye cruel one! what glory can be got, 
In slaying him that would live gladly yours! 
  Make peace, therefore, and grant me timely grace, 
  That all my wounds will heal in little space. 
<POEM>
By her that is most assured to herself. 
Weak is th' assurance that weak flesh reposeth 
In her own power, and scorneth others' aid; 
That soonest falls, when as she most supposeth 
Herself assur'd, and is of nought afraid. 
All flesh is frail, and all her strength unstay'd, 
Like a vain bubble blowen up with air: 
Devouring time and changeful chance have prey'd, 
Her glorious pride that none may it repair. 
Ne none so rich or wise, so strong or fair, 
But faileth, trusting on his own assurance: 
And he, that standeth on the highest stair, 
Falls lowest: for on earth nought hath endurance. 
  Who then do ye, proud fair, misdeem so far, 
  That to yourself ye most assured are! 
<POEM>
Thrice happy she! that is so well assured 
Unto herself, and settled so in heart, 
That neither will for better be allured, 
Ne fear'd with worse to any chance to start; 
But, like a steady ship, doth strongly part 
The raging waves, and keeps her course aright; 
Ne ought for tempest doth from it depart, 
Ne ought for fairer weather's false delight. 
Such self-assurance need not fear the spite 
Of grudging foes, ne favor seek of friends: 
But, in the stay of her own steadfast might 
Neither to one herself nor other bends. 
  Most happy she, that most assur'd doth rest; 
  But he most happy, who such one loves best. 
<POEM>
They, that in course of heavenly spheres are skill'd, 
To every planet point his sundry year: 
In which her circle's voyage is fulfill'd, 
As Mars in threescore years doth run his sphere. 
So, since the winged god his planet clear 
Began in me to move, one year is spent: 
The which doth longer unto me appear, 
Than all those forty which my life out-went. 
Then by that count, which lovers' books invent, 
The sphere of Cupid forty years contains: 
Which I have wasted in long languishment, 
That seem'd the longer for my greater pains. 
  But let my Love's fair planet short her ways, 
  This year ensuing, or else short my days. 
<POEM>
The glorious image of the Maker's beauty, 
My sovereign saint, the idol of my thought, 
Dare not henceforth, above the bounds of duty, 
T' accuse of pride, or rashly blame for ought. 
For being, as she is, divinely wrought, 
And of the brood of angels heavenly born; 
And with the crew of blessed saints upbrought, 
Each of which did her with their gifts adorn; 
The bud of joy, the blossom of the morn, 
The beam of light, whom mortal eyes admire; 
What reason is it then but she should scorn 
Base things, that to her love too bold aspire! 
  Such heavenly forms ought rather worshipp'd be, 
  Than dare be lov'd by men of mean degree. 
<POEM>
The weary year his race now having run, 
The new begins his compass'd course anew: 
With show of morning mild he hath begun, 
Betokening peace and plenty to ensue. 
So let us, which this change of weather view, 
Change eke our minds, and former lives amend; 
The old year's sins forepast let us eschew, 
And fly the faults with which we did offend. 
Then shall the new year's joy forth freshly send, 
Into the glooming world, his gladsome ray: 
And all these storms, which now his beauty blend, 
Shall turn to calms, and timely clear away. 
So, likewise, Love! cheer you your heavy sprite, 
And change old year's annoy to new delight. 
<POEM>
After long storms and tempests' sad assay, 
Which hardly I endured heretofore, 
In dread of death, and dangerous dismay, 
With which my silly bark was tossed sore; 
I do at length descry the happy shore, 
In which I hope ere long for to arrive: 
Fair soil it seems from far, and fraught with store 
Of all that dear and dainty is alive. 
Most happy he! that can at last achieve 
The joyous safety of so sweet a rest; 
Whose least delight sufficeth to deprive 
Remembrance of all pains which him oppress'd. 
 All pains are nothing in respect of this; 
 All sorrows short that gain eternal bliss. 
<POEM>
Coming to kiss her lips, (such grace I found,) 
Me seem'd, I smelt a garden of sweet flowers, 
That dainty odors from them threw around, 
For damsels fit to deck their lover's bowers. 
Her lips did smell like unto gilliflowers; 
Her ruddy cheeks, like unto roses red; 
Her snowy brows, like budded bellamours; 
Her lovely eyes, like pinks but newly spread; 
Her goodly bosom, like a strawberry bed; 
Her neck, like to a bunch of columbines; 
Her breast, like lilies, ere their leaves be shed; 
Her nipples, like young blossom'd jessamines: 
  Such fragrant flowers do give most odorous smell; 
  But her sweet odor did them all excel. 
<POEM>
The doubt which ye misdeem, fair Love, is vain, 
That fondly fear to lose your liberty; 
When, losing one, two liberties ye gain, 
And make him bond that bondage erst did fly. 
Sweet be the bands, the which true love doth tie 
Without constraint, or dread of any ill: 
The gentle bird feels no captivity 
Within her cage; but sings, and feeds her fill. 
There pride dare not approach, nor discord spill 
The league `twixt them, that loyal love hath bound: 
But simple Truth, and mutual Good-will, 
Seeks, with sweet peace, to salve each other's wound: 
  There Faith doth fearless dwell in brazen tower, 
  And spotless Pleasure builds her sacred bower. 
<POEM>
To all those happy blessings, which ye have 
With plenteous hand by heaven upon you thrown; 
This one disparagement they to you gave, 
That ye your love lent to so mean a one. 
Ye, whose high worth's surpassing paragon 
Could not on earth have found one fit for mate, 
Ne but in heaven matchable to none, 
Who did ye stoop unto so lowly state? 
But ye thereby much greater glory gate,
Than had ye sorted with a Prince's peer: 
For, now your light doth more itself dilate, 
And, in my darkness, greater doth appear. 
  Yet, since your light hath once enlumin'd me, 
  With my reflex yours shall increased be. 
<POEM>
Like as a huntsman after weary chase, 
Seeing the game from him escap'd away, 
Sits down to rest him in some shady place, 
With panting hounds beguiled of their prey: 
So, after long pursuit and vain assay, 
When I all weary had the chase forsook, 
The gentle deer return'd the self-same way, 
Thinking to quench her thirst at the neat brook: 
There she, beholding me with milder look, 
Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide; 
Till I in hand her yet half trembling took, 
And with her own good-will her firmly tied. 
  Strange thing, me seem'd, to see a beast so wild, 
  So goodly won, with her own will beguil'd. 
<POEM>
Most glorious Lord of life! that, on this day, 
Didst make thy triumph over death and sin; 
And, having harrow'd' hell, didst bring away 
Captivity thence captive, us to win: 
This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin; 
And grant that we, for whom thou didest die, 
Being with thy dear blood clean wash'd from sin, 
May live for ever in felicity! 
And that thy love we weighing worthily, 
May likewise love thee for the same again; 
And for thy sake, that all like dear didst buy, 
With love may one another entertain! 
  So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought: 
  Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught. 
<POEM>
The famous warriors of the antique world 
Us'd trophies to erect in stately wise; 
In which they would the records have enroll'd 
Of their great deeds and valorous emprise. 
What trophy then shall I most fit devise, 
In which I may record the memory 
Of my love's conquest, peerless beauty's prize, 
Adorn'd with honor, love, and chastity 
Even this verse, vow'd to eternity, 
Shall he thereof immortal monument; 
And tell her praise to all posterity, 
That may admire such world's rare wonderment; 
  The happy purchase of my glorious spoil, 
  Gotten at last with labor and long toil. 
<POEM>
Fresh Spring, the herald of love's mighty king, 
In whose coat-armor richly are display'd 
All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring, 
In goodly colors gloriously array'd; 
Go to my love, where she is careless laid, 
Yet in her winter's bower not well awake; 
Tell her the joyous time will not be stayed, 
Unless she do him by the forelock take; 
Bid her therefore herself soon ready make, 
To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew; 
Where every one, that misseth then her make,
Shall be by him amerc'd with penance due. 
  Make haste therefore, sweet love, while it is prime; 
  For none can call again the passed time. 
<POEM>
I joy to see how, in your drawen work, 
Yourself unto the bee ye do compare; 
And me unto the spider, that doth lurk 
In close await, to catch her unaware: 
Right so yourself were caught in cunning snare 
Of a dear foe, and thralled to his love; 
In whose strait bands ye now captived are 
So firmly, that ye never may remove. 
But as your work is women all about 
With woodbine flowers and fragrant eglantine; 
So sweet your prison you in time shall prove, 
With many dear delights bedecked fine. 
  And all thenceforth eternal peace shall see 
  Between the spider and the gentle bee. 
<POEM>
Oft, when my spirit doth spread her bolder wings, 
In mind to mount up to the purest sky; 
It down is weigh'd with thought of earthly things, 
And clogg'd with burden of mortality; 
Where, when that sovereign beauty it doth spy, 
Resembling heaven's glory in her light, 
Drawn with sweet pleasure's bait, it back doth fly, 
And unto heaven forgets her former flight. 
There my frail fancy, fed with full delight, 
Doth bathe in bliss, and mantleth most at ease; 
Ne thinks of other heaven, but how it might 
Her heart's desire with most contentment please. 
  Heart need not wish none other happiness, 
  But here on earth to have such heaven's bliss. 
<POEM>
Being myself captived here in care, 
My heart, (whom none with servile bands can tie, 
But the fair tresses of your golden hair,) 
Breaking his prison, forth to you doth fly. 
Like as a bird, that in one's hand doth spy 
Desired food, to it doth make his flight: 
Even so my heart, that wont on your fair eye 
To feed his fill, flies back unto your sight. 
Do you him take, and in your bosom bright 
Gently encage, that he may be your thrall: 
Perhaps he there may learn, with rare delight, 
To sing your name and praises over all: 
That it hereafter may you not repent, 
Him lodging in your bosom to have lent. 
<POEM>
Most happy letters! fram'd by skillful trade, 
With which that happy name was first design'd, 
The which three times thrice happy hath me made, 
With gifts of body, fortune, and of mind. 
The first my being to me gave by kind, 
From mother's womb deriv'd by due descent: 
The second is my sovereign Queen most kind, 
That honor and large riches to me lent: 
The third, my love, my life's last ornament, 
By whom my spirit out of dust was raised: 
To speak her praise and glory excellent, 
Of all alive most worthy to be praised. 
  Ye three Elizabeths! for ever live, 
  That three such graces did unto me give. 
<POEM>
One day I wrote her name upon the strand; 
But came the waves, and washed it away: 
Again, I wrote it with a second hand; 
But came the tide, and made my pains his prey. 
Vain man, said she, that dost in vain assay 
A mortal thing so to immortalize; 
For I myself shall like to this decay, 
And else my name be wiped out likewise. 
Not so, quoth I; let baser things devise 
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame: 
My verse your virtues rare shall eternize, 
And in the heavens write your glorious name. 
  Where, when as death shall all the world subdue, 
  Our love shall live, and later life renew. 
<POEM>
Fair bosom!  fraught with virtue's richest treasure, 
The nest of love, the lodging of delight, 
The bower of bliss, the paradise of pleasure, 
The sacred harbor of that heavenly sprite; 
How was I ravish'd with your lovely sight, 
And my frail thoughts too rashly led astray! 
Whiles diving deep through amorous insight, 
On the sweet spoil of beauty they did prey; 
And twixt her paps, (like early fruit in May, 
Whose harvest seem'd to hasten now apace,) 
They loosely did their wanton wings display, 
And there to rest themselves did boldly place. 
  Sweet thoughts! I envy your so happy rest, 
  Which oft I wish'd, yet never was so blest. 
<POEM>
Was it a dream, or did I see it plain; 
A goodly table of pure ivory, 
All spread with junkets, fit to entertain 
The greatest prince with pompous royalty: 
Mongst which, there in a silver dish did lie 
Two golden apples of unvalued price; 
Far passing those which Hercules came by, 
Or those which Atalanta did entice; 
Exceeding sweet, yet void of sinful vice; 
That many sought, yet none could ever taste; 
Sheet fruit of pleasure, brought from Paradise 
By Love himself, and in his garden plac'd. 
  Her breast that table was, so richly spread; 
  My thoughts the guests, which would thereon have fed. 
<POEM>
Lacking my love, I go from place to place, 
Like a young fawn, that late hath lost the hind; 
And seek each where, where last I saw her face, 
Whose image yet I carry fresh in mind. 
I seek the fields with her late footing sign'd; 
I seek her bower with her late presence deck'd; 
Yet nor in field nor bower I can her find; 
Yet field and bower are full of her aspect: 
But, when mine eyes I thereunto direct, 
They idly back return to me again: 
And, when I hope to see their true object, 
I find myself but fed with fancies vain. 
  Cease then, mine eyes, to seek herself to see; 
  And let my thoughts behold herself in me. 
<POEM>
Men call you fair, and you do credit it, 
For that yourself ye daily such do see: 
But the true fair, that is the gentle wit, 
And virtuous mind, is much more prais'd of me: 
For all the rest, however fair it be, 
Shall turn to nought and lose that glorious hue; 
But only that is permanent and free 
From frail corruption, that doth flesh ensue.
That is true beauty: that doth argue you 
To be divine, and born of heavenly seed; 
Deriv'd from that fair Spirit, from whom all true 
And perfect beauty did at first proceed: 
    He only fair, and what he fair hath made; 
    All other fair, like flowers, untimely fade. 
<POEM>
After so long a race as I have run
Through Faery land, which those six books compile. 
Give leave to rest me being half foredone, 
And gather to myself new breath awhile. 
Then, as a steed refreshed after toil, 
Out of my prison I will break anew; 
And stoutly will that second work assoil,
With strong endeavor and attention due. 
Till then give leave to me, in pleasant mew
To sport my Muse, and sing my love's sweet praise; 
The contemplation of whose heavenly hue, 
My spirit to an higher pitch will raise. 
  But let her praises yet be low and mean, 
  Fit for the handmaid of the Faery Queen. 
<POEM>
Fair is my love, when her fair golden hairs 
With the loose wind ye waving chance to mark; 
Fair, when the rose in her red cheeks appears; 
Or in her eyes the fire of love does spark. 
Fair, when her breast, like a rich laden bark 
With precious merchandise she forth doth lay; 
Fair, when that cloud of pride, which oft doth dark 
Her goodly light, with smiles she drives away. 
But fairest she, when so she doth display 
The gate with pearls and rubies richly digt; 
Through which her words so wise do make their way 
To bear the message of her gentle sprite. 
  The rest be works of Nature's wonderment; 
  But this the work of heart's astonishment. 
<POEM>
Joy of my life! full oft for loving you 
I bless my lot, that was so lucky plac'd: 
But then the more your own mishap I rue, 
That are so much by so mean love embased. 
For, had the equal heavens so much you graced 
In this as in the rest, ye might invent 
Some heavenly wit, whose verse could have enchased 
Your glorious name in golden monument. 
But since ye deign'd so goodly to relent 
To me your thrall, in whom is little worth; 
That little, that I am, shall all be spent 
In setting your immortal praises forth: 
  Whose lofty argument, uplifting me, 
  Shall lift you up unto an high degree. 
<POEM>
Let not one spark of filthy lustful fire 
Break out, that may her sacred peace molest; 
Ne one light glance of sensual desire 
Attempt to work her gentle mind's unrest: 
But pure affections bred in spotless breast, 
And modest thoughts breath'd from well-temper'd spirits 
Go visit her, in her chaste bower of rest, 
Accompanied with angelic delights. 
There fill yourself with those most joyous sights, 
The which myself could never yet attain: 
But speak no word to her of these sad plights, 
Which her too constant stiffness doth constrain. 
  Only behold her rare perfection, 
  And bless your fortune's fair election. 
<POEM>
The world that cannot deem of worthy things, 
When I do praise her, say I do but flatter: 
So does the cuckoo, when the mavis sings, 
Begin his witless note apace to clatter. 
But they that skill not of so heavenly matter, 
All that they know not, envy or admire; 
Rather than envy, let them wonder at her, 
But not to deem of her desert aspire. 
Deep, in the closet of my parts entire,
Her worth is written wIth a golden quill, 
That me with heavenly fury doth inspire, 
And my glad mouth with her sweet praises fill 
  Which when as Fame in her shrill trump shall thunder, 
  Let the world choose to envy or to wonder. 
<POEM>
Venomous tongue, tipp'd with vile adder's sting, 
Of that self kind with which the Furies fell 
Their snaky heads do comb, from which a spring 
Of poisoned words and spiteful speeches well; 
Let all the plagues, and horrid pains of hell 
Upon thee fall for thine accursed hire; 
That with false forged lies, which thou didst tell, 
In my true love did stir up coals of ire; 
The sparks whereof let kindle thine own fire, 
And, catching hold on thine own wicked head, 
Consume thee quite, that didst with guile conspire 
In my sweet peace such breaches to have bred! 
  Shame be thy meed, and mischief thy reward, 
  Due to thyself, that it for me prepar'd!
<POEM>
Since I did leave the presence of my love, 
Many long weary days I have outworn; 
And many nights, that slowly seem'd to move 
Their sad protract from evening until morn. 
For, when as day the heaven doth adorn, 
I wish that night the noyous day would end: 
And, when as night hath us of light forlorn, 
I wish that day would shortly reascend. 
Thus I the time with expectation spend, 
And fain my grief with changes to beguile, 
That further seems his term still to extend, 
And maketh every minute seem a mile. 
  So sorrow still doth seem too long to last; 
  But joyous hours do fly away too fast. 
<POEM>
Since I have lack'd the comfort of that light, 
The which was wont to lead my thoughts astray; 
I wander as in darkness of the night, 
Afraid of every danger's least dismay. 
Ne ought I see, though in the clearest day, 
When others gaze upon their shadows vain, 
But th' only image of that heavenly ray, 
Whereof some glance doth in mine eye remain. 
Of which beholding the idea plain, 
Through contemplation of my purest part, 
With light thereof I do myself sustain, 
And thereon feed my love-affamish'd heart. 
  But, with such brightness whilst I fill my mind, 
  I starve my body, and mine eyes do blind. 
<POEM>
Like as the culver, on the bared bough, 
Sits mourning for the absence of her mate; 
And, in her songs, sends many a wishful vow 
For his return that seems to linger late: 
So I alone, now left disconsolate, 
Mourn to myself the absence of my love; 
And, wand'ring here and there all desolate, 
Seek with my plaints to match that mournful dove 
Ne joy of ought, that under heaven doth hove, 
Can comfort me, but her own joyous sight: 
Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move, 
In her unspotted pleasance to delight. 
  Dark is my day, whiles her fair light I miss, 
  And dead my life that wants such lively bliss. 
</FILE>
<FILE Ralegh.ed>
<AUTH> Walter Ralegh
<TITLE> Poems
<NOTES> typed by Espie Rodriguez, proofed by Ward Elliott 1987
<POEM>
If all the world and love were young, 
And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 
These pretty pleasures might me move 
To live with thee and be thy love.  
<STANZA>
But time drives flocks from field to fold, 
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold; 
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complain of cares to come. 
<STANZA>
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wayward winter reckoning yields: 
A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 
<STANZA>
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,-- 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.  
<STANZA>
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, 
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,-- 
All those in me no means can move 
To come to thee and be thy love.  
<POEM>
Sufficeth it to you, my joys interred, 
In simple words that I my woes complain; 
You that then died when first my fancy erred,-- 
Joys under dust that never live again?  
<STANZA>
If to the living were my muse addressed, 
Or did my mind her own spirit still inhold, 
Were not my living passion so repressed 
As to the dead the dead did these unfold,  
<STANZA>
Some sweeter words, some more becoming verse 
Should witness my mishap in higher kind; 
But my love's wounds, my fancy in the hearse, 
The idea but resting of a wasted mind, 
<STANZA>
The blossoms fallen, the sap gone from the tree, 
The broken monuments of my great desires,-- 
From these so lost what may the affections be?  
What heat in cinders of extinguished fires?  
<STANZA>
Lost in the mud of those high-flowing streams, 
Which through more fairer fields their courses bend, 
Slain with self-thoughts, amazed in fearful dreams, 
Woes without date, discomforts without end: 
<STANZA>
From fruitless trees I gather withered leaves, 
And glean the broken ears with miser's hand, 
Who sometime did enjoy the weighty sheaves; 
I seek fair flowers amid the brinish sand.  
<STANZA>
All in the shade, even in the fair sun days, 
Under those healthless trees I sit alone, 
Where joyful birds sing neither lovely lays, 
Nor Philomen recounts her direful moan.  
<STANZA>
No feeding flocks, no shepherd's company, 
That might renew my dolorous conceit, 
While happy then, while love and fantasy 
Confined my thoughts on that fair flock to wait; 
<STANZA>
No pleasing streams fast to the ocean wending, 
The messengers sometimes of my great woe; 
But all on earth, as from the cold storms bending, 
Shrink from my thoughts in high heavens or below.  
<STANZA>
O, hopeful love, my object and invention, 
O, true desire, the spur of my conceit, 
O, worthiest spirit, my mind's impulsion, 
O, eyes transparent, my affection's bait; 
<STANZA>
O, princely form, my fancy's adamant, 
Divine conceit, my pains' acceptance, 
O, all in one! o, heaven on earth transparent!  
The seat of joys and love's abundance!  
<STANZA>
Out of that mass of miracles, my muse 
Gathered those flowers, to her pure senses pleasing; 
Our of her eyes, the store of joys, did choose 
Equal delights,, my sorrow's counterpoising.  
<STANZA>
Her regal looks my vigorous sighs suppressed; 
Small drops of joys sweetened great worlds of woes; 
One gladsome day a thousand cares redressed;-- 
Whom love defends, what fortune overthrows?  
<STANZA>
When she did well, what did there else amiss?  
When she did ill, what empires would have pleased?  
No other power effecting woe or bliss, 
She gave, she took, she wounded, she appeased.  
<STANZA>
The honor of her love love still devising, 
Wounding my mind with contrary conceit, 
Transferred itself sometime to her aspiring, 
Sometime the trumpet of her thought's retreat.  
<STANZA>
To seek new worlds for gold, for praise, for glory, 
To try desire, to try love severed far, 
When I was gone, she sent her memory, 
More strong than were ten thousand ships of war; 
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To call me back, to leave great honor's thought, 
To leave my friends, my fortune, my attempt; 
To leave the purpose I so long had sought, 
And hold both cares and comforts in contempt.  
<STANZA>
Such heat in ice, such fire in frost remained, 
Such trust in doubt, such comfort in despair, 
Which, like the gentle lamb, though lately weaned, 
Plays with the dug, though finds no comfort there.  
<STANZA>
But as a body, violently slain, 
Retaineth warmth although the spirit be gone, 
And by a power in nature moves again 
Till it be laid below the fatal stone;  
<STANZA>
Or as the earth, even in cold winter days, 
Left for a time by her life-giving sun, 
Doth by the power remaining of his rays 
Produce some green, though not as it hath done; 
<STANZA>
Or a wheel, forced by the falling stream, 
Although the course be turned some other way, 
Doth for a time go round upon the beam, 
Till, wanting strength to move, it stands at stay; 
<STANZA>
So my forsaken heart, my withered mind,-- 
Widow of all the joys it once possessed, 
My hopes clean out of sight with forced wind, 
To kingdoms strange, to lands far-off addressed, 
<STANZA>
Alone, forsaken, friendless, on the shore, 
With many wounds, with death's cold pangs embraced, 
Writes in the dust, as one that could no more, 
Whom love, and time, and fortune, had defaced; 
<STANZA>
Of things so great, so long, so manifold, 
With means so weak, the soul even then depicting 
The weal, the woe, the passages of old, 
And worlds of thoughts descried by one last sighing.  
<STANZA>
As if, when after Phoebus is descended, 
And leaves a light much like the past day's dawning, 
And, every toil and labor wholly ended, 
Each living creature draweth to his resting.  
<STANZA>
We should begin by such a parting light 
To write the story of all ages past, 
And end the same before the approaching night.  
<STANZA>
Such is again the labor of my mind, 
Whose shroud, by sorrow woven now to end, 
Hath seen that every shining sun declined, 
So many years that so could not descend, 
<STANZA>
But that the eyes of my mind held her beams 
In every part transferred by love's swift thought; 
Far off or near, in waking or in dreams, 
Imagination strong their luster brought.  
<STANZA>
Such force her angelic appearance had 
To master distance, time, or cruelty; 
Such art to grieve, and after to make glad; 
Such fear in love, such love in majesty. 
<STANZA>
My weary lines her memory embalmed; 
My darkest ways her eyes make clear as day.  
What storms so great but Cynthia's beams appeased?  
What rage so fierce, that love could not allay?  
<STANZA>
Twelve years entire I wasted in this war; 
Twelve years of my most happy younger days; 
But I in them, and they now wasted are: 
"Of all which past, the sorrow only stays."  
<STANZA>
So wrote I once, and my mishap foretold, 
My mind still feeling sorrowful success; 
Even as before a storm the marble cold 
Doth by moist tears tempestuous times express, 
<STANZA>
So felt my heavy mind my harms at hand, 
Which my vain thought in vain sought to recure: 
At middle day my sun seemed under land, 
When any little cloud did it obscure.  
<STANZA>
And as the icicles in a winter's day, 
Whenas the sun shines with unwonted warm,  
<STANZA>
So did my joys melt into secret tears; 
So did my heart dissolve in wasting drops: 
And as the season of the year outwears, 
And heaps of snow from off the mountain tops 
<STANZA>
With sudden streams the valleys overflow, 
So did the time draw on my more despair: 
Then floods of sorrow and whole seas of woe 
The banks of all my hope did overbear, 
<STANZA>
And drowned my mind in depths of misery: 
Sometime I died; sometimes I was distract, 
My soul the stage of fancy's tragedy; 
Then furious madness, where true reason lacked,
<STANZA>
Wrote what it would, and scourged mine own conceit. 
O, heavy heart! who can thee witness bear?  
What tongue, what pen, could thy tormenting treat, 
But thine own mourning thoughts which present were? 
<STANZA>
What stranger mind believe the meanest part? 
What altered sense conceive the weakest woe, 
That tear, that rent, that pierced thy sad heart?  
<STANZA>
And as a man distract, with triple might 
Bound in strong chains doth strive and rage in vain, 
Till, tired and breathless, he is forced to rest,-- 
Finds by contention but increase of pain, 
And fiery heat inflamed in swollen breast; 
<STANZA>
So did my mind in change of passion 
From woe to wrath, from wrath return to woe, 
Struggling in vain from love's subjection; 
<STANZA>
Therefore, all lifeless and all helpless bound, 
My fainting spirits sunk, and heart appalled, 
My joys and hopes lay bleeding on the ground, 
That not long since the highest heaven scaled.  
<STANZA>
I hated life and cursed destiny; 
The thoughts of passed times, like flames of hell, 
Kindled afresh within my memory 
The many dear achievements that befell 
<STANZA>
In those prime years and infancy of love, 
Which to describe were but to die in writing; 
Ah, those I sought, but vainly, to remove, 
And vainly shall, by which I perish living. 
<STANZA>
And though strong reason hold before mine eyes 
The images and forms of worlds past, 
Teaching the cause why all those flames that rise 
From forms external can no longer last, 
<STANZA>
Than that those seeming beauties hold in prime 
Love's ground, his essence, and his empery, 
All slaves to age, and vassals unto time, 
Of which repentance tragedy: -- 
<STANZA>
But this my heart's desire could not conceive, 
Whose love outflew the fastest flying time, 
A beauty that can easily deceive 
The arrest of years, and creeping age outclimb.  
<STANZA>
A spring of beauties which time ripeth not -- 
Time that but works on frail mortality; 
A sweetness which woe's wrongs outwipeth not, 
Whom love hath chose for his divinity; 
<STANZA>
A vestal fire that burns but never wasteth, 
That loseth nought by giving light to all, 
That endless shines each where, and endless lasteth, 
Blossoms of pride that can nor fade nor fall;
<STANZA>
These were those marvelous perfections, 
The parents of my sorrow and my envy, 
Most deathful and most violent infections; 
These be the tyrants that in fetters tie 
<STANZA>
Their wounded vassals, yet nor kill nor cure, 
But glory in their lasting misery -- 
That, as her beauties would, our woes should dure -- 
These be the effects of powerful empery.  
<STANZA>
Yet have these wonders want, which want compassion; 
Yet hath her mind some marks of human race; 
Yet will she be a woman for a fashion, 
So doth she please her virtues to deface. 
<STANZA>
And like as that immortal power doth seat 
An element of waters, to allay 
The fiery sunbeams that on earth do beat, 
And temper by cold night the heat of day, 
<STANZA>
So hath perfection, which begat her mind, 
Added thereto a change of fantasy, 
And left her the affections of her kind, 
Yet free from every evil but cruelty. 
<STANZA>
But leave her praise; speak thou of nought but woe;
Write on the tale that sorrow bids thee tell; 
Strive to forget, and care no more to know 
Thy cares are known, by knowing those too well. 
<STANZA>
Describe her now as she appears to thee; 
Not as she did appear in days foredone: 
In love, those things that were no more may be, 
For fancy seldom ends where it begun. 
<STANZA>
And as a stream by strong hand bounded in 
From nature's course where it did sometime run, 
By some small rent or loose part doth begin 
To find escape, till it a way hath won; 
<STANZA>
Doth then all unawares in sunder tear 
The forced bounds, and, raging, run at large 
In the ancient channels as they wonted were; 
Such is of women's love the careful charge, -- 
<STANZA>
Held and maintained with multitude of woes; 
Of long erections such the sudden fall: 
One hour diverts, one instant overthrows, 
For which our lives, for which our fortune's thrall
<STANZA>
So many years those joys have dearly bought; 
Of which when our fond hopes do most assure, 
All is dissolved; our labors come to nought; 
Nor any mark thereof there doth endure: 
<STANZA>
No more than when small drops of rain do fall 
Upon the parched ground by heat updried; 
No cooling moisture is perceived at all, 
Nor any show or sign of wet doth bide.  
<STANZA>
But as the fields, clothed with leaves and flowers, 
The banks of roses smelling precious sweet, 
Have but their beauty's date and timely hours, 
And then, defaced by winter's cold and sleet
<STANZA>
So far as neither fruit nor form of flower
Stays for a witness what such branches bare, 
But as time gave, time did again devour, 
And change our rising joy to falling care: 
<STANZA>
So of affection which our youth presented; 
When she that from the sun reaves power and light, 
Did but decline her beams as discontented, 
Converting sweetest days to saddest night, 
<STANZA>
All droops, all dies, all trodden under dust, 
The person, place, and passages forgotten; 
The hardest steel eaten with softest rust,
The firm and solid tree both rent and rotten.  
<STANZA>
Those thoughts, so full of pleasure and content,
That in our absence were affection's food, 
Are razed out and from the fancy rent; 
In highest grace and heart's dear care that stood,
<STANZA>
Are cast for prey to hatred and to scorn ,-- 
Our dearest treasures and our heart's true joys; 
The tokens hung on breast and kindly worn, 
Are now elsewhere disposed or held for toys.  
<STANZA>
And those when then our jealousy removed, 
And others for our sakes then valued dear, 
The one forgot, the rest are dear beloved, 
When all of our doth strange or vild appear. 
<STANZA>
Those streams seem standing puddles, which before 
We saw our beauties in, so were they clear; 
Belphoebe's course is now observed no more; 
That fair resemblance weareth out of date; 
<STANZA>
Our ocean seas are but tempestuous waves, 
And all things base, that blessed were of late. . . . 
And as a field, wherein the stubble stands 
Of harvest past, the ploughman's eye offends; 
<STANZA>
He tills again, or tears them up with hands, 
And throws to fire as foiled and fruitless ends, 
And takes delight another seed to sow; 
So doth the mind root up all wonted thought, 
<STANZA>
And scorns the care of our remaining woes; 
The sorrows, which themselves for us have wrought,
Are burnt to cinders by new kindled fires; 
The ashes are dispersed into the air; 
<STANZA>
The sighs, the groans of all our past desires 
Are clean outworn, as things that never were.  
With youth is dead the hope of love's return, 
Who looks not back to hear our after-cries:  
<STANZA>
Where he is not, he laughs at those that mourn; 
Whence he is gone, he scorns the mind that dies.  
When he is absent, he believes no words; 
When reason speaks, he, careless, stops his ears;
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