<FILE> Barnpo1.d
<AUTH> Richard Barnfield
<TITLE>  Tears of An Affectionate Shepherd,
1594; The Shepherd's Content, 1594; The Complaint of Chastity,
1594; Helen's Rape, 1594; Cynthia, 1595; Sonnets, 1595; Ode,
1595; Cassandra, (minus).
<NOTES> Proofed from scan of Bullen,
1903, WEYE, 8/90: note: heavy substitution of en- for in-; em- for im-  embrace
for imbrace; enjoy for injoy; 'd endings for -t endings: possess'd for
possest.         
<POEM> 
<1. The Tears of an affectionate Shepherd, 1594>
Scarce had the morning Star hid from the 
Heaven's crimson Canopy with stars bespangled,
But I began to rue th' unhappy sight 
Of that fair Boy that had my heart entangled; 
Cursing the Time, the Place, the sense, the sin; 
I came, I saw, I view'd, I slipped in. 
<STANZA> 
If it be sin to love a sweet-fac'd Boy, 
(Whose amber locks truss'd up in golden trammels 
Dangle adown his lovely cheeks with joy, 
When pearl and flowers his fair hair enamels) 
If it be sin to love a lovely Lad; 
O then sin I, for whom my soul is sad. 
<STANZA> 
His Ivory-white and Alablaster skin 
Is stain'd throughout with rare Vermilion red, 
Whose twinkling starry lights do never blin 
To shine on lovely Venus (Beauty's bed:) 
But as the Lily and the blushing Rose, 
So white and red on him in order grows. 
<STANZA>
Upon a time the Nymphs bestirr'd themselves 
To try who could his beauty soonest win 
But he accounted them but all as Elves, 
Except it were the fair Queen Gwendolyn, 
Her he embrac'd, of her was beloved, 
With plaints he proved, and with tears he moved. 
<STANZA> 
But her an Old-Man had been suitor too, 
That in his age began to dote again; 
Her would he often pray, and often woo, 
When through old-age enfeebled was his Brain 
   But she before had loud a lusty youth 
   That now was dead, the cause of all her ruth. 
<STANZA> 
And thus it happ'ned, Death and Cupid met 
Upon a time at swilling Bacchus' house, 
Where dainty cates upon the Board were set, 
And Goblets full of wine to drink carouse 
   Where Love and Death did love the liquor so, 
   That out they fall and to the fray they go. 
<STANZA> 
And having both their Quivers at their back 
Fill'd full of Arrows; th' one of fatal steel, 
The other all of gold; Death's shaft was black, 
But Love's was yellow Fortune turn'd her wheel; 
And from Death's Quiver fell a fatal shaft, 
That under Cupid by the wind was waft. 
<STANZA> 
And at the same time by ill hap there fell 
Another Arrow out of Cupid Quiver; 
The which was carried by the wind at will, 
And under Death the amorous shaft did shiver: 
   They being parted, Love took up Death's dart, 
   And Death took up Love's Arrow (for his part.) 
<STANZA> 
Thus as they wandered both about the world, 
At last Death met with one of feeble age 
Wherewith he drew a shaft and at him hurl'd 
The unknown Arrow; (with a furious rage) 
   Thinking to strike him dead with Death's black dart, 
   But he (alas) with Love did wound his heart. 
<STANZA>
This was the doting fool, this was the man 
That lov'd fair Gwendolyna Queen of Beauty; 
She cannot slake him off, do what she can, 
For he hath vow'd to her his soul's last duty 
Making him trim upon the holy-days; 
And crowns his Love with Garlands made of Bays. 
<STANZA> 
Now doth he stroke his Beard; and now (again) 
He wipes the drivel from his filthy chin; 
Now offers he a kiss; but high Disdain 
Will not permit her heart to pity him: 
Her heart more hard than Adamant or steel, 
Her heart more changeable than Fortune's wheel. 
<STANZA> 
But leave we him in love (up to the ear
And tell how Love behav'd himself abroad; 
Who seeing one that mourned still in tears 
(a young-man groaning under Love's great Load) 
   Thinking to ease his Burden, rid his pains 
   For men have grief as long as life remains. 
<STANZA> 
Alas (the while) that unawares he drew
The fatal shaft that Death had dropp'd before; 
By which deceit great harm did then issue, 
Staining his face with blood and filthy gore. 
     His face, that was to Gwendolyn more dear 
     Than love of Lords, of any lordly Peer. 
<STANZA> 
This was that fair and beautiful young-man, 
Whom Gwendolyna so lamented for; 
This is that Love whom she doth curse and ban, 
Because she doth that dismal chance abhor 
   And if it were not for his Mother's sake, 
   Even Ganymede himself she would forsake. 
<STANZA> 
O would she would forsake my Ganymede, 
Whose sug'red love is full of sweet delight, 
Upon whose fore-head you may plainly read 
Love's Pleasure, grav'd in ivory Tables bright: 
   In whose fair eye-balls you may clearly see 
   Base Love still stain'd with foul indignity. 
<STANZA>
O would to God he would but pity me, 
That love him more than any mortal wight; 
Then he and I with love would soon agree, 
That now cannot abide his Suitor's sight. 
   O would to God (so I might have my fee) 
   My lips were honey, and thy mouth a Bee. 
<STANZA> 
Then shouldst thou suck my sweet and my fair flower 
That now is ripe, and full of honey-berries: 
Then would I lead thee to my pleasant Bower 
Fill'd full of Grapes, of Mulberries, and Cherries; 
   Then shouldst thou be my Wasp or else my Bee, 
   I would thy hive, and thou my honey be. 
<STANZA> 
I would put amber Bracelets on thy wrists, 
Crownets of Pearl about thy naked Arms 
And when thou sit'st at swilling Bacchus' feasts 
My lips with charms should save thee from ill harms: 
And when in sleep thou took'st thy chiefest Pleasure, 
Mine eyes should gaze upon thine eye-lids' Treasure. 
<STANZA> 
And every Morn by dawning of the day, 
When Phoebus riseth with a blushing face, 
Silvanus' Chapel-Clerks shall chaunt a Lay, 
And play thee hunts-up in thy resting place: 
My Cote thy Chamber, my bosom thy Bed; 
Shall be appointed for thy sleepy head.
<STANZA> 
And when it pleaseth thee to walk abroad, 
(Abroad into the fields to take fresh air:) 
The Meads with Flora's treasure should be strow'd, 
(The mantled meadows, and the fields so fair.) 
   And by a silver Well (with golden sands) 
   I'll sit me down, and wash thine ivory hands. 
<STANZA> 
And in the swelt'ring heat of summer time, 
I would make Cabinets for thee (my Love:) 
Sweet.smelling Arbors made of Eglantine 
Should be thy shrine, and I would be thy Dove. 
Cool Cabinets of fresh green Laurel boughs 
Should shadow us, o'er-set with thick-set Eughes. 
<STANZA> 
Or if thou list to bathe thy naked limbs, 
Within the Crystal of a Pearl-bright brook, 
Paved with dainty pibbles to the brims; 
Or clear, wherein thyself thy self mayst look; 
   We'll go to Ladon, whose still trickling noise, 
   Will lull thee fast asleep amidst thy joys. 
<STANZA> 
Or if thou'lt go unto the River side, 
To angle for the sweet fresh-water fish 
Arm'd with thy implements that will abide 
(Thy rod, hook, line) to take a dainty dish; 
   Thy rods shall be of cane, thy lines of silk, 
   The hooks of silver, and thy baits of milk. 
<STANZA> 
Or if thou lov'st to hear sweet Melody, 
Or pipe a Round upon an Oaten Reed, 
Or make thy self glad with some mirthful glee, 
Or play them Music whilst thy flock doth feed; 
     To Pan's own Pipe I'll help my lovely Lad, 
     (Pan's golden Pipe) which he of Syrinx had. 
<STANZA> 
Or if thou dar'st to climb the highest Trees 
For Apples, Cherries, Medlars, Pears, or Plums, 
Nuts, Walnuts, Filbeards, Chest-nuts, Cervices, 
The hoary Peach, when snowy winter comes; 
     I have fine Orchards full of mellowed fruit; 
     Which I will give thee to obtain my suit. 
<STANZA> 
Not proud Alcinous himself can vaunt, 
Of goodlier Orchards or of braver Trees 
Than I have planted; yet thou wilt not grant 
My simple suit; but like the honey Bees 
   Thou suck'st the Sour till all the sweet be gone; 
   And lov'st me for my Coin till I have none. 
<STANZA> 
Leave Gwendolyn (sweet heart) though she be fair 
Yet is she light; not light in virtue shining: 
But light in her behavior, to impair 
Her honor in her Chastity's declining; 
   Trust not her tears, for they can wantonize, 
   When tears in pearl are trickling from her eyes. 
<STANZA>
If thou wilt come and dwell with me at home; 
My sheep-cote shall be strow'd with new green rushes 
We'll haunt the trembling Prickets as they roam 
About the fields, along the hawthorn bushes; 
I have a pie-bald Cur to hunt the Hare: 
So we will live with dainty forest fare. 
<STANZA> 
Nay more than this, I have a Garden-plot, 
Wherein there wants nor herbs, nor roots, nor flowers; 
(Flowers to smell, roots to eat, herbs for the pot,) 
And dainty Shelters when the Welkin lowers 
Sweet-smelling Beds of Lilies and of Roses, 
Which Rosemary banks and Lavender encloses. 
<STANZA> 
There grows the Gilliflower, the Mint, the Daisy
(Both red and white,) the blue-vein'd-Violet 
The purple Hyacinth, the Spike to please thee, 
The scarlet dy'd Carnation bleeding yet; 
The Sage, the Savory, and sweet Marjerom, 
Hyssop, Thyme, and Eye-bright, good for the blind and dumb. 
<STANZA> 
The Pink, the Primrose, cowslip, and Daffadilly, 
The Hare-bell blue, the crimson Columbine, 
Sage, Lettuce, Parsley, and the milk-white Lily, 
The Rose, and speckled flow'r call'd Sops in wine, 
Fine pretty King-cups, and the yellow Boots, 
That grows by Rivers, and by shallow Brooks. 
<STANZA> 
And many thousand moe (I cannot name) 
Of herbs and flowers that in gardens grow, 
I have for thee; and Conies that be tame, 
Young Rabbits, white as Swan, and black as Crow, 
Some speckled here and there with dainty spots 
And more I have two milch and milk-white Goats. 
<STANZA> 
All these, and more, I'll give thee for thy love; 
If these, and more, may 'tice thy love away: 
I have a Pigeon-house, in it a Dove, 
Which I love more than mortal tongue can say: 
And last of all, I'll give thee a little Lamb
To play withal, new weaned from her Dam. 
<STANZA> 
But if thou wilt not pity my Complaint, 
My Tears, nor Vows, nor Oaths, made to thy Beauty: 
What shall I do? But languish, die, or faint, 
Since thou dost scorn my Tears, and my Soul's Duty: 
And Tears contemned, Vows and Oaths must fail; 
For where Tears cannot, nothing can prevail. 
<STANZA> 
Compare the love of fair Queen Gwendolyn 
With mine, and thou shalt see how she doth love thee: 
I love thee for thy qualities divine, 
But She doth love another Swain above thee 
I love thee for thy gifts, She for her pleasure; 
I for thy Virtue, She for Beauty's treasure. 
<STANZA> 
And always (I am sure) it cannot last, 
But sometime Nature will deny those dimples: 
Instead of Beauty (when thy Blossom's past) 
The face will be deformed, full of wrinkles 
Then She that lov'd thee for thy Beauty's sake, 
When Age draws on, thy love will soon forsake. 
<STANZA> 
But I that lov'd thee for thy gifts divine, 
In the December of thy Beauty's waning, 
Will still admire (with joy) those lovely eyne, 
That now behold me with their beauty's baning: 
Though January will never come again, 
Yet April years will come in showers of rain. 
<STANZA> 
When will my May come, that I may embrace thee? 
When will the hour be of my soul's joying? 
Who dost thou seek in mirth still to disgrace me? 
Whose mirth's my health, whose grief's my heart's annoying. 
The bane my bale, thy bliss my blessedness, 
Thy ill my hell, thy weal my welfare is. 
<STANZA> 
Thus do I honor thee that love thee so, 
And love thee so, that so do honor thee, 
Much more than any mortal man doth know, 
Or can discern by Love or Jealousy: 
But if that thou disdain'st my loving ever; 
O happy I, if I had loved never.  <Finis. >
<Plus fellis quam mellis Amor.> 
<POEM>
<2 The second Day's Lamentation of the Affectionate Shepherd>
<Nov. 1594>
Next Morning when the golden Sun was risen, 
And new had bid good morrow to the Mountains; 
When Night her silver light had lock'd in prison, 
Which gave a glimmering on the crystal Fountains 
Then ended sleep: and then my cares began, 
Ev'n with the uprising of the silver Swan. 
<STANZA>
O glorious Sun quoth I, (viewing the Sun) 
That lighten'st every thing but me alone 
Why is my Summer season almost done? 
My Spring-time past, and Age's Autumn gone? 
My Harvest's come, and yet I reap'd no corn 
My love is great, and yet I am forlorn. 
<STANZA> 
Witness these wat'ry eyes my sad lament 
(Receiving cesterns of my ceaseless tears), 
Witness my bleeding heart my soul's intent, 
Witness the weight distressed Daphnis bears: 
Sweet Love, come ease me of thy burthen's pain; 
Or else I die, or else my heart is slain. 
<STANZA> 
And thou love-scorning Boy, cruel, unkind; 
O let me once again entreat some pity: 
May be thou wilt relent thy marble mind, 
And lend thine ears unto my doleful Ditty: 
O pity him, that pity craves so sweetly; 
Or else thou shalt be never named meekly. 
<STANZA> 
If thou wilt love me, thou shalt be my Boy, 
My sweet Delight, the Comfort of my mind, 
My Love, my Dove, my Solace, and my Joy: 
But if I can no grace nor mercy find, 
I'll go to Caucasus to ease my smart, 
And let a Vulture gnaw upon my heart. 
<STANZA>
Yet if thou wilt but show me one kind look 
(A small reward for my so great affection) 
I'll grave thy name in Beauty's golden Book, 
And shrowd thee under Helicon's protection; 
   Making the Muses chaunt thy lovely praise: 
   (For they delight in Shepherds' lowly lays.) 
<STANZA> 
And when th' art weary of thy keeping Sheep 
Upon a lovely Down, (to please thy mind) 
I'll give thee fine ruff-footed Doves to keep, 
And pretty Pigeons of another kind 
   A Robin-red-breast shall thy Minstrel be, 
   Chirping thee sweet, and pleasant Melody. 
<STANZA> 
Or if thou wilt go shoot at little Birds 
With bow and bolt (the Throstle-cock and Sparrow) 
Such as our Country hedges can afford's; 
I have a fine bow, and an ivory arrow: 
And if thou miss, yet meat thou shalt [not] lack, 
I'll hang a bag and bottle at thy back. 
<STANZA> 
Wilt thou set springes in a frosty Night, 
To catch the long-bill'd Woodcock and the Snipe? 
(By the bright glimmering of the Starry light) 
The Partridge, Pheasant, or the greedy Gripe? 
   I'll lend thee lime-twigs, and fine sparrow calls, 
   Wherewith the Fowler silly Birds enthralls. 
<STANZA> 
Or in a misty morning if thou wilt 
Make pit-falls for the Lark and Pheldifare; 
Thy prop and sweak shall be both over-gilt; 
With Cyparissus' self thou shalt compare 
For gins and wiles, the Ousels to beguile; 
Whilst thou under a bush shalt sit and smile. 
<STANZA> 
Or with Hare-pipes (set in a musette hole) 
Wilt thou deceive the deep-earth-delving Cony? 
Or wilt thou in a yellow Boxen bowl 
Taste with a wooden splint the sweet lithe honey? 
Clusters of crimson Grapes I'll pull thee down; 
And with Vine-leaves make thee a lovely Crown. 
<STANZA>
Or wilt thou drink a cup of new-made Wine 
Frothing at top, mix'd with a dish of Cream; 
And Straw-berries, or Bil-berries in their prime, 
Bath'd in a melting Sugar-Candy stream 
Bunnell and Perry I have for thee (alone) 
When Vines are dead, and all the Grapes are gone. 
<STANZA> 
I have a pleasant noted Nightingale, 
(That sings as sweetly as the silver Swan) 
Kept in a Cage of bone; as white as Whale, 
Which I with singing of Philemon wan 
Her shalt thou have, and all I have beside; 
If thou wilt be my Boy, or else my Bride. 
<STANZA> 
Then will I lay out all my Lardary 
(Of Cheese, of Cracknels, Curds and Clotted-cream) 
Before thy mal-content ill-pleasing eye 
But why do I of such great follies dream?
Alas, he will not see my simple Coat; 
For all my speckled Lamb, nor milk-white Goat. 
<STANZA> 
Against my Birth-day thou shalt be my guest 
We'll have Green-cheeses and fine Syllabubs; 
And thou shalt be the chief of all my feast. 
And I will give thee two fine pretty Cubs, 
With two young Whelps, to make thee sport withal, 
A golden Racket, and a Tennis-ball. 
<STANZA> 
A gilded Nutmeg, and a race of Ginger, 
A silken Girdle, and a drawn-work Band, 
Cuffs for thy wrists, a gold Ring for thy finger, 
And sweet Rose-water for thy Lily-white hand, 
A Purse of silk, bespang'd with spots of gold, 
As brave a one as ere thou didst behold. 
<STANZA> 
A pair of Knives, a green Hat and a Feather, 
New Gloves to put upon thy milk-white hand 
I'll give thee, for to keep thee from the weather; 
With Phoenix feathers shall thy Face be fann'd, 
Cooling those Cheeks, that being cool'd wax red, 
Like Lilies in a bed of Roses shed. 
<STANZA>
Why do thy Coral lips disdain to kiss, 
And suck that Sweet, which many have desired? 
That Balm my Bane, that means would mend my miss 
O let me then with thy sweet Lips b' inspired; 
When thy Lips touch my Lips, my Lips will turn 
To Coral too, and being cold ice will burn.
<STANZA> 
Who should thy sweet Love-lock hang dangling down, 
Kissing thy girdle-stead with falling pride? 
Although thy Skin be white, thy hair is brown 
O let not then thy hair thy beauty hide; 
Cut off thy Lock, and sell it for gold wire 
(The purest gold is tried in hottest fire). 
<STANZA> 
Fair-long-hair-wearing Absalom was kill'd, 
Because he wore it in a bravery: 
So that which grac'd his Beauty, Beauty spill'd, 
Making him subject to vile slavery, 
In being hang'd: a death for him too good, 
That sought his own shame, and his Father's blood. 
<STANZA> 
Again, we read of old King Priamus, 
(The hapless sire of valiant Hector slain) 
That his hair was so long and odious 
In youth, that in his age it bred his pain 
For if his hair had not been half so long, 
His life had been, and he had had no wrong. 
<STANZA> 
For when his stately City was destroy'd 
(That Monument of great Antiquity) 
When his poor heart with grief and sorrow cloy'd) 
Fled to his Wife (last hope in misery;) 
Pyrrhus (more hard than Adamantine rocks) 
Held him and haul'd him by his aged locks. 
<STANZA> 
These two examples by the way I show, 
To prove th' indecency of men's long hair 
Though I could tell thee of a thousand moe, 
Let these suffice for thee (my lovely Fair) 
Whose eye's my star; whose smiling is my Sun; 
Whose love did end before my joys begun. 
<STANZA> 
Fond Love is blind, and so art thou (my Dear) 
For thou seest not my Love, and great desert; 
Blind Love is fond, and so thou dost appear; 
For fond, and blind, thou griev'st my grieving heart 
Be thou fond-blind, blind-fond, or one, or all, 
Thou art my Love, and I must be thy thrall. 
<STANZA> 
O lend thine ivory fore-head for Love's Book, 
Thine eyes for candles to behold the same; 
That when dim-sighted ones therein shall look 
They may discern that proud disdainful Dame; 
Yet clasp that Book, and shut that Clement light; 
Lest th' one obscur'd, the other shine too bright. 
<STANZA> 
Sell thy sweet breath to th' dainty Musk-ball-makers; 
Yet sell it so as thou mayst soon redeem it: 
Let others of thy beauty be partakers; 
Else none but Daphnis will so well esteem it 
For what is Beauty except it be well known? 
And how can it be known, except first shown? 
<STANZA> 
Learn of the Gentlewomen of this Age, 
That set their Beauties to the open view, 
Making Disdain their Lord, true Love their Page; 
A Custom Zeal doth hate, Desert doth rue: 
   Learn to look red, anon wax pale and wan, 
   Making a mock of Love, a scorn of man. 
<STANZA> 
A candle light, and cover'd with a veil, 
Doth no man good, because it gives no light; 
So Beauty of her beauty seems to,fail, 
When being not seen it cannot shine so bright. 
Then show thy self and know thy self withal, 
Lest climbing high thou catch too great a fall. 
<STANZA> 
O foul Eclipser of that fair sun-shine, 
Which is intitled Beauty in the best; 
Making that mortal, which is else divine, 
That stains the fair which Women's 'steem not least 
Get thee to Hell again (from whence thou art) 
And leave the Center of a Woman's heart. 
<STANZA>
Ah be not stain'd, (sweet Boy) with this vild spot, 
Indulgence Daughter, Mother of mischance; 
A blemish that doth every beauty blot; 
That makes them loath'd, but never doth advance 
   Her Clients, fautors, friends; or them that love her; 
   And hates them most of all, that most reprove her. 
<STANZA> 
Remember Age, and thou canst not be proud, 
For age pulls down the pride of every man; 
In youthful years by Nature 'tis allow'd 
To have self-will, do Nurture what she can; 
   Nature and Nurture once together met, 
   The Soul and shape in decent order set. 
<STANZA> 
Pride looks aloft, still staring on the stars, 
Humility looks lowly on the ground; 
Th' one menaceth the Gods with civil wars, 
The other toils till he have Virtue found: 
   His thoughts are humble, not aspiring high; 
   But Pride looks haughtily with scornful eye. 
<STANZA> 
Humility is clad in modest weeds, 
But Pride is brave and glorious to the show; 
Humility his friends with kindness feeds, 
But Pride his friends (in need) will never know: 
   Supplying not their wants, but them disdaining; 
   Whilst they to pity never need complaining. 
<STANZA> 
Humility in misery is reliev'd, 
But Pride in need of no man is regarded; 
Pity and Mercy weep to see him griev'd 
That in distress had them so well rewarded 
     But Pride is scorn'd, contemn'd, disdain'd, derided, 
     Whilst Humbleness of all things is provided. 
<STANZA> 
O then be humble, gentle, meek, and mild; 
So shalt thou be of every mouth commended; 
Be not disdainful, cruel, proud, (sweet child) 
So shalt thou be of no man much condemned; 
     Care not for them that Virtue do despise; 
     Virtue is loath'd of fools; lov'd of the wise. 
<STANZA>
O fair Boy trust not to thy Beauty's wings, 
They cannot carry thee above the Sun 
Beauty and wealth are transitory things, 
(For all must end that ever was begun) 
But Fame and Virtue never shall decay; 
For Fame is tombless, Virtue lives for aye. 
<STANZA> 
The snow is white, and yet the pepper's black, 
The one is bought, the other is contemned 
Pibbles we have, but store of jet we lack; 
So white compar'd to black is much condemned 
We do not praise the Swan because she's white, 
But for she doth in Music much delight. 
<STANZA> 
And yet the silver-noted Nightingale, 
Though she be not so white is more esteemed; 
Sturgeon is dun of hue, white is the Whale, 
Yet for the daintier Dish the first is deemed; 
What thing is whiter than the milk-bred Lily? 
Thou knows it not for naught, what man so silly? 
<STANZA> 
Yea what more noisomer unto the smell 
Than Lilies are? what's sweeter than the Sage? 
Yet for pure white the Lily bears the Bell 
Till it be faded through decaying Age; 
House-Doves are white, and Ousels Black-birds be; 
Yet what a difference in the taste, we see. 
<STANZA> 
Compare the Cow and Calf, with Ewe and Lamb; 
Rough hairy Hides, with softest downy Fell; 
Heifer and Bull, with Wether and with Ram, 
And you shall see how far they do excel; 
White Kine with black, black Cony-skins with grey, 
Kine, nesh and strong; skin, dear and cheap alway. 
<STANZA> 
The whitest silver is not always best, 
Lead, Tin, and Pewter are of base esteem; 
The yellow burnish'd gold, that comes from th' East, 
And West (of late invented), may beseem 
The worlds rich Treasury, or Midas' eye; 
(The Rich mans God, poor mans felicity.) 
<STANZA>
Bugle and Jet, with snow and Alablaster 
I will compare: White Dammasin with black; 
Bullas and wheaten Plums, (to a good Taster,) 
The ripe red Cherries have the sweetest smack; 
When they be green and young, th' are sour and naught; 
But being ripe, with eagerness th' are bought. 
<STANZA> 
Compare the Wild-cat to the brownish Beaver, 
Running for life, with hounds pursued sore; 
When Hunts-men of her precious Stones bereave her 
(Which with her teeth sh' had bitten off before) 
Restoratives, and costly curious Felts 
Are made of them, and rich embroidered Belts. 
<STANZA> 
To what use serves a piece of crumbling Chalk? 
The Agate stone is white, yet good for nothing: 
Fie, fie, I am asham'd to hear thee talk?
Be not so much of thine own Image doting: 
So fair Narcissus lost his love and life. 
(Beauty is often with itself at strife). 
<STANZA> 
Right Diamonds are of a russet hue, 
The brightsome Carbuncles are red to see too, 
The Sapphire stone is of a watchet blue, 
(To this thou canst not choose but soon agree too): 
Pearls are not white but grey, Rubies are red: 
In praise of Black, what can be better said?
<STANZA> 
For if we do consider of each mortal thing 
That flies in welkin, or in waters swims, 
How every thing increaseth with the Spring, 
And how the blacker still the brighter dims: 
We cannot choose, but needs we must confess, 
Sable excels milk-white in more or less. 
<STANZA> 
As for example, in the crystal clear 
Of a sweet stream, or pleasant running River, 
Where thousand forms of fishes will appear, 
(Whose names to thee I cannot now deliver:) 
The blacker still the brighter have disgrac'd, 
For pleasant profit, and delicious taste. 
<STANZA> 
Salmon and Trout are of a ruddy color, 
Whiting and Dare is of a milk-white hue: 
Nature by them (perhaps) is made the fuller, 
Little they nourish, be they old or new: 
Carp, Loach, Tench, Eels (though black and bred in mud) 
Delight the tooth with taste, and breed good blood. 
<STANZA> 
Innumerable be the kinds, if I could name them; 
But I a Shepherd, and no Fisher am 
Little it skills whether I praise or blame them, 
I only meddle with my Ewe and Lamb 
Yet this I say, that black the better is, 
In birds, beasts, fruit, stones, flowers, herbs, metals, fish. 
<STANZA> 
And last of all, in black there doth appear 
Such qualities, as not in ivory; 
Black cannot blush for shame, look pale for fear, 
Scorning to wear another livery. 
Black is the badge of sober Modesty, 
The wonted wear of ancient Gravity. 
<STANZA> 
The learned Sisters suit themselves in black, 
Learning abandons white, and lighter hues: 
Pleasure and, Pride light colors never lack; 
But true Religion doth such Toys refuse: 
   Virtue and Gravity are sisters grown, 
   Since black by both, and both by black are known. 
<STANZA> 
White is the color of each paltry Miller, 
White is the Ensign of each common Woman; 
White, is white Virtue's for black Vice's Pillar; 
White makes proud fools inferior unto no man: 
   White, is the white of Body, black of Mind, 
   (Virtue we seldom in white Habit find.) 
<STANZA> 
O then be not so proud because th' art fair, 
Virtue is only the rich gift of God: 
Let not self-pride thy virtue's name impair, 
Beat not green youth with sharp Repentance Rod: 
   (A Fiend, a Monster, and misshapen Divel; 
   Virtue's foe, Vice's friend, the root of evil.) 
<STANZA> 
Apply thy mind to be a virtuous man, 
Avoid ill company (the spoil of youth;) 
To follow Virtue's Lore do what thou can 
(Whereby great profit unto thee ensueth:) 
   Read Books, hate Ignorance, (the foe to Art, 
   The Dam of Error, Envy of the heart). 
<STANZA> 
Serve Jove (upon thy knees) both day and night, 
Adore his Name above all things on Earth 
So shall thy vows be gracious in his sight, 
So little Babes are blessed in their Birth 
   Think on no worldly woe, lament thy sin; 
   (For lesser cease, when greater griefs begin). 
<STANZA> 
Swear no vain oaths; hear much, but little say; 
Speak ill of no man, tend thine own affairs, 
Bridle thy wrath, thine angry mood delay; 
(So shall thy mind be seldom cloy'd with cares:) 
   Be mild and gentle in thy speech to all, 
   Refuse no honest gain when it doth fall. 
<STANZA> 
Be not beguil'd with words, prove not ungrateful, 
Relieve thy Neighbor in his greatest need, 
Commit no action that to all is hateful, 
Their want with wealth, the poor with plenty feed: 
   Twit no man in the teeth with what th' hast done; 
   Remember flesh is frail, and hatred shun. 
<STANZA> 
Leave wicked things, which Men to mischief move, 
(Least cross mishap may thee in danger bring,) 
Crave no preferment of thy heavenly Jove, 
Nor any honor of thy earthly King: 
   Boast not thy self before th' Almighty's sight, 
   (Who knows thy heart, and any wicked wight). 
<STANZA> 
Be not offensive to the people's eye, 
See that thy prayers hearts true zeal affords, 
Scorn not a man that's fall'n in misery, 
Esteem no tattling tales, nor babbling words; 
   That reason is exiled always think, 
   When as a drunkard rails amidst his drink. 
<STANZA>
Use not thy lovely lips to loathsome lies, 
By crafty means increase no worldly wealth 
Strive not with mighty Men (whose fortune flies) 
With temp'rate diet nourish wholesome health 
Place well thy words, leave not thy friend for gold; 
First try, then trust; in vent'ring be not bold. 
<STANZA> 
In Pan repose thy trust; extol his praise 
(That never shall decay, but ever lives): 
Honor thy Parents (to prolong thy days), 
Let not thy left hand know what right hand gives: 
From needy men turn not thy face away, 
(Though Charity be now yclad in clay). 
<STANZA> 
Hear Shepherds oft (thereby great wisdom grows), 
With good advice a sober answer make 
Be not remov'd with every wind that blows, 
(That course do only sinful sinners take). 
The talk will show thy fame or else thy shame; 
(As prattling tongue doth often purchase blame). 
<STANZA> 
Obtain a faithful friend that will not fail thee, 
Think on thy Mother's pain in her child-bearing, 
Make no debate, lest quickly thou bewail thee, 
Visit the sick with comfortable cheering: 
Pity the prisoner, help the fatherless, 
Revenge the Widow's wrongs in her distress. 
<STANZA> 
Think on thy grave, remember still thy end, 
Let not thy winding-sheet be stain'd with guilt, 
Trust not a feign'd reconciled friend 
More than an open foe (that blood hath spilt) 
(Who toucheth pitch, with pitch shall be defiled), 
Be not with wanton company beguiled. 
<STANZA> 
Take not a flatt'ring woman to thy wife, 
A shameless creature, full of wanton words, 
(Whose bad, thy good; whose lust will end thy life, 
Cutting thy heart with sharp two edged swords:) 
Cast not thy mind on her whose looks allure, 
But she that shines in Truth and Virtue pure. 
<STANZA>
Praise not thy self, let other men commend thee; 
Bear not a flatt'ring tongue to glaver any, 
Let Parents' due correction not offend thee 
Rob not thy neighbor, seek the love of many; 
Hate not to hear good Counsel given thee, 
Lay not thy money unto Usury. 
<STANZA> 
Restrain thy steps from too much liberty, 
Fulfill not th' envious mans malicious mind; 
Embrace thy Wife, live not in lechery; 
Content thyself with what Fates have assign'd: 
   Be rul'd by Reason, Warning dangers save; 
   True Age is reverend worship to thy grave. 
<STANZA> 
Be patient in extreme Adversity, 
(Man's chiefest credit grows by doing well,) 
Be no high-minded in Prosperity; 
Falsehood abhor, nor lying fable tell. 
   Give not thy self to Sloth, (the sink of Shame, 
   The moth of Time, the enemy to Fame.) 
<STANZA> 
This lear I learned of a Bel-dame Trot, 
(When I was young and wild as now thou art) 
But her good counsel I regarded not; 
I mark'd it with my ears, not with my heart 
   But now I find it too-too true (my Son), 
   When my Age-withered Spring is almost done. 
<STANZA> 
Behold my grey head, full of silver hairs, 
My wrinkled skin, deep furrows in my face: 
Cares bring Old-Age, Old-Age increaseth cares; 
My Time is come, and I have run my Race 
   Winter hath snow'd upon my hoary head, 
   And with my Winter all my joys are dead. 
<STANZA> 
And thou love-hating Boy, (whom once I loved), 
Farewell, a thousand-thousand times farewell; 
My Tears the Marble Stones to ruth have moved; 
My sad Complaints the babbling Echoes tell 
   And yet thou wouldst take no compassion on me, 
   Scorning that cross which Love hath laid upon me. 
<STANZA>
The hardest steel with fire doth mend his miss, 
Marble is mollified with drops of Rain; 
But thou (more hard than Steel or Marble is) 
Dost scorn my Tears, and my true love disdain, 
  Which for thy sake shall everlasting be, 
  Wrote in the Annals of Eternity. 
<STANZA>
By this, the Night (with darkness over-spread) 
Had drawn the curtains of her coal-black bed; 
And Cynthia muffling her face with a cloud, 
(Lest all the world of her should be too proud) 
  Had taken Conge of the sable Night, 
  (That wanting her cannot be half so bright;) 
<STANZA>
When I poor forlorn man and outcast creature 
(Despairing of my Love, despis'd of Beauty) 
Grew mal-content, scorning his lovely feature, 
That had disdain'd my ever-zealous duty: 
  I hied me homeward by the Moon-shine light; 
  Forswearing Love, and all his fond delight. 
                     < FINIS, >
<POEM>
<3. The Shepherd's Content, Nov. 1594>
Of all the kinds of common Country life, 
Me thinks a Shepherd's life is most content; 
His State is quiet Peace, devoid of strife; 
His thoughts are pure from all impure intent, 
His Pleasures' rate sits at an easy rent: 
He bears no malice in his harmless heart, 
Malicious meaning hath in him no part. 
<STANZA>
He is not troubled with th' afflicted mind, 
His cares are only over silly Sheep; 
He is not unto jealousy inclin'd, 
(Thrice happy Man) he knows not how to weep; 
Whilst I the Treble in deep sorrows keep; 
  I cannot keep the Mean; for why (alas) 
  Griefs have no mean, though I for mean do pass. 
<STANZA>
No Briefs nor Semi-Briefs are in my Songs, 
Because (alas) my grief is seldom shoot; 
My Prick-Song's always full of Largues and Longs, 
(Because I never can obtain the Port 
Of my desires: Hope is a happy Fort.) 
  Prick-song (indeed) because it pricks my heart; 
  And Song, because sometimes I ease my smart. 
<STANZA>
The mighty Monarch of a royal Realm, 
Swaying his Sceptre with a Princely pomp; 
Of his desires cannot so steer the Helm, 
But sometime falls into a deadly dump, 
When as he hears the shrilly-sounding Trump 
Of Foreign Enemies, or home-bred Foes; 
His mind of grief, his heart is full of woes, 
<STANZA> 
Or when bad subjects gainst their Sovereign 
(Like hollow hearts) unnaturally rebel, 
How careful is he to suppress again 
Their desperate forces, and their powers to quell 
With loyal hearts, till all (again) be well 
When (being subdu'd) his care is rather more 
To keep them under, than it was before. 
<STANZA> 
Thus is he never full of sweet Content, 
But either this or that his joy debars: 
Now Noble-men 'gainst Noble-men are bent, 
Now Gentlemen and others fall at jars: 
Thus is his Country full of civil wars; 
He still in danger sits, still fearing Death 
For Traitors seek to stop their Prince's breath. 
<STANZA> 
The whilst the other hath no enemy, 
Without it be the Wolf and cruel Fates 
(Which no man spare): when as his disagree 
He with his sheep-hook knaps them on the pates, 
Schooling his tender Lambs from wanton gates 
Beasts are more kind then Men, Sheep seek not blood 
But country caitiffs kill their Country's good. 
<STANZA> 
The Courtier he fawns for his Princes favor, 
In hope to get a Princely rich Reward; 
His tongue is tipp'd with honey for to glaver; 
Pride deals the Deck whilst Chance doth choose the Card, 
Then comes another and his Game hath marr'd; 
Sitting betwixt him, and the morning Sun 
Thus Night is come before the Day is done. 
<STANZA> 
Some Courtiers careful of their Princes health, 
Attends his Person with all diligence 
Whose hand's their heart; whose welfare is their wealth, 
Whose safe Protection is their sure Defense, 
For pure affection, not for hope of pence: 
Such is the faithful heart, such is the mind, 
Of him that is to Virtue still inclin'd. 
<STANZA> 
The skillful Scholar, and brave man at Arms, 
First plies his Book, last fights for Country's Peace; 
Th' one fears Oblivion, th' other fresh Alarms; 
His pains ne'er end, his travails never cease; 
His with the Day, his with the Night increase: 
He studies how to get eternal Fame; 
The Soldier fights to win a glorious Name. 
<STANZA> 
The Knight, the Squire, the Gentleman, the Clown, 
Are full of crosses and calamities; 
Lest fickle Fortune should begin to frown, 
And turn their mirth to extreme miseries 
Nothing more certain than incertainties; 
Fortune is full of fresh variety 
Constant in nothing but inconstancy. 
<STANZA> 
The wealthy Merchant that doth cross the Seas, 
To Denmark, Poland, Spain, and Barbary; 
For all his riches, lives not still at ease; 
Sometimes he fears ship-spoiling Piracy, 
Another while deceit and treachery 
Of his own Factors in a foreign Land; 
Thus doth he still in dread and danger stand. 
<STANZA> 
Well is he term'd a Merchant-Venturer, 
Since he doth venter lands, and goods, and all: 
When he doth travel for his Traffic far, 
Little he knows what fortune may befall, 
Or rather what misfortune happen shall: 
Sometimes he splits his Ship against a rock; 
Losing his men, his goods, his wealth, his stock. 
<STANZA> 
And if he so escape with life away, 
He counts himself a man most fortunate, 
Because the waves their rigorous rage did stay, 
(When being within their cruel powers of late, 
The Seas did seem to pity his estate) 
     But yet he never can recover health, 
     Because his joy was drowned with his wealth. 
<STANZA> 
The painful Plough-swain, and the Husband-man 
Rise up each morning by the break of day, 
Taking what toil and drudging pains they can, 
And all is for to get a little stay; 
And yet they cannot put their care away: 
     When Night is come, their cares begin afresh, 
     Thinking upon their Morrow's business. 
<STANZA> 
Thus every man is troubled with unrest, 
From rich to poor, from high to low degree: 
Therefore I think that man is truly blest, 
That neither cares for wealth nor poverty, 
But laughs at Fortune and her foolery; 
     That gives rich Churls great store of gold and fee, 
     And lets poor Scholars live in misery, 
<STANZA> 
O fading Branches of decaying Bays 
Who now will water your dry-wither'd Arms? 
Or where is he that sung the lovely Lays 
Of simple Shepherds in their Country-Farms? 
Ah he is dead, the cause of all our hates: 
   And with him died my joy and sweet delight; 
   And clear to Clouds, the Day is turn'd to Night. 
<STANZA> 
The Siren of this latter Age; 
The Blazing-star of England's glory; 
The Wonder of wise and sage; 
The Subject of true Virtues story; 
This Siren, Star, this Wonder, and this Subject; 
In dumb, dim, gone, and marr'd by Fortune's Object. 
<STANZA> 
And thou my sweet Amyntas virtuous mind, 
Should I forget thy Learning or thy Love; 
Well might I be accounted but unkind, 
Whose pure affection I so oft did prove 
Might my poor Plaints hard stones to pity move;
     His loss should be lamented of each Creature, 
     So great his Name, so gentle was his Nature. 
<STANZA>
But sleep his soul in sweet Elysium, 
(The happy Haven of eternal rest:) 
And let me to my former matter come, 
Proving by Reason, Shepherd's life is best, 
Because he harbors Virtue in his Breast; 
     And is content (the chiefest thing of all) 
     With any fortune that shall him befall. 
<STANZA> 
He sits all Day loud-piping on a Hill, 
The whilst his flock about him dance apace, 
His heart with joy, his ears with Music fill: 
Anon a bleating Wether bears the Bass, 
A Lamb the Treble; and to his disgrace 
     Another answers like a middle Mean: 
     Thus every one to bear a Part are fain. 
<STANZA> 
Like a great King he rules a little Land, 
Still making Statutes, and ordaining Laws; 
Which if they break, he beats them with his Wand 
He doth defend them from the greedy jaws 
Of rav'ning Wolves, and Lion's bloody Paws. 
     His Field, his Realm; his Subjects are his Sheep; 
     Which he doth still in due obedience keep. 
<STANZA> 
First he ordains by Act of Parliament, 
(Holden by custom in each Country Town), 
That if a sheep (with any bad intent) 
Presume to break the neighbor Hedges down, 
Or haunt strange Pastures that be not his own; 
     He shall be pounded for his lustiness, 
     Until his Master find out some redress. 
<STANZA>
Also if any prove a Straggler 
From his own fellows in a foreign field, 
He shall be taken for a wanderer, 
And forc'd himself immediately to yield, 
Or with a wide-mouth'd Mastiff Cur be kill'd. 
And if not claim'd within a twelve-month's space, 
He shall remain with Land-lord of the place. 
<STANZA> 
Or if one stray to feed far from the rest, 
He shall be pinch'd by his swift pie-bald Cur; 
If any by his fellows be oppress'd, 
The wronger (for he doth all wrong abhor) 
Shall be well bang'd so long as he can stir. 
Because he did annoy his harmless Brother, 
That meant not harm to him nor any other. 
<STANZA> 
And last of all, if any wanton Wether, 
With briers and brambles tear his fleece in twain, 
He shall be forc'd t' abide cold frosty weather, 
And Pouring show'rs of rattling storms of rain, 
Till his new fleece begins to grow again: 
And for his rashness he is doom'd to go 
without a new Coat all the Winter through. 
<STANZA> 
Thus doth he keep them, still in aweful fear, 
And yet allows them liberty enough; 
So dear to him their welfare doth appear 
That when their fleeces gin to waxen rough, 
He combs and trims them with a Rampic bough, 
Washing them in the streams of silver Ladon, 
To cleanse their skins from all corruption. 
<STANZA> 
Another while he woos his Country Wench 
(With Chaplets crown'd, and gaudy girlonds digt) 
Whose burning Lust her modest eye doth quench, 
Standing amazed at her heavenly sight, 
(Beauty doth ravish Sense with sweet Delight) 
   Clearing Arcadia with a smoothed Brow 
   When Sun-bright smiles melts flakes of driven snow. 
<STANZA> 
Thus doth he frolic it each day by day, 
And when Night comes draws homeward to his Coat, 
Singing a jig or merry Roundelay; 
(For who sings commonly so merry a Note, 
As he that cannot chop or change a groat) 
      And in the winter Nights (his chief desire) 
      He turns a Crab or Cracknel in the fire. 
<STANZA> 
He leads his Wench a Country Horn-pipe Round, 
About a May-pole on a Holy-day; 
Kissing his lovely Lass (with Garlands Crown'd) 
With whooping heigh-ho singing Care away; 
Thus doth he pass the merry month of May:
    And all th' year after in delight and joy, 
    (Scorning a King) he cares for no annoy. 
<STANZA> 
What though with simple cheer he homely fares? 
He lives content, a King can do no more; 
Nay not so much, for Kings have many cares 
But he hath none; except it be that sore 
Which young and old, which vexeth rich and poor, 
     The pangs of Love.  O!  who can vanquish Love? 
     That conquers Kingdoms, and the Gods above? 
<STANZA> 
Deep-wounding Arrow, heart-consuming Fire; 
Ruler of Reason, slave to tyrant Beauty; 
Monarch of hearts, Fuel of fond desire, 
Prentice to Folly, foe to feign'd Duty. 
Pledge of true Zeal, Affection's moiety; 
   If thou kill'st where thou wilt, and whom it list thee, 
   (Alas) how can a silly Soul resist thee? 
<STANZA> 
By thee great Collin lost his liberty, 
By thee sweet Astrophel forwent his joy; 
By thee Amyntas wept incessantly, 
By thee good Rowland liv'd in great annoy; 
O cruel, peevish, vild, blind-seeing Boy: 
    How canst thou hit their hearts, and yet not see?
    (If thou be blind, as thou art feign'd to be). 
<STANZA> 
A Shepherd loves no ill, but only thee; 
He hath no care, but only by thy causing 
Who dost thou shoot thy cruel shafts at me? 
Give me some respite, some short time of pausing: 
Still my sweet Love with bitter luck th' art saucing 
  O, if thou hast a mind to show thy might; 
  Kill mighty Kings, and not a wretched wight. 
<STANZA> 
Yet (O Enthraller of infranchis'd hearts) 
At my poor heart if thou wilt needs be aiming, 
Do me the favor, show me both thy Darts, 
That I may choose the best for my hearts maiming, 
(A free consent is privileg'd from blaming:) 
  Then pierce his hard heart with thy go]den Arrow, 
  That thou my wrong, that he may rue my sorrow. 
<STANZA> 
But let me feel the force of thy lead Pile 
What should I do with love when I am old? 
I know not how to flatter, fawn, or smile; 
Then stay thy hand, O cruel Bow-man hold: 
For if thou strik'st me with thy dart of gold, 
  I swear to thee (by Jove's immortal curse) 
  I have more in my heart, than in my purse. 
<STANZA> 
The more I weep, the more he bends his Bow, 
For in my heart a golden Shaft I find: 
(Cruel, unkind) and wilt thou leave me so? 
Can no remorse nor pity move thy mind? 
Is Mercy in the Heavens so hard to find?
  O, then it is no marvel that on earth 
  Of kind Remorse there is so great a dearth. 
<STANZA> 
How happy were a harmless Shepherd's life, 
If he had never known what Love did mean; 
But now fond Love in every place is rife, 
Staining the purest Soul with spots unclean, 
Making thick purses, thin and fat bodies, lean 
  Love is a fiend, a fire, a heaven, a hell; 
  Where pleasure, pain, and sad repentance dwell. 
<STANZA>
There are so many Danaes nowadays, 
That love for lucre; pain for gain is sold: 
No true affection can their fancy please, 
Except it be a Jove, to rain down gold 
Into their laps, which they wide open hold: 
If legem pone comes, he is receiv'd, 
  When Vix haud habeo is of hope bereav'd. 
<STANZA>
Thus have I showed in my Country vein 
The sweet Content that Shepherds still enjoy: 
The mickle pleasure, and the little pain 
That ever doth await the Shepherd's Boy; 
His heart is never troubled with annoy. 
   He is a King, for he commands his Sheep; 
   He knows no woe, for he doth seldom weep. 
<STANZA>
He is a Courtier, for he courts his Love 
He is a Scholar, for he sings sweet Ditties: 
He is a Soldier, for he wounds doth prove; 
He is the fame of Towns, the shame of Cities; 
He scorns false Fortune, put true Virtue pities. 
   He is a Gentleman, because his nature 
   Is kind and affable to every Creature. 
<STANZA> 
Who would not then a simple Shepherd be, 
Rather than be a mighty Monarch made? 
Since he enjoys such perfect liberty, 
As never can decay, nor never fade 
He seldom sits in doleful Cypress shade, 
  But lives in hope, in joy, in peace, in bliss 
  Joying all joy with this content of his. 
<STANZA> 
But now good-fortune lands my little Boat 
Upon the shore of his desired rest 
Now I must leave (awhile) my rural note, 
To think on him whom my soul loveth best; 
He that can make the most unhappy blest 
  In whose sweet lap I'll lay me down to sleep, 
  And never wake till Marble-stones shall weep. 
 <FINIS. >
<POEM>
<4. Sonnet, 1594?>
Lo here behold these tributary Tears 
Paid to thy fair, but cruel tyrant Eyes; 
Lo here the blossom of my youthful years,
Nipp'd with the fresh of thy Wrath's winter, dies,
Here on Love's Altar I do offer up 
This burning heart for my Soul's sacrifice; 
Here I receive this deadly-pois'ned Cup 
Of Circe charm'd; wherein deep Magic lies. 
Then Tears (if thou be happy Tears indeed), 
And Heart (if thou be lodged in his breast), 
And Cup (if thou canst help despair with speed); 
Tears, Heart, and Cup conjoin to make me blest 
   Tears move, Heart win, Cup cause, ruth, love, desire, 
   In word, in deed, by moan, by zeal, by fire. 
<FINIS. >
<POEM>
<5. The Complaint of Chastity, Nov. 1594>
You modest Dames, enrich'd with Chastity. 
Mask your bright eyes with Vesta's sable veil, 
Since few are left so fair or chaste as she; 
(Matter for me to weep, you to bewail): 
For many seeming so, of Virtue fail; 
Whose lovely Cheeks (with rare vermilion tainted) 
Can never blush because their fair is painted. 
<STANZA> 
O fair-foul Tincture, stain of Woman-kind, 
Mother of Mischief, Daughter of Deceit, 
False traitor to the Soul, blot to the Mind, 
Usurping Tyrant of true Beauty's seat, 
Right Cozener of the eye, lewd Folly's bait, 
The flag of filthiness, the sink of shame, 
The Divel's dye, dishonor of thy name. 
<STANZA>
Monster of Art, Bastard of bad Desire, 
Ill-worshipp'd Idol, false Imagery, 
Ensign of Vice, to thine own self a liar, 
Silent Enchanter, mind's Anatomy,, 
Sly Bawd to Lust, Pander to Infamy, 
  Slander of Truth, Truth of Dissimulation; 
  Staining our Climate more than any Nature. 
<STANZA> 
What shall I say to thee? thou scorn of Nature, 
Black spot of sin, vild lure of lechery; 
Injurious Blame to every female creature, 
Wronger of time, Broker of treachery, 
Trap of green youth, false Women's witchery, 
  Hand-maid of pride, high-way to wickedness; 
  Yet path-way to Repentance, ne'er the less. 
<STANZA> 
Thou dost entice the mind to doing evil, 
Thou set'st dissension twixt the man and wife; 
A Saint in show, and yet indeed a devil 
Thou art the cause of every common strife; 
Thou art the life of Death, the death of Life!
  Thou dost betray thyself to Infamy, 
  When thou art once discerned by the eye. 
<STANZA> 
Ah, little knew Matilda of thy being, 
Those times were pure from all impure complexion; 
Then Love came at Desert, Desert of seeing, 
Then Virtue was the mother of Affection, 
(But Beauty now is under no subjection), 
  Then women were the same that men did deem, 
  But now they are the same they do not seem. 
<STANZA> 
What female now entreated of a King 
With gold and jewels, pearls and precious stones, 
Would willingly refuse so sweet a thing? 
Only for a little show of Virtue once? 
Women have kindness grafted in their bones 
  Gold is a deep-persuading Orator, 
  Especially where few the fault abhor. 
<STANZA> 
But yet she rather deadly poison chose, 
(O cruel Bane of most accursed Clime;) 
Than stain that milk-white Maiden-virgin Rose, 
Which she had kept unspotted till that time: 
And not corrupted with this earthly slime 
  Her soul shall live enclos'd eternally, 
  In that pure shrine of Immortality. 
<STANZA> 
This is my Doom and this shall come to pass, 
For what are Pleasures but still-vading joys? 
Fading as flowers, brittle as a glass, 
Or Potters' Clay; cross'd with the least annoys; 
All things in this life are but trifling Toys 
  But Fame and Virtue never shall decay, 
  For Fame is Tombless, Virtue lives for aye!
<STANZA> 
<FINIS. >
<POEM>
<6. Helen's Rape, Nov. 1594>
<omitted, italics)
<7. Cynthia, Jan. 1595>
<To his Mistress.> 
Bright Star of Beauty, fairest Fair alive, 
Rare president of peerless chastity; 
(In whom the Muses and the Graces strive, 
Which shall possess the chiefest part of thee: 
O let these simple lines accepted be
Which here I offer at thy sacred shrine: 
Sacred, because sweet Beauty is divine. 
<STANZA> 
And though I cannot please each curious ear, 
With sug'red Notes of heavenly Harmony: 
Yet if my love shall to thy self appear, 
No other Muse I will invoke but thee: 
And if thou wilt my fair Thalia be, 
I'll sing sweet Hymns and praises to thy name, 
In that clear Temple of eternal Fame. 
<STANZA>
But ah (alas) how can mine infant Muse 
(That never heard of Helicon before) 
Perform my promise past when they refuse 
Poor Shepherds' Plaints? yet will I still adore 
The sacred Name, although I write no more; 
Yet hope I shall, if this accepted be: 
If not, in silence sleep eternally. 
<STANZA> 
<Cynthia>

Now was the Welkin all enveloped 
With dusky Mantle of the sable Night 
And CYNTHIA lifting up her drooping head.
Blush'd at the Beauty of her borrowed light, 
When Sleep now summon'd every mortal wight. 
Then lo (me thought) I saw or seem'd to see, 
An heavenly Creature like an Angel bright, 
That in great haste came pacing towards me: 
Was never mortal eye beheld so fair a She. 
<STANZA> 
Thou lazy man (quoth she) what mak'st thou here 
(Lull'd in the lap of Honor's Enemy?) 
I here command thee now for to appear 
(By virtue of Jove's mickle Majesty) 
In yonder Wood.  (Which with her finger she 
Out-pointing) had no sooner turn'd her face, 
And leaving me to muse what she should be, 
Yvanished into some other place: 
But strait (me thought) I saw a rout of heavenly Race. 
<STANZA>
Down in a Dale, hard by a Forest side, 
(Under the shadow of a lofty Pine,) 
Not far from whence a trickling stream did glide, 
Did nature by her secret art combine, 
A pleasant Arbor, of a spreading vine: 
Wherein Art strove with nature to compare, 
That made it rather seem a thing divine 
Being situate all in the open Air 
A fairer ne'er was seen, if any seen so fair. 
<STANZA> 
There might one see, and yet not see (indeed) 
Fresh Flora flourishing in chiefest Prime, 
Arrayed all in gay and gorgeous weed, 
The Primrose and sweet-smelling Eglantine, 
As fitted best beguiling so the time: 
And ever as she went she strew'd the place, 
Red-roses mix'd with Daffadillies fine, 
For Gods and Goddesses, that in like case 
In this same order sat, with ill-beseeming grace. 
<STANZA> 
First, in a royal Chair of massy gold, 
(Barr'd all about with plates of burning steel) 
Sat Jupiter most glorious to behold, 
And in his hand was placed Fortunes wheel: 
The which he often turn'd, and oft did reel. 
And next to him, in grief and jealousy, 
(If sight may censure what the heart doth feel) 
In sad lament was placed Mercury; 
That dying seem'd to weep, and weeping seem'd to die. 
<STANZA> 
On th' other side, above the other twain, 
(Delighting as it seem'd to sit alone) 
Sat Mulciber; in pride and high disdain, 
Mounted on, high upon a stately throne, 
And even with that I heard a deadly groan; 
Musing at this, and such an uncouth sight, 
(Not knowing what should make that piteous moan) 
I saw three furies, all in Armor digt, 
With every one a Lamp, and every one a light. 
<STANZA>
I deemed so; nor was I much deceiv'd,. 
For poured forth in sensual Delight, 
There might I see of Senses quite bereav'd 
King Priam's son, that Alexander hight 
(Wrapp'd in the Mantle of eternal Night.) 
And under him, awaiting for his fall, 
Sat Shame, here Death, and there sat fell Despite, 
That with their Horror did his heart appall 
Thus was his Bliss to Bale, his Honey turn'd to gall. 
<STANZA> 
In which delight feeding mine hungry eye, 
Of two great Goddesses a sight I had, 
And after them in wondrous jollity, 
(As one that inly joy'd, so was she glad) 
The Queen of Love full royally yclad, 
In glist'ring Gold, and peerless precious stone, 
There might I spy: and her Companion had, 
Proud Paris, Nephew to Laomedon, 
That afterward did cause the Death of many a one. 
<STANZA> 
By this the foremost melting all in tears, 
And raining down resolved Pearls in showers, 
Gan to approach the place of heavenly Feres, 
And with her weeping, wat'ring all their Bowers, 
Throwing sweet Odors on those fading flowers, 
At length, she them bespake thus mournfully. 
High Jove (quoth she) and ye Celestial powers, 
That here in judgment sit twixt her and me, 
Now listen (for a while) and judge with equity. 
<STANZA> 
Sporting our selves to day, as we were wont 
(I mean, I, Pallas, and the Queen of Love.) 
Intending with Diana for to hunt, 
On Ida Mountain top our skill to prove, 
A golden Ball was trindled from above, 
And on the Rind was writ this Poesy, 
PULCHERIMAE for which a while we strove, 
Each saying she was fairest of the three, 
When lo a shepherd's Swain not far away we see. 
<STANZA>
I spied him first, and spying thus bespake, 
Shall yonder Swain unfold the mystery? 
Agreed (quoth Venus) and by Stygian Lake, 
To whom he gives the ball so shall it be: 
Nor from his censure will I fly, quoth she, 
(Pointing to Pallas) though I lose the goal. 
Thus every one yplac'd in her degree, 
The Shepherd comes, whose partial eyes gan roll, 
And on our beauties look'd, and of our beauties stole. 
<STANZA> 
I promis'd wealth, Minerva Promised wit, 
(She promis'd wit to him that was unwise,) 
But he (fond fool) had soon refused it, 
And minding to bestow that glorious Prize, 
On Venus, that with Pleasure might suffice 
His greedy mind in loose lasciviousness 
Upon a sudden, wanting good advice, 
Hold here (quoth he) this golden Ball possess,
Which Paris gives to thee for meed of worthiness, 
<STANZA> 
Thus have I show'd the sum of all my suit, 
And as a Plaintiff here appeal to thee, 
And to the rest.  Whose folly I impute 
To filthy lust, and partiality, 
That made him judge amiss and so do we 
(Quoth Pallas, Venus,) nor will I gainsay, 
Although it's mine by right, yet willingly, 
I here disclaim my title and obey: 
When silence being made, Jove thus began to say, 
<STANZA> 
Thou Venus, art my darling, thou my dear, 
(Minerva,) she, my sister and my wife: 
So that of all a due respect I bear, 
Assign'd as one to end this doubtful strife, 
(Touching your form, your fame, your love, your life) 
Beauty is vain much like a gloomy light, 
And wanting wit is counted but a trife, 
Especially when Honor's put to flight 
Thus of a lovely, soon becomes a loathly sight. 
<STANZA>
Wit without wealth is bad, yet counted good, 
Wealth wanting wisdom's worse, yet deem'd as well, 
From whence (for aye) doth flow, as from a flood, 
A pleasant Poison, and a heavenly Hell, 
where mortal men do covet still to dwell. 
Yet one there is to Virtue so inclin'd, 
That as for Majesty she bears the Bell, 
So in the truth who tries her princely mind, 
Both Wisdom, Beauty, Wealth, and all in her shall find. 
<STANZA> 
In  Western world amidst the Ocean main, 
In complete Virtue shining like the Sun, 
In great Renown a maiden Queen doth reign, 
Whose royal Race, in Ruin first begun, 
Till Heaven's bright Lamps dissolve shall ne'er be done 
In whose fair eyes Love link'd with virtues been, 
In everlasting Peace and Union. 
Which sweet Consort in her full well beseem 
Of Bounty, and of Beauty fairest Fairy Queen. 
<STANZA> 
And to conclude, the gifts in her yfound, 
Are all so noble, royal, and so rare, 
That more and more in her they do abound; 
In her most peerless Prince without compare, 
Endowing still her mind with virtuous care: 
That through the world (so wide) the flying fame, 
(And Name that Envy's self cannot impair,) 
Is blown of this fair Queen, this gorgeous dame, 
Fame borrowing all men's mouths to royalize the same. 
<STANZA> 
And with this sentence Jupiter did end, 
This is the Prick (quoth he), this is the praise, 
To whom, this as a Present I will send, 
That shameth Cynthia in her silver Rays, 
If so you three this deed do not displease. 
Then one, and all, and every one of them, 
To her that is the honor of her days, 
A second Judith in JERUSALEM.
To her we send this Pearl, this jewel, and this gem. 
<STANZA>
Then call'd he up the winged Mercury, 
(The mighty Messenger of Gods enroll'd,) 
And bade him hither hastily to hie, 
Whom tended by her Nymphs he should behold, 
(Like Pearls ycouched in shining gold.) 
And even with that, from pleasant slumb'ring sleep, 
(Desiring much these wonders to unfold) 
I wak'ning, when Aurora gan to peep, 
Depriv'd so soon of my sweet Dream, gan almost weep. 
<STANZA> 
<The Conclusion.>
 
Thus, sacred Virgin, Muse of chastity, 
This difference is betwixt the Moon and thee 
She shines by Night; but thou by Day dost shine: 
She Monthly changeth; thou dost ne'er decline: 
And as the Sun, to her, doth lend his light, 
So he, by thee, is only made so bright: 
Yet neither Sun, nor Moon, thou canst be named, 
Because thy light hath both their beauties shamed: 
Then, since an heavenly Name doth thee befall, 
Thou VIRGO art: (if any Sign at all). 
<FINIS.> 
<POEM>
<8. Sonnets, Jan. 1595>
<Sonnet. I.> 
Sporting at fancy, setting light by love, 
There came a thief, and stole away my heart, 
(And therefore robb'd me of my chiefest part)
Yet cannot Reason him a felon prove. 
For why his beauty (my hearts thief) affirmeth, 
Piercing no skin (the bodies fensive wall) 
And having leave, and free consent withal, 
Himself not guilty, from love guilty termeth, 
Conscience the Judge, twelve Reasons are the Jury, 
They find mine eyes the beauty t' have let in, 
And on this verdict given, agreed they been, 
Wherefore, because his beauty did allure ye, 
Your Doom is this: in tears still to be drowned, 
When his fair forehead with disdain is frowned. 
<POEM>
<Sonnet. II. >
Beauty and Majesty are fall'n at odds, 
Th' one claims his cheek, the other claims his chin; 
Then Virtue comes, and puts her title in. 
(Quoth she) I make him like th' immortal Gods. 
(Quoth Majesty) I own his looks, his Brow, 
His lips, (quoth Love) his eyes, his fair is mine. 
And yet (quoth Majesty) he is not thine, 
I mix Disdain with Love's congealed Snow. 
I, but (quoth Love) his locks are mine (by right) 
His stately gate is mine (quoth Majesty,) 
And mine (quoth Virtue) is his Modesty. 
Thus as they strive about this heavenly wight, 
At last the other two to Virtue yield, 
The lists of Love, fought in fair Beauty's field. 
<POEM> 
<Sonnet. III. >
The Stoics think, (and they come near the truth,) 
That virtue is the chiefest good of all,
The Academics on Idea call. 
The Epicures in pleasure spend their youth, 
The Peripatetics judge felicity, 
To be the chiefest good above all other, 
One man, thinks this: and that conceives another: 
So that in one thing very few agree. 
Let Stoics have their Virtue if they will, 
And all the rest their chief supposed good, 
Let cruel Martialists delight in blood, 
and Misers joy their bags with gold to fill 
My chiefest good, my chief felicity, 
Is to be gazing on my love's fair eye. 
<POEM>
<Sonnet. IIII.>
Two stars there are in one fair firmament, 
(Of some intitled Ganymede's sweet face), 
Which other stars in brightness do disgrace, 
As much as Po in clearness passeth Trent. 
Nor are they common natur'd stars: for why, 
These stars when other shine veil their pure light, 
And when all other vanish out of sight, 
They add a glory to the worlds great eye. 
By these two stars my life is only led, 
In them I place my joy, in them my pleasure, 
Love's piercing Darts, and Nature's precious treasure 
With their sweet food my fainting soul is fed: 
Then when my sun is absent from my sight 
How can it choose (with me) but be dark night? 
<POEM> 
<Sonnet V.>
It is reported of fair Thetis' Son, 
(Achilles famous for his chivalry, 
His noble mind and magnanimity,) 
That when the Troyan wars were new begun, 
Whos'ever was deep-wounded with his spear, 
Could never be recured of his maim, 
Nor ever after be made whole again: 
Except with that spear's rust he holpen were. 
Even so it fareth with my fortune now, 
Who being wounded with his piercing eye, 
Must either thereby find a remedy, 
Or else to be reliev'd, I know not how. 
Then if thou hast a mind still to annoy me, 
Kill me with kisses, if thou wilt destroy me. 
<POEM>
<Sonnet.  VI. >
Sweet Coral lips, where Nature's treasure lies, 
The balm of bliss, the sovereign salve of sorrow,
The secret touch of love's heart-burning arrow, 
Come quench my thirst or else poor Daphnis dies. 
One night I dream'd (alas 'twas but a Dream) 
That I did feel the Sweetness of the same, 
Where-with inspir'd, I young again became, 
And from my heart a spring of blood did stream, 
But when I wak'd, I found it nothing so, 
Save that my limbs (me thought) did wax more strong 
And I more lusty far, and far more young. 
This gift on him rich Nature did bestow. 
Then if in dreaming so, I so did speed, 
What should I do, if I did so indeed? 
<POEM> 
<Sonnet.  VlI. >
Sweet Thames I honor thee, not for thou art 
The chiefest River of the fairest Isle, 
Nor for thou dost admirers' eyes beguile, 
But for thou hold'st the keeper of my heart, 
For on thy waves, (thy Crystal-billow'd waves,) 
My fairest fair, my silver Swan is swimming: 
Against the sun his pruned feathers trimming: 
Whilst Neptune his fair feet with water laves, 
Neptune, I fear not thee, not yet thine eye, 
And yet (alas) Apollo lov'd a boy, 
And Cyparissus was Silvanus' joy. 
No, no, I fear none but fair Thetis, I, 
For if she spy my Love, (alas) ay me, 
My mirth is turn'd to extreme misery. 
<POEM>
<Sonnet.  VIII.>
Sometimes I wish that I his pillow were, 
So might I steal a kiss, and yet not seen, 
So might I gaze upon his sleeping eyne, 
Although I did it with a panting fear: 
But when I well consider how vain my wish is, 
Ah foolish Bees (think I) that do not suck 
His lips for honey; but poor flowers do pluck 
Which have no sweet in them: when his sole kisses, 
Are able to revive a dying soul. 
Kiss him, but sting him not, for if you do, 
His angry voice your flying will pursue: 
But when they hear his tongue, what can control,
Their back-return? for then they plain may see, 
How honeycombs from his lips dropping be. 
<POEM> 
<Sonnet.  IX.>
Diana (on a time) walking the wood, 
To sport herself, of her fair train forlorn, 
Chanc'd for to prick her foot against a thorn, 
And from thence issu'd out a stream of blood. 
No sooner she was vanish'd out of sight, 
But love's fair Queen came there away by chance, 
And having of this hap a glimm'ring glance, 
She put the blood into a crystal bright, 
When being now come unto mount Rhodope, 
With her fair hands she forms a shape of Snow, 
And blends it with this blood; from whence doth grow 
A lovely creature, brighter than the Dey. 
And being christ'ned in fair Paphos shrine, 
She call'd him Ganymede: as all divine. 
<POEM>
<Sonnet.  X.>
Thus was my love, thus was my Ganymed, 
(Heaven's joy, world's wonder, nature's fairest work, 
In whose aspect Hope and Despair do lurk) 
Made of pure blood in whitest snow yshed, 
And for sweet Venus only form'd his face, 
And his each member delicately framed, 
And last of all fair Ganymede him nam'd, 
His limbs (as their Creatrix) her embrace. 
But as for his pure, spotless, virtuous mind, 
Because it sprung of chaste Diana's blood, 
(Goddess of Maids, directress of all good,) 
Hit wholly is to chastity inclin'd. 
And thus it is: as far as I can prove, 
He loves to be beloved, but not to love. 
<POEM> 
<Sonnet XI. >
Sighing, and sadly sitting by my Love, 
He ask'd the cause of my heart's sorrowing, 
Conjuring me by heavens eternal King 
To tell the cause which me so much did move. 
Compell'd (quoth I) to thee will I confess, 
Love is the cause; and only love it is 
That doth deprive me of my heavenly bliss. 
Love is the pain that doth my heart oppress. 
And what is she (quoth he) whom thou dost love? 
Look in this glass (quoth I) there shalt thou see 
The perfect form of my felicity. 
When, thinking that it would strange Magic prove, 
He open'd it: and taking of the cover, 
He straight perceiv'd himself to be my Lover. 
<POEM>
<Sonnet.  XII. >
Some talk of Ganymede th' Idalian Boy, 
And some of fair Adonis make their boast, 
Some talk of him whom lovely Leda lost, 
And some of Echo's love that was so coy. 
They speak by hear-say, I of perfect truth, 
They partially commend the persons named, 
And for them, sweet Encomions have framed 
I only t' him have sacrificed my youth. 
As for those wonders of antiquity, 
And those whom later ages have enjoy'd, 
(But ah what hath not cruel death destroy'd? 
Death, that envies this world's felicity), 
They were (perhaps) less fair then Poets write. 
But he is fairer then I can indite. 
<POEM> 
<Sonnet. XIII. >
Speak Echo, tell; how may I call my love? Love. 
But how his Lamps that are so crystalline? Eyne. 
O happy stars that make your heavens divine: 
And happy Gems that admiration move. 
How term'st his golden tresses wav'd with air?  Hair. 
O lovely hair of your more-lovely Master, 
Image of love, fair shape of Alablaster, 
Who dost thou drive thy Lover to despair? 
How dost thou call the bed where beauty grows? Rose. 
Fair virgin-Rose, whose maiden blossoms cover 
The milk-white Lily, thy embracing Lover: 
Whose kisses makes thee oft thy red to lose. 
And blushing oft for shame, when he hath kiss'd thee, 
He vades away; and thou rang'st where it list thee. 
<POEM>
<Sonnet. XIIII.>
Here, hold this glove (this milk-white cheveril glove) 
Not quaintly over-wrought with curious knots, 
Not deck'd with golden spangs, nor silver spots, 
Yet wholesome for thy hand as thou shalt prove. 
Ah no; (sweet boy) place this glove near thy heart, 
Wear it, and lodge it still within thy breast, 
So shalt thou make me (most unhappy,) blest. 
So shalt thou rid my pain, and ease my smart: 
How can that be (perhaps) thou wilt reply, 
A glove is for the hand not for the heart, 
Nor can it well be prov'd by common art, 
Nor reason's rule.  To this, thus answer I: 
If thou from glove dost take away the g, 
Then glove is love; and so I send it thee. 
<POEM> 
<Sonnet XV. >
Ah, fairest Ganymede, disdain me not, 
Though silly Shepherd I, presume to love thee, 
Though my harsh songs and Sonnets cannot move thee, 
Yet to thy beauty is my love no blot. 
Apollo, love, and many Gods beside, 
'Sdain'd not the name of country shepherd's swains 
Nor want we pleasure, though we take some pains, 
We live contentedly: a thing call'd pride, 
Which so corrupts the Court and every place, 
(Each place I mean where learning is neglected, 
And yet of late, even learning's self's infected) 
I know not what it means, in any case: 
We only (when Molorchus gins to peep) 
Learn for to fold, and to unfold our sheep.
<POEM>
<Sonnet.  XVI. >
Long have I long'd to see my Love again, 
Still have I wish'd, but never could obtain it; 
Rather than all the world (if I might gain it) 
Would I desire my love's sweet precious gain. 
Yet in my soul I see him every day, 
See him, and see his still stern countenance, 
But (ah) what is of long continuance, 
Where Majesty and Beauty bears the sway? 
Sometimes, when I imagine that I see him, 
(As love is full of foolish fantasies) 
Weening to kiss his lips, as my love's fee's, 
I feel but Air: nothing but Air to be him. 
Thus with Ixion, kiss I clouds in vain: 
Thus with Ixion, feel I endless pain. 
<POEM> 
<Sonnet. XVII. >
Cherry-lipp'd Adonis in his snowy shape, 
Might not compare with his pure Ivory white, 
On whose fair front a Poet's pen may write, 
Whose roseate red excels the crimson grape, 
His love-enticing delicate soft limbs, 
Are rarely fram'd t' entrap poor gazing eyes: 
His cheeks, the Lily and Carnation dies, 
With lovely tincture which Apollo's dims. 
His lips ripe strawberries in Nectar wet, 
His mouth a Hive, his tongue a honey-comb, 
Where Muses (like Bees) make their mansion. 
His teeth pure Pearl in blushing Coral set. 
O how can such a body sin-procuring, 
Be slow to love, and quick to hate, enduring? 
<POEM>
<Sonnet. XVIII. >
Not Megaboetes nor Cleonymus, 
(Of whom great Plutarch makes such mention, 
Praising their fair with rare invention) 
As Ganymede were half so beauteous. 
They only pleas'd the eyes of two great Kings, 
But all the world at my love stands amazed, 
Nor one that on his Angel's face hath gazed, 
But (ravish'd with delight) him Presents brings. 
Some weaning Lambs, and some a suckling Kid, 
Some Nuts, and filbeards, others Pears and Plums, 
Another with a milk-white Heifer comes; 
As lately Aegon's man (Damoetas) did 
But neither he, nor all the Nymphs beside, 
Can win my Ganymede, with them t' abide. 
<POEM> 
<Sonnet. XIX.>
Ah no; nor I my self: though my pure love 
(Sweet Ganymede) to thee hath still been pure, 
And even till my last gasp shall aye endure, 
Could ever thy obdurate beauty move: 
Then cease o Goddess' son (for sure thou art, 
A Goddess' son that canst resist desire) 
Cease thy hard heart, and entertain love's fire, 
Within thy sacred breast by Nature's art. 
And as I love thee more then any Creature, 
(Love thee, because thy beauty is divine; 
Love thee, because my self, my soul is thine: 
Wholly devoted to thy lovely feature), 
Even so of all the vowels, I and V, 
Are dearest unto me, as doth ensue. 
<POEM>
<Sonnet. XX. >
But now my Muse toil'd with continual care, 
Begins to faint, and slack her former pace, 
Expecting favor from that heavenly grace, 
That may (in time) her feeble strength repair. 
Till when (sweet youth) th' essence of my soul, 
(Thou that dost sit and sing at my heart's grief. 
Thou that dost send thy shepherd no relief) 
Behold, these lines; the sons of Tears and Dole. 
Ah had great Colin chief of shepherds all, 
Or gentle Rowland, my professed friend, 
Had they thy beauty, or my penance penn'd, 
Greater had been thy fame, and less my fall: 
But since that every one cannot be witty, 
Pardon I crave of them, and of thee, pity. 
<POEM> 
<FINIS. >
<POEM> 
<10. AN ODE, Jan. 1595>
Nights were short, and days were long; 
Blossoms on the Hawthorn's hung: 
Philomele (Night-Music's King) 
Told the coming of the spring. 
Whose sweet silver-sounding voice 
Made the little birds rejoice: 
Skipping light from spray to spray, 
Till Aurora show'd the day. 
Scarce might one see, when I might see 
(For such chances sudden be) 
By a well of Marble-stone 
A Shepherd lying all alone. 
Weep he did; and his weeping 
Made the fading flowers spring. 
Daphnis was his name (I ween) 
Youngest Swain of Summer's Queen. 
When Aurora saw `twas he. 
Weep she did for company 
Weep she did for her sweet son 
That (when antique Troy was won) 
Suffer'd death by luckless fate, 
Whom she now laments too late: 
And each morning (by Cock's crew) 
Showers down her silver dew. 
Whose tears (falling from their spring) 
Give moisture to each living thing, 
That on earth increase and grow, 
Through power of their friendly foe. 
Whose effect when Flora felt, 
Tears, that did her bosom melt, 
(For who can resist tears often, 
But She whom no tears can soften?) 
Peering strait above the banks, 
Show'd herself to give her thanks. 
Wond'ring thus at Nature's work, 
(Wherein many marvels lurk) 
Me thought I heard a doleful noise, 
Consorted with a mournful voice, 
Drawing nigh to hear more plain, 
Hear I did, unto my pain, 
(For who is not pain'd to hear 
Him in grief whom heart holds dear?) 
Silly swain (with grief o'er-gone) 
Thus to make his piteous moan. 
Love I did, (alas the while) 
Love I did, but did beguile 
My dear love with loving so, 
(Whom as then I did not know.) 
Love I did the fairest boy, 
That these fields did ere enjoy. 
Love I did, fair Ganymed; 
(Venus' darling, beauty's bed:) 
Him I thought the fairest creature; 
Him the quintessence of Nature 
But yet (alas) I was deceiv'd, 
(Love of reason is bereav'd) 
For since then I saw a Lass, 
(Lass) that did in beauty pass, 
(Pass) fair Ganymede as far 
As Phoebus doth the smallest star. 
Love commanded me to love; 
Fancy bade me not remove 
My affection from the swain 
Which he cannot grant the craver?) 
Love at last (though loath) prevail'd; 
(Love) that so my heart assail'd; 
Whom I never could obtain: 
(For who can obtain that favor, 
Wounding me with her fair eyes, 
(Ah how Love can subtelize, 
And devise a thousand shifts, 
How to work men to his drifts.) 
Her it is, for whom I mourn; 
Her, for whom my life I scorn; 
Her, for whom I weep all day; 
Her, for whom I sigh, and say, 
Either She, or else no creature, 
Shall enjoy my love: whose feature 
Though I never can obtain, 
Yet shall my true love remain: 
Till (my body turn'd to clay) 
My poor soul must pass away, 
To the heavens; where (I hope) 
Hit shall find a resting scope: 
Then since I loved thee (alone) 
Remember me when I am gone. 
Scarce had he these last words spoken, 
But me thought his heart was broken; 
With great grief that did abound, 
(Cares and grief the heart confound) 
In whose heart (thus riv'd in three) 
ELIZA written I might see: 
In Characters of crimson blood, 
(Whose meaning well I understood.) 
Which, for my heart might not behold, 
I hied me home my sheep to fold. 
<Finis>
<POEM>
<11. Cassandra, Jan. 1595>
<STANZA>
Upon a gorgeous gold embossed bed, 
With Tissue curtains drawn against the sun,
(Which gazers' eyes into amazement led, 
So curiously the workmanship was done,) 
Lay fair Cassandra,in her snowy smock, 
Whose lips the Rubies and the pearls did lock. 
<STANZA>
And from her Ivory front hung dangling down, 
A bush of long and lovely curled hair; 
Whose head impalled with a precious Crown 
Of orient Pearl, made her to seem more fair 
And yet more fair she hardly could be thought, 
Than Love and Nature in her face had wrought. 
By this, young Phoebus rising from the East, 
Had ta'en a view of this rare Paragon 
Wherewith he soon his radiant beams address'd, 
And with great joy her (sleeping) gazed upon: 
Till at the last, through her light casements clear, 
He stole a kiss; and softly call'd her Dear. 
<STANZA> 
Yet not so softly but (therewith awak'd,) 
She gins to open her fair crystal covers, 
Wherewith the wounded God, for terror quak'd, 
(Viewing those darts that kill disdained lovers:) 
And blushing red to see himself so shamed 
He scorns his Coach, and his own beauty blamed. 
<STANZA>
Now with a trice he leaves the azure skies, 
(As whilom Jove did at Europa's rape,) 
And ravish'd with her love-alluring eyes, 
He turns himself into a human shape: 
And that his wish the sooner might ensue, 
He suits himself like one of Venus' crew. 
<STANZA> 
Upon his head he wore a Hunter's hat 
Of crimson velvet, spang'd with stars of gold, 
Which grac'd his lovely face: and over that 
A silver hat-band richly to behold: 
On his left shoulder hung a loose Tiara, 
As whilom us'd fair Penthesilea. 
<STANZA> 
Fair Penthesilea th' Amazonian Queen, 
When she to Troy came with her warlike band, 
Of brave Viragoes glorious to be seen; 
Whose manlike force no power might withstand 
So look'd Apollo in his lovely weeds, 
As he unto the Troyan Damsel speeds 
<STANZA> 
Not fair, Adonis in his chiefest pride, 
Did seem more fair, then young Apollo seemed, 
When he through th' air invisibly did glide, 
T' obtain his Love, which he Angelic deemed; 
Whom finding in her chamber all alone, 
He thus begins t' express his piteous moan. 
<STANZA> 
O fairest, fair, above all fairs (quoth he) 
If ever Love obtained Ladies favor, 
Then show thy self compassionate to me, 
Whose head surpris'd with thy divine behavior, 
Yields my self captive to thy conqu'ring eyes: 
O then show mercy, do not tyrannize. 
<STANZA> 
Scarce had Apollo utter'd these last words 
(Raining down pearl from his immortal eyes) 
When she for answer, naught but fear affords, 
Filling the place with lamentable cries: 
But Phoebus fearing much these raging fits, 
With sug'red kisses sweetly charm'd her lips. 
<STANZA>
(And tells her softly in her softer ear) 
That he a God is, and no mortal creature 
Wherewith abandoning all needless fear, 
(A common frailty of weak woman's nature) 
She boldly asks him of his deity, 
Gracing her question with her wanton eye. 
<STANZA> 
Which charge to him no sooner was assign'd, 
But taking fair Cassandra by the hand 
(The true bewrayer of his secret mind) 
He first begins to let her understand, 
That he from Demogorgon was descended: 
Father of th' Earth, of Gods and men commended. 
<STANZA> 
The tenor of which tale he now recites, 
Closing each period with a ravish'd kiss: 
Which kindness, she unwillingly requites, 
Conjoining oft her Coral lips to his: 
Not that she lov'd the love of any one; 
But that she meant to cozen him anon. 
<STANZA> 
He briefly t` her relates his pedigree 
The son of Jove, sole guider of the sun, 
He that slew Python so victoriously, 
He that the name of wisdom's God hath won, 
The God of Music, and of Poetry: 
Of Physic, Learning, and Chirurgery. 
<STANZA> 
All which he eloquently reckons up, 
That she might know how great a God he was: 
And being charm'd with Cupid's golden cup 
He partially unto her praise doth pass, 
Calling her type of honor, Queen of beauty 
To whom all eyes owe tributary duty. 
<STANZA> 
I loved once, (quoth he) ay me I lov'd, 
As fair a shape as ever nature framed 
Had she not been so hard t' have been remov'd, 
By birth a sea-Nymph; cruel Daphne named: 
Whom, for she would not to my will agree, 
The Gods transform'd into a Laurel tree. 
<STANZA>
Ah therefore be not, (with that word he kiss'd her) 
Be not (quoth he) so proud as Daphne was 
Ne care thou for the anger of my sister, 
She cannot, nay she shall not hurt my Cass: 
For if she do, I vow (by dreadful night) 
Never again to lend her of my light. 
<STANZA> 
This said: he sweetly doth embrace his love, 
Yoking his arms about her Ivory neck:
And calls her wanton Venus' milk-white Dove, 
Whose ruddy lips the damask roses deck. 
And ever as his tongue compiles her praise, 
Love dainty Dimples in her cheeks doth raise. 
<STANZA> 
And meaning now to work her stratagem 
Upon the silly God, that thinks none ill, 
She hugs him in her arms, and kisses him; 
(Th' easilier to entice him to her will.) 
And being not able to maintain the field, 
Thus she begins (or rather seems) to yield. 
<STANZA> 
Won with thy words, and ravish'd with my beauty, 
Lo here Cassandra yields her self to thee, 
Requiring nothing for thy vowed duty, 
But only firmness, Love, and secrecy: 
Which for that now (even now) I mean to try thee, 
A boon I crave; which thou canst not deny me. 
<STANZA> 
Scarce were these honeywords breath'd from her lips, 
But he, supposing that she meant good-faith, 
Her filed tongue's temptations intercepts; 
And (like a Novice,) thus to her he saith 
Ask what thou wilt, and I will give it thee; 
Health, wealth, long life, wit, art, or dignity. 
<STANZA> 
Here-with she blushing red, (for shame did add
A crimson tincture to her palish hue,) 
Seeming in outward semblance passing glad, 
(As one that th' end of her petition knew) 
    She makes him swear by ugly Acheron, 
That he his promise should perform anon. 
<STANZA>
Which done: relying on his sacred oath, 
She asks of him the gift of prophecy: 
He (silent) gives consent: though seeming loath 
To grant so much to frail mortality 
But since that he his vows may not recall 
He gives to her the sprite prophetical, 
<STANZA>
But she no sooner had obtain'd her wish, 
When straight unpris'ning her lascivious arms 
From his soft bosom (th' alvary of bliss) 
She chastely counterchecks love's hot alarms 
And fearing lest his presence might offend her, 
She slips aside; and (absent) doth defend her. 
<STANZA>
(Muliere ne credas, ne mortuae quidem.) 
 
Look how a brightsome Planet in the sky, 
(Spangling the Welkin with a golden spot) 
Shoots suddenly from the beholder's eye, 
And leaves him looking there where she is not 
Even so amazed Phoebus (to descry her) 
Looks all about, but no where can espy her. 
<STANZA> 
Not th' hungry Lion, having lost his pray, 
With greater fury runneth through the wood, 
(Making no sign of momentary stay, 
Till he have satisfied himself with blood,) 
Then angry Phoebus mounts into the sky 
Threat'ning the world with his hot-burning eye. 
<STANZA> 
Now nimbly to his glist'ring Coach he skips, 
And churlishly ascends his lofty chair, 
Jerking his head strong Jades with iron whips, 
Whose fearful neighing echoes through the air, 
Snorting out fiery Sulphur from their nostrils: 
Whose deadly damp the world's poor people kills. 
<STANZA> 
Him leave me (for a while) amidst the heavens, 
Wreaking his anger on his sturdy steeds: 
Whose speedful course the day and night now evens, 
(The earth dis-robed of her summer weeds) 
And now black-mantled night with her brown veil, 
Covers each thing that all the world might quail. 
<STANZA>
When lo, Cassandra lying at her rest, 
(Her rest were restless thoughts:) it so befell, 
Her mind with multitude of cares oppress'd, 
Requir'd some sleep her passions to expel 
Which when sad Morpheus will did understand, 
He clos'd her eye-lids with his leaden hand. 
<STANZA> 
Now sleep'th she and as she sleeps, behold; 
She seems to see the God whom late she wronged 
Standing before her; whose fierce looks unfold, 
His hidden wrath (to whom just ire belonged) 
Seeing, she sighs, and sighing quak'd for fear, 
To see the shadow of her shame appear. 
<STANZA> 
Betwixt amaze and dread as she thus stands, 
The fearful vision drew more near unto her: 
And Pinioning her arms in captive bands 
So sure, that mortal wight may not undo her, 
He with a bloody knife (o cruel part,) 
With raging fury stabb'd her to the heart.
<STANZA> 
Herewith awaking from her slumb'ring sleep, 
(For fear, and care, are enemies to rest:) 
At such time as Aurora gins to peep 
And show her self; far orient in the East 
She heard a voice which said O wicked woman, 
Why dost thou still the gods to vengeance summon? 
<STANZA> 
Thou shalt (indeed) fore-tell of things to come; 
And truly, too; (for why my vows are past) 
But hear the end of Jove's eternal doom: 
Because thy promise did so little last, 
Although thou tell the truth, (this gift I give thee) 
Yet for thy falsehood, no man shall believe thee. 
<STANZA> 
And (for thy sake) this penance I impose 
Upon the remnant of all woman kind, 
For that they be such truth professed foes; 
A constant woman shall be hard to find: 
And that all flesh at my dread name may tremble, 
When they weep most, then shall they most dissemble. 
<STANZA>
This said Apollo then: And since that time 
His words have proved true as Oracles 
Whose turning thoughts ambitiously do climb 
To heaven's height; and world with lightness fills: 
Whose sex are subject to inconstancy, 
As other creatures are to destiny. 
<STANZA> 
Yet famous Sabrine on thy banks doth rest 
The fairest Maid that ever world admired 
Whose constant mind, with heavenly gifts possess'd
Makes her rare self of all the world desired. 
In whose chaste thoughts no vanity doth enter; 
So pure a mind Endymion's Love hath lent her. 
<STANZA> 
Queen of my thoughts, but subject of my verse, 
(Divine Eliza) pardon my defect 
Whose artless pen so rudely doth rehearse 
Thy beauty's worth; (for want of due respect) 
O pardon thou the follies of my youth; 
Pardon my faith, my love, my zeal, my truth. 
<STANZA> 
But to Cassandra now who having heard 
The cruel sentence of the threat'ning voice; 
At length (too late) begins to wax affeer'd, 
Lamenting much her unrepentant choice: 
And seeing her hard hap without relief, 
She sheds salt tears in token of her grief. 
<STANZA> 
Which when Aurora saw, and saw 'twas she, 
Even she her self whose far-renowned fame 
Made all the world to wonder at her beauty, 
It mov'd compassion in this ruthful Dame 
And thinking on her Son's sad destiny, 
With mournful tears she bears her company, 
<STANZA> 
Great was the moan, which fair Cassandra made 
Greater the kindness, which Aurora show'd: 
Whose sorrow with the sun began to fade, 
And her moist tears on th' earth's green grass bestow'd: 
Kissing the flowers with her silver dew, 
Whose fading beauty, seem'd her case to rue. 
<STANZA> 
Scarce was the lovely Eastern Queen departed, 
From stately Ilion (whose proud-reared walls 
Seem'd to control the clouds, till Vulcan darted 
Against their Tower his burning fire-balls) 
When sweet Cassandra (leaving her soft bed) 
In seemly sort her self apparelled. 
<STANZA> 
And hearing that her honorable Sire, 
(Old princely Priamus Troy's aged King) 
Was gone into Jove's Temple, to conspire 
Against the Greeks, (whom he to war did bring) 
She, (like a Fury), in a bedlam rage, 
Runs gadding thither, his fell wrath t' assuage. 
<STANZA> 
But not prevailing truly she fore-told 
The fall of Troy (with bold erected face:) 
They count her hare-brain'd, mad, and over-bold, 
To press in presence in so grave a place 
But in mean season Paris he is gone, 
To bring destruction on fair Ilion. 
<STANZA> 
What, ten-years' siege by force could not subvert, 
That, two false traitors in one night destroy'd 
Who richly guerdon'd for their bad desert, 
Was of Aeneas but small time enjoy'd 
Who, for concealment of Achilles' love, 
Was banished; from Ilion to remove. 
<STANZA> 
King Priam dead and all the Troyans slain; 
(His sons, his friends and dear confederates) 
And lots now cast for captives that remain, 
(Whom Death hath spared for more cruel fates) 
Cassandra then to Agamemnon fell, 
With whom a Leman she disdain'd to dwell. 
<STANZA> 
She, weeps; he, woos; he would, but she would not 
He, tells his birth; she, pleads virginity 
He saith, self-pride doth rarest beauty blot: 
(And with that word he Kiss'd her lovingly:) 
    She, yieldingly resists; he feigns to die: 
She, falls for fear; he, on her fearlessly.
<STANZA>
But this brave general of all the Greeks, 
Was quickly foiled at a woman's hands, 
For who so rashly such encounters seeks, 
Of hard mishap in danger ever stands: 
Only chaste thoughts, virtuous abstinence, 
'Gainst such sweet poison is the sur'st defense. 
<STANZA> 
But who can shun the force of beauty's blow? 
Who is not ravish'd with a lovely look? 
Grac'd with a wanton eye, (the heart's dumb show) 
Such fish are taken with a silver hook: 
And when true love cannot these pearls obtain 
Unguentum Album is the only mean. 
<STANZA> 
Far be it from my thought (divinest Maid) 
To have relation to thy heavenly hue, 
(In whose sweet voice the Muses are embay'd) 
No pen can paint thy commendation due: 
Save only that pen, which no pen can be, 
An Angel's quill, to make a pen for thee. 
<STANZA> 
But to return to these unhappy Lovers,
(Sleeping securely in each others arms) 
Whose sug'red joys night's sable mantle covers, 
Little regarding their ensuing harms: 
Which afterward they jointly both repented 
"Fate is fore-seen, but never is prevented." 
<STANZA> 
Which saying to be true, this luckless Dame 
Approved in the sequel of her story: 
Now waxing pale, now blushing red (for shame), 
She seals her lips with silence (women's glory) 
Till Agamemnon urging her replies, 
Thus of his death she truly prophecies. 
<STANZA> 
The day shall come, (quoth she) O dismal day!
When thou by false Aegistus shalt be slain 
Here could she tell no more; but made a stay. 
(From further speech as willing to refrain:) 
Not knowing then, nor little did she think, 
That she with him of that same cup must drink 
<STANZA>
But what? (fond man) he laughs her skill to scorn, 
And jesteth at her divination 
Ah to what unbelief are Princes born? 
(The only over-throw of many a Nation:) 
And so it did befall this luckless Prince, 
Whom all the world hath much lamented since. 
<STANZA> 
Instead of tears, he smileth at her tale 
Instead of grief, he makes great show of gladness 
But after bliss, there ever follows bale; 
And after mirth, there always cometh sadness 
But gladness, bliss, and mirth had so possess'd him, 
That sadness, bale, and grief could not molest him. 
<STANZA> 
O cruel Parcae (quoth Cassandra then) 
Why are you Parcae, yet not mov'd with prayer? 
O small security of mortal men,
That live on earth, and breathe this vital air:
When laugh we most, then are we next to sorrow;
The Birds feed us to-day, we them to-morrow. 
<STANZA> 
But first did little move his mind, 
Her later speeches less with him prevailed; 
Who being wholly to self-will inclined, 
Deems her weak brain with lunacy assailed 
And still the more she counsels him to stay, 
The more he striveth to make haste away. 
<STANZA> 
How on the Seas he scap'd storms, rocks and shoals, 
(Seas that envied the conquest he had won, 
Gaping like hell to swallow Greekish souls,) 
I here omit; only Suppose it done 
His storm-tir'd Bark safely brings him to shore, 
His whole Fleet else, or sunk or lost before. 
<STANZA> 
Lift up thy head, thou ashy-cindered Troy, 
See the commander of thy traitor foes, 
That made thy last night's woe, his first day's joy, 
Now gins his night of joy and day of woes: 
His fall be thy delight, thine was his pride 
As he thee then, so now thou him deride. 
<STANZA>
He and Cassandra now are set on shore, 
Which he salutes with joy, she greets with tears, 
Currors are sent that post to Court before, 
Whose tidings fill th' adulterous Queen with fears, 
Who with Aegistus in a lust-stain'd bed, 
Her self, her King, her State dishonored. 
<STANZA> 
She wakes the lecher with a loud-strain'd shrike, 
Love-toys they leave, now doth lament begin 
I'll fly (quoth he) but she doth that mislike, 
Guilt unto guilt, and sin she adds to sin 
She means to kill (immodest love to cover) 
A kingly husband, for a caitiff lover. 
<STANZA> 
The people's joys, conceived at his return, 
Their thronging multitudes their gladsome cries, 
Their gleeful hymns, whiles piles of incense burn 
Their public shows, kept at solemnities 
We pass: and tell how King and Queen did meet: 
Where he with zeal, she him with guile did greet. 
<STANZA> 
He (noble Lord) fearless of hidden treason, 
Sweetly salutes this weeping Crocodile 
Excusing every cause with instant reason 
That kept him from her sight so long a while: 
She, faintly pardons him; smiling by Art 
(For life was in her looks, death in her heart.) 
<STANZA> 
For pledge that I am pleas'd receive (quoth she) 
This rich wrought robe, thy Clytemnestra's toil 
Her ten years work this day shall honor thee, 
For ten years war, and one day's glorious spoil 
Whilst thou contendedst there, I here did this: 
Wear it my love, my life, my joy, my bliss. 
<STANZA> 
Scarce had the Siren said what I have writ, 
But he (kind Prince) by her mild words misled, 
Receiv'd the robe, to try if it were fit; 
(The robe) that had no issue for his head; 
Which, whilst he vainly hoped to have found, 
Aegistus pierc'd him with a mortal wound. 
<STANZA>
O how the Troyan Damsel was amazed 
To see so fell and bloody a Tragedy, 
Perform'd in one Act; she naught but gazed, 
Upon the picture; whom she dead did see, 
Before her face whose body she embalms, 
With brennish tears, and sudden deadly qualms. 
<STANZA>
Fain would she have fled back on her swift horse 
But Clytemnestra bade her be content, 
Her time was com'n now bootless us'd she force, 
Against so many; whom this Tigress sent 
To apprehend her: who (within one hour 
Brought back again) was lock'd within a Tower. 
<STANZA>
Now is she joyless, friendless, and (in fine) 
Without all hope of further liberty 
Instead of cates, cold water was her wine, 
And Agamemnon's corpse her meat must be, 
Or else she must for hunger starve (poor soul) 
What could she do but make great moan and dole. 
<STANZA>
So dark the dungeon was, wherein she was, 
That neither Sun (by day) nor Moon (by night) 
Did show themselves and thus it came to pass. 
The Sun denied to lend his glorious light 
To such a perjur'd wight, or to be seen; 
(What need she light, that over-light had been?) 
<STANZA>
Now silent night drew on; when all things sleep, 
Save thieves, and cares; and now still mid-night came 
When sad Cassandra did naught else but weep; 
Oft calling on her Agamemnon's name. 
But seeing that the dead did not reply, 
Thus she begins to mourn, lament, and cry. 
<STANZA> 
O cruel Fortune (mother of despair,) 
Well art thou christen'd with a cruel name: 
Since thou regardest not the wise, or fair, 
But dost bestow thy riches (to thy shame) 
On fools and lowly swains, that care not for thee 
And yet I weep, and yet thou dost abhor me. 
</FILE>
<FILE Bbarnes.ed>
<AUTH> Barnabe Barnes
<TITLE>Sonnets
<NOTES> modernized from OXU, WEYE, 7/90
<POEM> 
<PREL.>
Go, bastard Orphan! Pack thee hence! 
And seek some Stranger for defense! 
Now 'gins thy baseness to be known! 
Nor dare I take thee for mine own; 
Thy levity shall be descried! 
But if that any have espied, 
And question with thee, of thy Sire; 
Or Mistress of his vain Desire; 
Or ask the Place from whence thou came: 
Deny thy Sire! Love! Place! and Name! 
And if I chance, un'wares to meet thee, 
Neither acknowledge me, nor greet me! 
Admit I blush (perchance, I shall), 
Pass by! regard me not at all! 
Be secret, wise, and circumspect! 
And modesty sometimes affect! 
Some good man, that shall think thee witty, 
Will be thy Patron! and take pity; 
And when some men shall call thee base 
He, for thy sake, shall him disgrace! 
Then, with his countenance backed, thou shalt 
Excuse the nature of thy fault. 
Then, if some lads, when they go by, 
Thee, "Bastard!" call; give them the lie! 
So, get thee packing! and take heed! 
And, though thou go in beggar's weed, 
Hereafter (when I better may) 
I'll send relief, some other day! 
<POEM> 
<S.1.>
Mistress! Behold, in this true speaking Glass, 
Thy Beauty's graces! of all women rarest! 
Where thou mayst find how largely they surpass 
And stain in glorious loveliness, the fairest . 
But read, sweet Mistress! and behold it nearer! 
Pondr'ing my sorrow's outrage with some pity . 
Then shalt thou find no worldly creature dearer, 
Than thou to me, thyself, in each Love Ditty! 
But, in this Mirror, equally compare 
Thy matchless beauty, with mine endless grief! 
There, like thyself none can be found so fair; 
Of chiefest pains, there, are my pains the chief. 
Betwixt these both, this one doubt thou shalt find! 
Whether are, here, extremest, in their kind? 
<POEM> 
<S.2.>
Whiles, with strong chains of hardy tempered steel, 
I bound my thoughts, still gadding fast and faster; 
When they, through time, the diff'rences did feel, 
Betwixt a Mistress' service and a Master. 
Keeping in bondage, jealously enthralled, 
In prisons of neglect, his nature's mildness; 
Him, I with solitary studies walled, 
By thralldom, choking his outrageous wildness. 
 On whom, my careful thoughts I set to watch, 
 Guarding him closely, lest he should out issue 
To seek thee, LAYA! who still wrought to catch 
And train my tender boy, that could not miss you 
(So you bewitched him once! when he did kiss you), 
That, by such slights as never were found out, 
To serve your turn, he daily went about. 
<POEM> 
<S.3.>
He, when continual vigil moved my Watch 
Some deal, by chance, with careful guard to slumber: 
The prison's keys from them did slowly snatch; 
Which of the five, were only three by number. 
The first was Sight, by which he searched the wards; 
The next was Hearing, quickly to perceive, 
Lest that the Watchmen heard, which were his guards; 
Third, Touch, which VULCAN's cunning could deceive. 
These (though the springs, wards, bolts, or gimbols were 
The miracles of VULCAN's forgery) 
Laid open all, for his escape. Now, there, 
The Watchmen grinned for his impiety. 
What crosses bred this contrariety, 
That by these keys, my thoughts, in chains be left; 
And by these keys, I, of mine heart bereft? 
<POEM> 
<S.4.>
LAYA, soon sounding out his nature throughly, 
Found that he was a lovely virgin Boy. 
Causeless, why did thou then deal with him roughly? 
Nor yet content with him, sometime, to toy; 
But jealous kept, lest he should run from thee! 
Whom if thou kindly meant to love, 'twas needless! 
Doubting lest that he should run back to me! 
If of him, any deal thou didst stand heedless. 
Thou coop'st him in thy closet's secret corners; 
And then, thy heart's dear playfellow didst make him! 
Whom thou in person guardedst! (lest suborners 
Should work his freelege, or in secret take him) 
And to this instant, never would forsake him! 
Since for soft service, slavish bonds be changed! 
Why didst thou, from thy jealous master range? 
<POEM>
<S.5.>
It chanced, after, that a youthful Squire, 
Such as, in courting, could the crafty guise, 
Beheld light LAYA. She, with fresh Desire, 
Hoping th' achievement of some richer prize, 
Drew to the Courtier; who, with tender kiss, 
(As are their guileful fashions which dissemble) 
First him saluted; then (with forged bliss 
Of doubtless hope) sweet words, by pause, did tremble. 
So whiles she slightly glosed with her new prey, 
My heart's eye (tending his false mistress' train) 
Unyoked himself, and closely 'scaped away; 
And to PARTHENOPHE did post amain, 
For liberal pardon; which she did obtain. 
"And judge! PARTHENOPHE! (for thou canst tell!) 
That his escape from LAYA pleased me well." 
<POEM> 
<S.6.>
Him when I caught, what chains had I provided! 
What fetters had I framed! What locks of Reason! 
What Keys of Continence had I devised 
(Impatient of the breach) 'gainst any treason! 
But fair PARTHENOPHE did urge me still 
To liberal pardon, for his former fault; 
Which, out alas! prevailed with my will. 
Yet moved I bonds, lest he should make default: 
Which willingly She seemed to undertake, 
And said, "As I am virgin! I will be 
His bail for this offense; and if he make 
Another such vagary, take of me 
A pawn, for more assurance unto thee!" 
"Your love to me," quoth I, "your pawn shall make! 
So that, for his default, I forfeit take." 
<POEM>
< S.7.>
Her love to me, She forthwith did impawn, 
And was content to set at liberty 
My trembling Heart; which straight began to fawn 
Upon his Mistress' kindly courtesy. 
Not many days were past, when (like a wanton) 
He secretly did practice to depart; 
And to PARTHENOPHE did send a canton, 
Where, with sighs' accents, he did loves impart. 
And for because She deigned him that great sign 
Of gentle favors, in his kind release; 
He did conclude, all duty to resign 
To fair PARTHENOPHE: which doth increase 
These woes, nor shall my restless Muses cease! 
For by her, of mine heart am I deprived; 
And by her, my first sorrows' heat revived. 
<POEM>
< S.8.>
Then to PARTHENOPHE, with all post haste 
(As full assured of the pawn fore-pledged), 
I made; and, with these words disordered placed, 
Smooth (though with fury's sharp outrages edged). 
Quoth I, "Fair Mistress! did I set mine Heart 
At liberty, and for that, made him free; 
That you should arm him for another start, 
Whose certain bail you promised to be!" 
"Tush!" quoth PARTHENOPHE, "before he go, 
I'll be his bail at last, and doubt it not!" 
"Why then," said I, "that Mortgage must I show 
Of your true love, which at your hands I got 
Ay me! She was, and is his bail, I wot: 
But when the Mortgage should have cured the sore 
She passed it off, by Deed of Gift before. 
<POEM>
< S.9.>
So did PARTHENOPHE release mine Heart! 
So did She rob me of mine heart's rich treasure! 
Thus shall She be his bail before they part! 
Thus in her love She made me such hard measure! 
Ay me! nor hope of mutual love by leisure, 
Nor any type of my poor Heart's release 
Remains to me. How shall I take the seizure 
Of her love's forfeiture? which took such peace 
Combined with a former love. Then cease 
To vex with sorrows, and thy griefs increase 
'Tis for PARTHENOPHE! thou suffer'st smart. 
Wild Nature's wound not curable with Art. 
Then cease, with choking sighs and heart-swoll'n throbs, 
To draw thy breath, broke off with sorrow's sobs! 
<POEM>
< S.10.>
Yet give me leave, since all my joys be perished, 
Heartless, to moan for my poor Heart's departure! 
Nor should I mourn for him, if he were cherished. 
Ah, no! She keeps him like a slavish martyr. 
Ah, me! Since merciless, she made that charter, 
Sealed with wax of steadfast continence, 
Signed with those hands which never can unwrite it, 
Writ with that pen, which (by preeminence) 
Too sure confirms whats'ever was indightit: 
What skills to wear thy girdle, or thy garter; 
When other arms shall thy small waist embrace? 
How great a waste of mind and body's weal! 
Now melts my soul! I, to thine eyes appeal! 
If they, thy tyrant champions, owe me grace. 
<POEM>
< S.11.>
Why didst thou, then, in such disfigured guise, 
Figure the portrait of mine overthrow ? 
Why, man-like, didst thou mean to tyrannize? 
No man, but woman would have sinned so! 
Why, then, inhuman, and my secret foe! 
Didst thou betray me? yet would be a woman! 
From my chief wealth, outweaving me this woe, 
Leaving thy love in pawn, till time did come on 
When that thy trustless bonds were to be tried! 
And when, through thy default, I thee did summon 
Into the Court of Steadfast Love, then cried, 
"As it was promised, here stands his Heart's bail! 
And if in bonds to thee, my love be tied; 
Then by those bonds, take Forfeit of the Sale!" 
<POEM>
< S.12.>
Vex'd with th' assaults of thy conceived beauty, 
 I restless, on thy favors meditate! 
And though despairful love, sometime, my suit tie 
Unto these faggots (figures of my state), 
Which bound with endless line, by leisure wait 
That happy moment of your heart's reply! 
Yet by those lines I hope to find the gate; 
Which, through love's labyrinth, shall guide me right. 
Whiles (unacquainted exercise!) I try 
Sweet solitude, I shun my life's chief light! 
And all because I would forget thee quite. 
And (working that) me think, it's such a sin 
(As I take pen and paper for to write) 
Thee to forget; that leaving, I begin! 
<POEM>
< S.13.>
When none of these, my sorrows would allege; 
I sought to find the means, how I might hate thee! 
Then hateful Curiousness I did in-wedge 
Within my thoughts, which ever did await thee! 
I framed mine Eyes for an unjust controlment; 
And mine unbridled Thoughts (because I dare not 
Seek to compel) did pray them, take enrolment 
Of Nature's faults in her! and, equal, spare not! 
They searched, and found "her eyes were sharp and fiery, 
A mole upon her forehead colored pale, 
Her hair disordered, brown, and crisped wiry, 
Her cheeks thin speckled with a summer's male." 
This told, men weened it was a pleasing tale 
Her to disgrace, and make my follies fade. 
And please, it did! but her, more gracious made. 
<POEM>
< S.14.>
Then him controlling, that he left undone, 
Her eyes' bright circle thus did answer make; 
"Rest's mist, with silver cloud, had closed her sun. 
Nor could he draw them, till she were awake." 
"Why then," quoth I, "were not these leaves' dark shade 
Upon her cheeks, depainted, as you see them?" 
"Shape of a shadow cannot well be made!" 
Was answered "for shade's shadows, none can eye them!" 
This reason proves sure argument for me, 
That my grief's image, I can not set out; 
Which might with lively colors blazed be. 
Wherefore since nought can bring the means about, 
That thou, my sorrow's cause, should view throughout; 
Thou wilt not pity me! But this was it! 
ZEUXIS had neither skill, nor colors fit. 
<POEM> 
< S.15.>
Where, or to whom, then, shall I make complaint? 
By guileful wiles, of mine heart's guide deprived! 
With right's injustice, and unkind constraint: 
Barred from her loves, which my deserts achieved! 
This though thou sought to choke, far more revived 
Within mine heartless breast, left almost senseless. 
O, make exchange! Surrender thine, for mine! 
Lest that my body, void of guide, be fenceless. 
So shalt thou pawn to me, sign for a sign 
Of thy sweet conscience; when I shall resign 
Thy love's large Charter, and thy Bonds again. 
O, but I fear mine hopes be void, or menceless! 
No course is left, which might thy loves attain, 
Whether with sighs I sue, or tears complain! 
<POEM> 
< S.16.>
Yea, that accursed Deed, before insealed, 
Is argument of thy first constancy! 
Which if thou hadst to me before revealed; 
I had not pleaded in such fervency. 
Yet this delights, and makes me triumph much, 
That mine Heart, in her body lies imprisoned! 
For, 'mongst all bay-crowned conquerors, no such 
Can make the slavish captive boast him conquered, 
Except PARTHENOPHE; whose fiery gleams 
(Like JOVE's swift lightning raging, which rocks pierceth) 
Heating them inly with his sudden beams, 
And secret golden mines with melting searseth 
Eftsoons with cannon, his dread rage rehearseth; 
Yet nought seems scorched, in apparent sight. 
So first, She secret burnt; then, did affright! 
<POEM> 
< S.17.>
How then succeedeth that, amid this woe, 
(Where Reason's sense doth from my soul divide) 
By these vain lines, my fits be specified; 
Which from their endless ocean, daily flow! 
Where was it born? Whence, did this humor grow, 
Which, long obscured with melancholy's mist, 
Inspires my giddy brains unpurified 
So lively, with sound reasons, to persist 
In framing tuneful Elegies, and Hymns 
For her, whose name my Sonnets note so trims; 
That nought but her chaste name so could assist? 
And my Muse in first tricking out her limbs, 
Found in her lifeless Shadow such delight; 
That yet She shadows her, when as I write. 
<POEM>
<S.18.>
Write! write! help! help, sweet Muse! and never cease! 
In endless labors, pens and papers tire! 
Until I purchase my long-wished Desire. 
Brains, with my Reason, never rest in peace! 
Waste breathless words! and breathful sighs increase! 
Till of my woes, remorseful, you espy her; 
Till she with me, be burnt in equal fire. 
I never will, from labor, wits release! 
My senses never shall in quiet rest; 
Till thou be pitiful, and love alike! 
And if thou never pity my distresses; 
Thy cruelty, with endless force shall strike 
Upon my wits, to ceaseless writs addressed! 
My cares, in hope of some revenge, this lesses. 
<POEM> 
<S.19.>
Imperious JOVE, with sweet lipped MERCURY; 
Learned MINERVA; PHOEBUS, God of Light; 
Vein-swelling BACCHUS; VENUS, Queen of Beauty; 
With light foot PHOEBE, Lamp of silent Night: 
These have, with divers deities beside, 
Borrowed the shapes of many a mortal creature; 
But fair PARTHENOPHE, graced with the pride 
Of each of these, sweet Queen of lovely feature! 
As though she were, with pearl of all their skill, 
By heaven's chief nature garnished. She knits 
In wrath, JOVE's forehead; with sweet noting quill, 
She matcheth MERCURY, MINERVA's wits; 
In goldy locks, bright TITAN; BACCHUS sits 
In her hands conduit pipes; sweet VENUS' face; 
DIANA's leg, the Tyrian buskins grace. 
<POEM> 
<S.20.>
These Eyes (thy Beauty's Tenants!) pay due tears 
For occupation of mine Heart, thy Freehold, 
In Tenor of Love's service! If thou behold 
With what exaction, it is held through fears; 
And yet thy Rents, extorted daily, bears. 
Thou would not, thus, consume my quiet's gold! 
And yet, though covetous thou be, to make 
Thy beauty rich, with renting me so roughly, 
And at such sums: thou never thought dost take, 
But still consumes me! Then, thou dost misguide all! 
Spending in sport, for which I wrought so toughly! 
When I had felt all torture, and had tried all; 
And spent my Stock, through 'strain of thine extortion; 
On that, I had but good hopes, for my portion. 
<POEM>
<S.21.> 
Yea, but uncertain hopes are Anchors feeble, 
When such faint-hearted pilots guide my ships, 
Of all my fortune's Ballast with hard pebble, 
Whose doubtful voyage proves not worth two chips. 
If when but one dark cloud shall dim the sky, 
The Cables of hope's happiness be cut; 
When bark, with thoughts-drowned mariners shall lie, 
Pressed for the whirlpool of grief's endless glut. 
If well thou mean, PARTHENOPHE! then ravish 
Mine heart, with doubtless hope of mutual love! 
If otherwise; then let thy tongue run lavish! 
For this, or that, am I resolved to prove! 
And both, or either ecstasy shall move 
Me! ravished, end with surfeit of relief; 
Or senseless, daunted, die with sudden grief. 
<POEM> 
<S.22.>
From thine heart's ever burning Vestal fire, 
The torchlight of two suns is nourished still; 
Which, in mild compass, still surmounting higher, 
Their orbs, with circled harmony fulfill; 
Whose rolling wheels run on meridian line, 
And turning, they turn back the misty night. 
Report of which clear wonder did incline 
Mine eyes to gaze upon that uncouth light. 
On it till I was sunburnt, did I gaze! 
Which with a fervent agony possessed me; 
Then did I sweat, and swelt; mine eyes daze 
Till that a burning fever had oppressed me: 
Which made me faint. No physic hath repressed me; 
For I try all! yet, for to make me sound, 
Ay, me! no grass, nor physic may be found. 
<POEM> 
<S.23.>
When, with the Dawning of my first delight, 
The Daylight of love's Delicacy moved me; 
Then from my heaven's disdainful starry light, 
The Moonlight of her Chastity reproved me. 
Her forehead's threatful clouds from hope removed me, 
Till Midnight reared on the mid-noctial line; 
Her heart whiles Pity's slight had undershoved me, 
Then did I force her downward to decline 
Till Dawning daylight cheerfully did shine; 
And by such happy revolution drew 
Her Morning's blush to joyful smiles incline. 
And now Meridian heat dries up my dew; 
There rest, fair Planets! Stay, bright orbs of heaven! 
Still smiling at my dial, next eleven! 
<POEM> 
<S.24.>
These, mine heart-eating Eyes do never gaze 
Upon thy sun's harmonious marble wheels, 
But from these eyes, through force of thy sun's blaze, 
Rain tears continual, whiles my faith's true steels, 
Tempered on anvil of thine heart's cold Flint, 
Strikes marrow-melting fire into mine eyes; 
The Tinder, whence my Passions do not stint 
As Matches to those sparkles which arise. 
Which, when the Taper of mine heart is lighted, 
Like salamanders, nourish in the flame: 
And all the Loves, with my new Torch delighted, 
Awhile, like gnats, did flourish in the same; 
But burnt their wings, nor any way could frame 
To fly from thence, since JOVE's proud bird (that bears 
His thunder) viewed my sun; but shed down tears. 
<POEM>
<S.25.>
Then count it not disgrace! if any view me, 
Sometime to shower down rivers of salt tears, 
From tempest of my sigh's despairful fears. 
Then scorn me not, alas, sweet friends! but rue me! 
Ah, pity! pity me! For if you knew me! 
How, with her looks, mine heart amends and wears; 
Now calm, now rageous, as my Passion bears: 
You would lament with me! and She which slew me, 
She which (Ay me!) She which did deadly wound me, 
And with her beauty's balm, though dead, keeps lively 
My lifeless body; and, by charms, hath bound me, 
For thankless meed, to serve her: if she vively 
Could see my sorrow's maze, which none can tread; 
She would be soft and light, though flint and lead! 
<POEM> 
<S.26.>
When lovely wrath, my Mistress' heart assaileth, 
LOVE's golden darts take aim from her bright eyes; 
And PSYCHE, VENUS' rosy couch empaleth, 
Placed in her cheeks, with lilies, where she lies! 
And when She smiles, from her sweet looks and cheerful, 
Like PHOEBUS, when through sudden clouds he starteth 
(After stern tempests, showers, and thunder fearful); 
So She, my world's delight, with her smiles hearteth! 
AURORA, yellow looks, when my Love blushes, 
Wearing her hair's bright color in her face! 
And from love's ruby portal lovely rushes, 
For every word She speaks, an angel's grace! 
If She be silent, every man in place 
With silence, wonders her! and if She sleep, 
Air doth, with her breath's murmur, music keep! 
<POEM> 
<S.27.>
Why do I draw this cool relieving air, 
And breathe it out in scalding sighs, as fast? 
Since all my hopes die buried in despair; 
In which hard soil, mine endless knots be cast. 
Where, when I come to walk, be sundry Mazes 
With Beauty's skillful finger lined out; 
And knots, whose borders set with double daisies, 
Doubles my dazed Muse with endless doubt. 
How to find easy passage through the time, 
With which my Mazes are so long beset, 
That I can never pass, but fall and climb 
According to my Passions (which forget 
The place, where they with Love's Guide should have met): 
But when, faint-wearied, all (methinks) is past; 
The Maze returning, makes me turn as fast. 
<POEM> 
<S.28.>
So be my labors endless in their turns. 
Turn! turn, PARTHENOPHE! Turn, and relent! 
Hard is thine heart, and never will repent! 
See how this heart within my body burns! 
Thou sees it not! and therefore thou rejournes 
My pleasures! Ill my days been overspent . 
When I beg grace, thou mine entreaty spurns; 
Mine heart, with hope upheld, with fear returns. 
Betwixt these Passions, endless is my fit. 
Then if thou be but human, grant some pity! 
Or if a Saint? sweet mercies are their meeds! 
Fair, lovely, chaste, sweet-spoken, learned, witty; 
These make thee Saint-like! and these, Saints befit: 
But thine hard heart makes all these graces, weeds! 
<POEM> 
<S.29.>
Bless still the myrrh-tree, VENUS! for thy meed! 
For to the weeping myrrh, my Tears be due. 
Contentious winds, which did from TITAN breed! 
The shaking Aspen tree belongs to you: 
To th' Aspen, I bequeath my ceaseless Tongue! 
And PHOEBUS, let thy laurels ever flourish! 
To still-green laurel, my Loves do belong. 
Let mighty JOVE, his oak's large branches nourish! 
For to strong oak, mine Heart is consecrate. 
Let dreadful PLUTO bless black heben tree! 
To th' Heben, my Despair is dedicate. 
And Naiads, let your willows loved be! 
To them, my Fortunes still removed be. 
So shall my tears, tongue, Passions never cease; 
Nor heart decay, nor my despair decrease. 
<POEM> 
<S.30.>
So this continual fountain of my Tears, 
From that hard rock of her sweet beauty trickling; 
So shall my Tongue on her love's music tickling; 
So shall my Passions, fed with hopes and fears; 
So shall mine Heart, which wearing, never wears, 
But soft, is hardened with her beauty's prickling; 
On which, Despair, my vulture seized, stands pickling 
Yet never thence his maw full-gorged bears; 
Right so, my Tears, Tongue, Passions, Heart, Despair; 
With floods, complaints, sighs, throbs, and endless sorrow; 
In seas, in volumes, winds, earthquakes, and hell; 
Shall float, chant, breathe, break, and dark mansion borrow! 
And, in them, I be blessed for my Fair; 
That in these torments, for her sake I dwell. 
<POEM> 
<S.31.>
I burn, yet am I cold! I am a cold, yet burn! 
In pleasing, discontent! in discontentment, pleased! 
Diseased, I am in health! and healthful, am diseased! 
In turning back, proceed! proceeding, I return! 
In mourning, I rejoice! and in rejoicing, mourn! 
In pressing, I step back! in stepping back, I pressed! 
In gaining, still I lose! and in my losses, gain! 
Grounded, I waver still! and wavering, still am grounded! 
Unwounded, yet not sound! and being sound, am wounded! 
Slain, yet am I alive! and yet alive, am slain! 
Hounded, mine heart rests still! still resting, is it hounded! 
In pain, I feel no grief! yet void of grief, in pain! 
Unmoved, I vex myself! unvexed, yet am I moved! 
Beloved, She loves me not; yet is She my beloved! 
<POEM> 
<S.32.>
Scarce twice seven times had PHOEBUS' waggon wheel 
Obliquely wandered through the Zodiac's line, 
Since Nature first to OPS did me resign, 
When in mine youthful vein, I well could feel 
A lustful rage, which, Reason's chains of steel 
(With headstrong force of Lust) did still untwine. 
To wanton Fancies I did then incline; 
Whilst mine unbridled PHAETON did reel 
With heedless rage, till that his chariot came 
To take, in fold, his resting with the Ram. 
But bootless, all! For such was his unrest 
That, in no limits, he could be contained! 
To lawless sports and pleasures, ever pressed; 
And his swift wheels, with their sweet oil distained! 
<POEM> 
<S.33.>
Next, when the boundless fury of my sun 
Began in higher climates, to take fire; 
And with it, somewhat kindled my Desire. 
Then, lest I should have wholly been undone; 
(For now mine age had thrice seven winters run) 
With studies, and with labors did I tire 
Mine itching Fancies! which did still aspire. 
Then, from those objects (which their force begun, 
Through wandering fury, to possess mine heart), 
Mine eyes, their vain seducers, I did fix 
On PALLAS, and on MARS! home, and in field! 
And armed strongly (lest my better part 
To milder objects should itself immix), 
I vowed, "I never would, to Beauty yield!" 
<POEM> 
<S.34.>
But when, in May, my world's bright fiery sun 
Had past in Zodiac, with his golden team, 
To place his beams, which in the Twins begun: 
The blazing twin stars of my world's bright beam, 
My Mistress' Eyes! mine heaven's bright Sun and Moon! 
The Stars by which, poor Shepherd I, am warned 
To pin in late, and put my flocks out soon; 
My flocks of Fancies, as the signs me learned: 
Then did my love's first Spring begin to sprout, 
So long as my sun's heat in those signs reigned. 
But wandering all the Zodiac throughout, 
From her May's twins, my sun such heat constrained: 
That where, at first, I little had complained; 
From Sign to Sign, in such course he now posteth! 
Which, daily, me, with hotter flaming toasteth. 
<POEM> 
<S.35.>
Next, when my sun, by progress, took his hold 
In Cancer, of my Mistress' crafty mind; 
How retrograde seemed She! when as I told 
That "in his claws, such torches I did find; 
Which if She did not to my tears lay plain 
That they might quenched be from their outrage; 
My love's hot June should be consumed in pain, 
Unless her pity make my grief assuage." 
O, how She frowns! and like the Crab, back turns! 
When I request her put her beams apart; 
Yet with her beams, my soul's delight, She burns! 
She pities not to think upon my smart! 
Nor from her Cancer's claws can I depart: 
For there, the torch of my red-hot Desire 
Grieves and relieves me, with continual fire. 
<POEM> 
<S.36.>
And thus continuing with outrageous fire, 
My sun, proceeding forward (to my sorrow!), 
Took up his Court; but willing to retire 
Within the Lion's den, his rage did borrow. 
But whiles within that Mansion he remained, 
How cruel was PARTHENOPHE to me! 
And when of my great sorrows I complained, 
She Lion-like, wished "they might tenfold be!" 
Then did I rage; and in unkindly Passions, 
I rent mine hair, and razed my tender skin; 
And raving in such frantic fashions, 
That with such cruelty she did begin 
To feed the fire which I was burned in. 
Can women brook to deal so sore with men? 
She, man's woe! learned it in the Lion's den! 
<POEM> 
<S.37.>
But Pity, which sometimes doth lions move, 
Removed my sun from moody Lion's cave; 
And into Virgo's bower did next remove 
His fiery wheels. But then She answer gave 
That "She was all vowed to virginity!" 
Yet said, "'Bove all men, She would most affect me!" 
Fie, Delian goddess! In thy company 
She learned, with honest color, to neglect me! 
And underneath chaste veils of single life, 
She shrouds her crafty claws, and lion's heart! 
Which, with my senses, now, do mingle strife 
'Twixt loves and virtues, which provoke my smart. 
Yet from these Passions can I never part, 
But still I make my suits importunate 
To thee! which makes my case unfortunate. 
<POEM> 
<S.38.>
When thine heart-piercing answers could not hinder 
Mine heart's hot hammer on thy steel to batter; 
Nor could excuses cold, quench out that cinder 
Which in me kindled was: She weighed the matter, 
And turning my sun's chariot, him did place 
In Libra's equal Mansion, taking pause, 
And casting, with deep judgment, to disgrace 
My love, with dealing cruel in the cause. 
She, busily, with earnest care devised 
How She might make her beauty tyrannous, 
And I, for ever, to her yoke surprised: 
The means found out, with cunning perilous, 
She turned the wheels, with force impetuous, 
And armed with woman-like contagion 
My sun She lodged in the Scorpion. 
<POEM> 
<S.39.>
Then (from her Venus, and bright Mercury, 
Mine heaven's clear planets), did She shoot such blazes 
As did infuse, with heat's extremity, 
Mine heart, which on despair's bare pasture grazes. 
Then, like the Scorpion, did She deadly sting me; 
And with a pleasing poison pierced me! 
Which, to these utmost sobs of death, did bring me, 
And, through my soul's faint sinews, searsed me. 
Yet might She cure me with the Scorpion's Oil! 
If that She were so kind as beautiful: 
But, in my bale, She joys to see me boil; 
Though be my Passions dear and dutiful, 
Yet She, remorseless and unmerciful. 
But when my thought of her is such a thing 
To strike me dead; judge, if herself can sting! 
<POEM> 
<S.40.>
But, ah, my plague, through time's outrage, increased! 
For when my sun his task had finished 
Within the Scorpion's Mansion, he not ceased, 
Nor yet his heat's extremes diminished, 
Till that dead-aiming Archer 'dressed his quiver, 
In which he closely couched, at the last! 
That Archer, which doth pierce both heart and liver, 
With hot gold-pointed shafts, which rankle fast! 
That proud, commanding, and swift-shooting Archer; 
Far-shooting PHOEBUS, which doth overshoot! 
And, more than PHOEBUS, is an inward parcher! 
Thou with thy notes harmonious and songs soot 
Allured my sun, to fire mine heart's soft root! 
And with thine ever-wounding golden arrow, 
First pricked my soul, then pierced my body's marrow! 
<POEM> 
<S.41.>
When my sun, CUPID, took his next abiding 
'Mongst craggy rocks and mountains, with the Goat; 
Ah then, on beauty did my senses dote! 
Then, had each Fair regard, my fancies guiding! 
Then, more than blessed was I, if one tiding 
Of female favor set mine heart afloat! 
Then, to mine eyes each Maid was made a moat! 
My fickle thoughts, with divers fancies sliding, 
With wanton rage of lust, so me did tickle! 
Mine heart, each Beauty's captivated vassal! 
Nor vanquished then (as now) but with love's prickle! 
Not deeply moved (till love's beams did discover 
That lovely Nymph, PARTHENOPHE!), no lover! 
Stop there, for fear! Love's privilege doth pass all! 
<POEM> 
<S.42.>
Pass all! Ah, no! No jot will be omitted, 
Now though my sun within the water rest; 
Yet doth his scalding fury still infest 
Into this sign. Whiles that my PHOEBUS flitted, 
Thou moved these streams; whose courses thou committed 
To me, thy Water-man bound! and addressed 
To pour out endless drops upon that soil 
Which withers most, when it is watered best! 
Cease, floods! and to your channels, make recoil! 
Strange floods, which on my fire burn like oil! 
Thus whiles mine endless furies higher ran, 
Thou! thou, PARTHENOPHE! my rage begun; 
Sending thy beams, to heat my fiery sun: 
Thus am I Water-man, and Fire-man! 
<POEM> 
<S.43.>
Now in my Zodiac's last extremest sign, 
My luckless sun, his hapless Mansion made; 
And in the water, willing more to wade, 
To Pisces did his chariot wheels incline: 
For me (poor Fish!) he, with his golden line 
Baited with beauties, all the river lade, 
(For who, of such sweet baits would stand afraid?) 
There nibbling for such food as made me pine, 
LOVE's Golden Hook, on me took sudden hold; 
And I down swallowed that impoisoned gold. 
Since then, devise what any wisher can, 
Of fiercest torments! since, all joys devise! 
Worse griefs, more joys did my true heart comprise! 
Such, were LOVE's baits! my crafty Fisherman. 
<POEM> 
<S.44.>
O Dart and thunder! whose fierce violence 
Surmounting Rhetoric's dart and thunder bolts, 
Can never be set out in eloquence! 
Whose might all metals' mass asunder moults! 
Where be the famous Prophets of old Greece? 
Those ancient Roman poets of account? 
MUSAEUS, which went for the Golden Fleece 
With JASON, and did HERO's loves recount! 
And thou, sweet NASO, with thy golden verse; 
Whose lovely spirit ravished CAESAR's daughter! 
And that sweet Tuscan, PETRARCH, which did pierce 
His LAURA with Love Sonnets, when he sought her! 
Where be these all ? That all these might have taught her, 
That Saints divine, are known Saints by their mercy! 
And Saint-like beauty should not rage with pierce eye! 
<POEM> 
<S.45.>
Sweet Beauty's rose! in whose fair purple leaves, 
LOVE's Queen, in richest ornament doth lie; 
Whose graces, were they not too sweet and high, 
Might here be seen, but since their sight bereaves 
All senses; he (that endless bottom weaves, 
Which did PENELOPE) who that shall try, 
Then wonder, and in admiration die 
At Nature-passing Nature's holy frame! 
Her beauty, thee revives! Thy Muse upheaves 
To draw celestial spirit from the skies! 
To praise the Work and Worker whence it came! 
This spirit, drawn from heaven of thy fair eyes! 
Whose gilded cognizance, left in mine heart, 
Shows me thy faithful servant, to my smart! 
<POEM> 
<S.46.>
Ah, pierce-eye piercing eye, and blazing light! 
Of thunder, thunder blazes burning up! 
O sun, sun melting! blind, and dazing sight! 
Ah, heart! down-driving heart, and turning up! 
O matchless beauty, Beauty's beauty staining! 
Sweet damask rosebud! VENUS' rose of roses! 
Ah, front imperious, duty's duty gaining! 
Yet threatful clouds did still inclose and closes. 
O lily leaves, when JUNO lily's leaves 
In wond'ring at her colors' grain distained! 
Voice, which rock's voice and mountain's hilly cleaves 
In sunder, at my loves with pain complained! 
Eye, lightning sun! Heart, beauty's bane unfeigned! 
O damask rose! proud forehead! lily! voice! 
Ah, partial fortune! sore chance! silly choice! 
<POEM> 
<S.47.>
Give me my Heart! For no man liveth heartless! 
And now deprived of heart, I am but dead, 
(And since thou hast it; in his tables read! 
Whether he rest at ease, in joys and smartless? 
Whether beholding him, thine eyes were dartless? 
Or to what bondage, his enthralment leads?) 
Return, dear Heart! and me, to mine restore! 
Ah, let me thee possess! Return to me! 
I find no means, devoid of skill and artless. 
Thither return, where thou triumphed before! 
Let me of him but repossessor be! 
And when thou gives to me mine heart again; 
Thyself, thou dost bestow! For thou art She, 
Whom I call Heart! and of whom I complain. 
<POEM> 
<S.48.>
I wish no rich refined Arabian gold! 
Nor orient Indian pearl, rare Nature's wonder! 
No diamonds, th' Egyptian surges under! 
No rubies of America, dear sold! 
Nor sapphires, which rich Afric sands enfold! 
(Treasures far distant, from this isle asunder) 
Barbarian ivories, in contempt I hold! 
But only this; this only, VENUS, grant! 
That I, my sweet PARTHENOPHE may get! 
Her hairs, no grace of golden wires want; 
Pure pearls, with perfect rubines are inset; 
True diamonds, in eyes; sapphires, in veins: 
Nor can I, that soft ivory skin forget! 
England, in one small subject, such contains! 
<POEM> 
<S.49.> 
Cool! cool in waves, thy beams intolerable, 
O sun! No son, but most unkind stepfather! 
By law, nor Nature, Sire; but rebel rather! 
Fool! fool! these labors are inextricable; 
A burden whose weight is importable; 
A Siren which, within thy breast, doth bathe her; 
A Fiend which doth, in Graces' garments grath her; 
A fortress, whose force is impregnable; 
From my love's 'lembic, still 'stilled tears. O tears! 
Quench! quench mine heat! or, with your sovereignty, 
Like NIOBE, convert mine heart to marble! 
Or with fast-flowing pine, my body dry, 
And rid me from Despair's chilled fears! O fears, 
Which on mine heben harp's heartstrings do warble! 
<POEM> 
<S.50.>
So warble out your tragic notes of sorrow, 
Black harp of liver-pining Melancholy! 
Black Humor, patron of my Fancy's folly! 
Mere follies, which from Fancy's fire, borrow 
Hot fire; which burns day, night, midnight, and morrow. 
Long morning which prolongs my sorrows solely, 
And ever overrules my Passions wholly: 
So that my fortune, where it first made sorrow, 
Shall there remain, and ever shall it plow 
The bowels of mine heart; mine heart's hot bowels! 
And in their furrows, sow the Seeds of Love; 
Which thou didst sow, and newly spring up now 
And make me write vain words: no words, but Vowels! 
For nought to me, good Consonant would prove. 
<POEM> 
<S.51.>
Lame Consonants, of member-Vowels robbed! 
What perfect-sounding words can you compose, 
Wherein you might my sorrow's flame disclose? 
Can you frame maimed words, as you had throbbed? 
Can you with sighs, make signs of Passions sobbed? 
Or can your Characters, make Sorrow's shows? 
Can Liquids make them? I, with tears make those! 
But for my tears, with taunts and frumps am bobbed. 
Could Mutes procure good words, mute would I be! 
But then who should my Sorrow's Image paint? 
No Consonants, or Mutes, or Liquids will 
Set out my sorrows; though, with grief I faint. 
If with no letter, but one Vowel should be; 
An A, with H, my Sonnet would fulfill. 
<POEM> 
 <S.52.>
Methought, CALLIOPE did from heaven descend 
To sing, fair Mistress! thy sweet beauty's praise. 
Thy sweet enchanting voice did ORPHEUS raise; 
Who, with his harp (which down the gods did send) 
Celestial concord to the voice did lend. 
His music, all wild beasts so did amaze 
That they, submissive to thy looks did bend. 
Hills, trees, towns, bridges, from their places wend. 
Hopping and dancing. All the winds be still 
And listen; whiles the nightingales fulfill, 
With larks and thrushes, all defects of pleasure. 
Springs sang thy praises, in a murmur shrill. 
Whiles I, enraged with music, out of trance, 
Like BACCHUS' priest, did, in thy presence dance. 
<POEM> 
 <S.53.>
Why do I draw my breath, vain sighs to feed; 
Since all my sighs be breathed out in vain? 
Why be these eyes the conduits, whence proceed 
These ceaseless tears, which, for your sake! do rain? 
Why do I write my woes! and writing, grieve 
To think upon them, and their sweet contriver; 
Begging some comfort, which might me relieve, 
When the remembrance is my cares' reviver? 
Why do I sue to kiss; and kiss, to love; 
And love, to be tormented; not beloved? 
Can neither sighs, nor tears, my sorrows move 
By lines or words? nor will they be removed? 
Then tire not, Tyrant! but on mine heart tire! 
That unconsumed, I burn, in my Desire. 
<POEM> 
<S.54.> 
When I was young, indued with Nature's graces; 
I stole blind LOVE's strong bow and golden arrows, 
To shoot at redbreasts, goldfinches, and sparrows; 
At shrewd girls; and at boys, in other places. 
I shot, when I was vexed with disgraces. 
I pierced no skin, but melted up their marrows. 
How many boys and girls wished mine embraces! 
How many praised my favor, 'bove all faces! 
But, once, PARTHENOPHE! by thy sweet side sitting, 
LOVE had espied me, in a place most fitting: 
Betrayed by thine eyes' beams (which makes blind see) 
He shot at me; and said, "for thine eyes' light; 
This daring boy (that durst usurp my right) 
Take him! a wounded slave to LOVE and Thee!" 
<POEM> 
<S.55.>
Nymphs, which in beauty mortal creatures stain, 
And Satyrs, which none but fair Nymphs behold; 
They, to the Nymphs; and Nymphs to them, complain: 
And each, in spite, my Mistress' beauty told. 
Till soundly sleeping in a myrtle grove, 
A wanton Satyr had espied her there; 
Who deeming she was dead, in all haste strove 
To fetch the Nymphs; which in the forests were. 
They flocking fast, in triumph of her death, 
Lightly beheld: and, deeming she was dead, 
Nymphs sang, and Satyrs danced out of breath. 
Whilst Satyrs, with the Nymphs {La Voltas} led; 
My Mistress did awake! Then, they which came 
To scorn her beauty, ran away for shame! 
<POEM> 
<S.56.>
The Dial! love, which shows how my days spend. 
The leaden Plummets sliding to the ground! 
My thoughts, which to dark melancholy bend. 
The rolling Wheels, which turn swift hours round! 
Thine eyes, PARTHENOPHE! my Fancy's guide. 
The Watch, continually which keeps his stroke! 
By whose oft turning, every hour doth slide; 
Figure the sighs, which from my liver smoke, 
Whose oft invasions finish my life's date. 
The Watchman, which, each quarter, strikes the bell! 
Thy love, which doth each part exanimate; 
And in each quarter, strikes his forces fell. 
That Hammer and great Bell, which ends each hour! 
Death, my life's victor, sent by thy love's power. 
<POEM> 
<S.57.>
Thy beauty is the Sun, which guides my day, 
And with his beams, to my world's life gives light; 
With whose sweet favor, all my fancies play, 
And as birds singing, still enchant my sight. 
But when I seek to get my love's chief pleasure, 
Her frowns are like the night led by the Lamp 
Of PHOEBE's chaste desires; whilst, without leisure, 
Graces like Stars, through all her face encamp. 
Then all my Fancy's birds lie whisht, for fear; 
Soon as her frowns procure their shady sorrow: 
Saving mine heart, which secret shot doth bear, 
And nature from the nightingale doth borrow; 
Which from laments, because he will not rest, 
Hath love's thorn-prickle pointed at his breast. 
<POEM> 
<S.58.>
Fair CLYTIE doth flourish with the Spring; 
And, eftsoons, withered like thy golden Hair! 
And IO's violets grow flourishing, 
But soon defaced; which thine Eyes semblance bear! 
Anemone with hyacinth, Spring's pride, 
(Like to thy Beauty!) lose their lovely gloss: 
So will thy Cheeks, with graces beautified, 
Return to wrinkles, and to Nature's dross! 
Roses, as from thy lips, sweet odors send, 
Which herbs (in them whilst juice and virtues rest) 
From some diseases' rigor, life defend: 
These (as Thyself!) once withered, men detest! 
Then love betimes! These withered flowers of yore 
Revive! Thy beauty lost, returns no more! 
<POEM> 
<S.59.>
Ah me! sweet beauty lost, returns no more. 
And how I fear thine heart fraught with disdain! 
Despair of her disdain, casts doubt before; 
And makes me thus of mine heart's hope complain. 
Ah, me! nor mine heart's hope, nor help. Despair! 
Avoid my Fancy! Fancy's utter bane! 
My woes' chief worker! Cause of all my care! 
Avoid my thoughts! that Hope may me restore 
To mine heart's heaven, and happiness again! 
Ah, wilt thou not? but still depress my thought! 
Ah, Mistress! if thy beauty, this hath wrought, 
That proud disdainfulness shall in thee reign: 
Yet, think! when in thy forehead wrinkles be; 
Men will disdain thee, then, as thou dost me! 
<POEM>
<S.60.>
Whilst some, the Trojan wars in verse recount, 
And all the Grecian conquerors in fight; 
Some, valiant Roman wars 'bove stars do mount, 
With all their warlike leaders, men of might: 
Whilst some, of British ARTHUR's valor sing, 
And register the praise of CHARLEMAGNE; 
And some, of doughty GODFREY tidings bring, 
And some, the German broils, and wars of Spain: 
In none of those, myself I wounded find, 
Neither with horseman, nor with man on foot; 
But from a clear bright eye, one Captain blind 
(Whose puissance to resist, did nothing boot) 
With men in golden arms, and darts of gold, 
Wounded my heart, and all which did behold! 
<POEM> 
<S.61.>
To none but to PROMETHEUS, me compare! 
From sacred heaven, he stole that holy fire. 
I, from thine eyes, stole fire! My judgments are 
For to be bound, with chains of strong Desire, 
To that hard rock of thy thrice cruel heart! 
The ceaseless waves, which on the rocks do dash 
Yet never pierce, but forced, backward start; 
Those be these endless tears, my cheeks which wash! 
The vulture, which is, by my goddess' doom, 
Assigned to feed upon mine endless liver; 
Despair, by thee procured! which leaves no room 
For JOCULUS to jest with CUPID's quiver. 
This swallows worlds of livers, spending few; 
But not content -- O god! shall this be true? 
<POEM> 
<S.62.>
Fie! fie, fierce Tyrant! Quench this furious rage! 
O quench this rageous fury, little god! 
Nay, mighty god! my fury's heat assuage! 
Nor are thine, little darts, nor brittle rod! 
Ah, that you hadst a sweet re-curing dart! 
Or such a rod, as into health might whip me! 
With this, to level at my troubled heart; 
To warn with scourge, that no bright eye might trip me !" 
Vain words, which vanish with the clouds, why speak I! 
And bootless options, builded with void air! 
How oft, enraged in hopeless Passions, break I! 
How oft, in false vain hope, and black despair! 
How oft, left lifeless at thy cloudy frown! 
How oft, in Passion mounted, and plucked down! 
<POEM> 
<S.63.>
JOVE for EUROPA's love, took shape of Bull; 
And for CALISTO, played DIANA's part: 
And in a golden shower, he filled full 
The lap of DANAE, with celestial art. 
Would I were changed but to my Mistress' gloves, 
That those white lovely fingers I might hide! 
That I might kiss those hands, which mine heart loves! 
Or else that chain of pearl (her neck's vain pride) 
Made proud with her neck's veins, that I might fold 
About that lovely neck, and her paps tickle! 
Or her to compass, like a belt of gold! 
Or that sweet wine, which down her throat doth trickle, 
To kiss her lips, and lie next at her heart, 
Run through her veins, and pass by Pleasure's part! 
<POEM> 
<S.64.> 
If all the Loves were lost, and should be found; 
And all the Graces' glories were decayed: 
In thee, the Graces' ornaments abound! 
In me, the Loves, by thy sweet Graces laid! 
And if the Muses had their voice foregone; 
And VENUS' husband's forge had lost his fire: 
The Muses' voice should, by thy voice, be known! 
And VULCAN's heat be found in my Desire! 
I will accuse thee to the gods, of theft! 
For PALLAS' eye, and VENUS' rosy cheek, 
And PHOEBE's forehead; which thou hast bereft! 
Complain of me, to CUPID! Let him seek 
In vain, for me, each where, and in all parts 
For, 'gainst my will, I stole one of his darts. 
<POEM> 
<S.65.> 
O that I had no heart! as I have none. 
(For thou, mine heart's full spirit hast possessed!) 
Then should mine Argument be not of moan! 
Then under Love's yoke, should I not be pressed! 
O that without mine eyes I had been born! 
Then had I not my Mistress' beauty viewed! 
Then had I never been so far forlorn! 
Then had I never wept! Then, never rued! 
O that I never had been born at all! 
Or being, had been born of shepherds' brood! 
Then should I not in such mischances fall! 
Quiet, my water; and Content, my food! 
But now disquieted, and still tormented; 
With adverse fate, perforce, must rest contented! 
<POEM> 
<S.66.> 
Ah, sweet Content! where is thy mild abode? 
Is it with Shepherds, and light-hearted Swains, 
Which sing upon the downs, and pipe abroad, 
Tending their flocks and cattle on the plains? 
Ah, sweet Content! where dost thou safely rest? 
In heaven, with angels? which the praises sing 
Of Him that made, and rules at His behest, 
The minds and hearts of every living thing. 
Ah, sweet Content! where doth thine harbor hold? 
Is it in churches, with Religious Men, 
Which please the gods with prayers manifold; 
And in their studies meditate it then? 
Whether thou dost in heaven, or earth appear; 
Be where thou wilt! Thou will not harbor here! 
<POEM> 
<S.67.> 
If CUPID keep his quiver in thine eye, 
And shoot at over-daring gazers' hearts! 
Alas, why be not men afraid! and fly 
As from MEDUSA's, doubting after smarts? 
Ah, when he draws his string, none sees his bow! 
Nor hears his golden-feathered arrows sing! 
Ay me! till it be shot, no man doth know; 
Until his heart be pricked with the sting. 
Like semblance bears the musket in the field: 
It hits, and kills unseen! till unawares, 
To death, the wounded man his body yield. 
And thus a peasant, CAESAR's glory dares. 
This difference left 'twixt MARS his field, and LOVE's; 
That CUPID's soldier shot, more torture proves! 
<POEM> 
<S.68.> 
Would GOD (when I beheld thy beauteous face, 
And golden tresses rich with pearl and stone)! 
MEDUSA's visage had appeared in place, 
With snaky locks, looking on me alone! 
Then had her dreadful charming looks me changed 
Into a senseless stone. O, were I senseless! 
Then rage, through rash regard, had never ranged: 
Whereas to Love, I stood disarmed and fenceless. 
Yea, but that divers object of thy face 
In me contrarious operations wrought. 
A moving spirit pricked with Beauty's grace. 
No pity's grace in thee! which I have sought: 
Which makes me deem, thou didst MEDUSA see! 
And should thyself, a moving marble be. 
<POEM> 
<S.69.> 
The leafless branches of the lifeless boughs, 
Carve Winter's outrage in their withered barks: 
The withered wrinkles in my careful brows, 
Figure from whence they drew those crooked marks! 
Down from the Thracian mountains, oaks of might 
And lofty firs, into the valley fall: 
Sure sign where BOREAS hath usurped his right; 
And that, long there, no Sylvans dally shall. 
Fields, with prodigious inundations drowned; 
For NEPTUNE's rage, with AMPHITRITE weep. 
My looks and Passions likewise show my wound; 
And how some fair regard did strike it deep. 
These branches, blasted trees, and fields so wat'red; 
For wrinkles, sighs, and tears, foreshow thine hatred! 
<POEM> 
<S.70.> 
What can these wrinkles and vain tears portend, 
But thine hard favor, and indurate heart? 
What show these sighs, which from my soul I send, 
But endless smoke, raised from a fiery smart? 
Canst thou not pity my deep wounded breast? 
Canst thou not frame those eyes to cast a smile? 
Wilt thou, with no sweet sentence make me blest? 
To make amends, wilt thou not sport a while? 
Shall we not, once, with our opposed ey'n, 
In interchange, send golden darts rebated? 
With short reflexion, 'twixt thy brows and mine; 
Whilst love with thee, of my griefs hath debated? 
Those eyes of love were made for love to see! 
And cast regards on others, not on me! 
<POEM>
<S.71.> 
Those hairs of angels' gold, thy nature's treasure. 
(For thou, by Nature, angel-like art framed!) 
Those lovely brows, broad bridges of sweet pleasure, 
Arch two clear springs of Graces gracious named; 
There Graces infinite do bathe and sport! 
Under, on both sides, those two precious hills, 
Where PHOEB' and VENUS have a several fort. 
Her couch, with snowy lilies, PHOEBE fills, 
But VENUS, with red roses, hers adorneth; 
There, they, with silent tokens, do dispute 
Whilst PHOEBE, VENUS; VENUS, PHOEBE scorneth! 
And all the Graces, judgers there sit mute 
To give their verdict; till great JOVE said this, 
"DIANA's arrows wound not, like thy kiss!" 
<POEM> 
<S.72.> 
My Mistress' beauty matched with the Graces' 
'Twixt PHOEB' and JUNO should be judged there: 
Where She, with mask, had veiled the lovely places; 
And Graces, in like sort, i-masked were. 
But when their lovely beauties were disclosed; 
"This Nymph," quoth JUNO, "all the Graces passeth! 
For beauteous favors, in her face disposed, 
Love's goddess, in love's graces she surpasseth!" 
"She doth not pass the Graces!" PHOEBE said, 
"Though in her cheeks the Graces richly sit; 
For they be subjects to her beauty made. 
The glory for this fair Nymph is most fit! 
There, in her cheeks, the Graces blush for shame! 
That in her cheeks to strive, the subjects came." 
<POEM> 
<S.73.> 
Why did rich Nature, Graces grant to thee? 
Since Thou art such a niggard of thy grace! 
Or how can Graces in thy body be? 
Where neither they, nor pity find a place! 
Ah, they been Handmaids to thy Beauty's Fury! 
Making thy face to tyrannize on men. 
Condemned before thy Beauty, by Love's Jury; 
And by thy frowns, adjudged to Sorrow's Den: 
Grant me some grace! for Thou, with grace art wealthy; 
And kindly mayst afford some gracious thing. 
Mine hopes all, as my mind, weak and unhealthy; 
All her looks gracious, yet no grace do bring 
To me, poor wretch! Yet be the Graces there! 
But I, the Furies in my breast do bear! 
<POEM> 
<S.74.> 
Cease, over-tired Muses! to complain! 
In vain, thou pours out words! in vain, thy tears! 
In vain, thou writes thy verses! all in vain! 
For to the rocks and wall, which never hears, 
Thou speaks! and sends complaints, which find no grace! 
But why compare I thee to rocks, and walls? 
Yes, thou descends from stones and rocks, by race! 
But rocks will answer to the latter calls. 
Yea, rocks will speak each sentence's last word, 
And in each syllable of that word agree; 
But thou, nor last, nor first, wilt me afford! 
Hath Pride, or Nature, bred this fault in thee? 
Nature and Pride have wrought in thee these evils: 
For women are by Nature, proud as devils! 
<POEM> 
<S.75.> 
Love is a name too lovely for the god! 
He naked goes, red colored in his skin, 
And bare, all as a boy fit for a rod. 
Hence into Afric! There, seek out thy kin 
Amongst the Moors! and swarthy men of Ind! 
Me, thou, of joys and sweet content hast hindered! 
Hast thou consumed me! and art of my kind? 
Hast thou enraged me! yet art of my kindred? 
Nay, Ismarus, or Rhodope thy father! 
Or craggy Caucasus, thy crabbed sire! 
Vesuvius, else? or was it Etna rather? 
For thou, how many dost consume with fire! 
Fierce tigers, wolves, and panthers gave thee suck! 
For lovely VENUS had not such evil luck! 
<POEM> 
<S.76.> 
Be blind, mine Eyes! which saw that stormy frown. 
Wither, long-watering Lips! which may not kiss. 
Pine, Arms! which wished-for sweet embraces miss. 
And upright parts of pleasure! fall you down. 
Waste, wanton tender Thighs! Consume for this; 
To her thigh-elms, that you were not made vines! 
And my long pleasure in her body grafted. 
But, at my pleasure, her sweet thoughts repines. 
Mine heart, with her fair colors, should be wafted 
Throughout this ocean of my deep despair: 
Why do I longer live? but me prepare 
My life, together with my joys, to finish! 
And, long ere this, had I died, with my care; 
But hope of joys to come, did all diminish. 
<POEM> 
<S.77.> 
How can I live in mind's or body's health, 
When all four Elements, my griefs conspire? 
Of all heart's joys depriving me, by stealth, 
All yielding poisons to my long Desire. 
The Fire, with heat's extremes mine heart enraging, 
Water, in tears, from Despair's fountain flowing. 
My soul in sighs, Air to Love's soul engaging. 
My Fancy's coals, Earth's melancholy blowing. 
Thus these, by Nature, made for my relief; 
Through that bold charge of thine imperious eye! 
Turn all their graces into bitter grief. 
And I were dead, should any of them die! 
And they, my body's substance, all be sick; 
It follows, then, I cannot long be quick! 
<POEM> 
<S.78.> 
The proudest Planet in his highest sphere, 
Saturn, enthronest in thy frowning brows! 
Next aweful Jove, thy majesty doth bear! 
And unto dreadful Mars, thy courage bows! 
Drawn from thy noble grandfathers of might. 
Amongst the laurel-crowned Poets sweet, 
And sweet Musicians, take the place by right! 
For Phoebus, with thy graces thought it meet. 
Venus doth sit upon thy lips, and chin! 
And Hermes hath enriched thy wits divine! 
Phoebe with chaste desires, thine heart did win! 
The Planets thus to thee, their powers resign! 
Whom Planets honor thus, is any such? 
My Muse, then, cannot honor her too much! 
<POEM> 
<S.79.> 
Covetous Eyes! What did you late behold? 
My Rival graced with a sun-bright smile! 
Where he, with secret signs, was sweetly told 
Her thoughts; with winks, which all men might beguile! 
Audacious, did I see him kiss that hand 
Which holds the reins of mine unbridled heart! 
And, softly wringing it, did closely stand 
Courting with love terms, and in lover's art! 
Next (with his fingers kissed) he touched her middle! 
Then saucy, (with presumption uncontrolled) 
To hers, from his eyes, sent regards by riddle! 
At length, he kissed her cheek! Ah me! so bold! 
To bandy with bel-guards in interchange. 
Blind mine eyes, Envy! that they may not range! 
<POEM> 
<S.80.> 
Long-wished for Death! sent by my Mistress' doom; 
Hold! Take thy prisoner, full resolved to die! 
But first as chief, and in the highest room, 
My Soul, to heaven I do bequeath on high; 
Now ready to be severed from Thy love! 
My Sighs, to air! to crystal springs, my Tears! 
My sad Complaints (which Thee could never move!) 
To mountains desolate and deaf! My Fears, 
To lambs beset with lions! My Despair, 
To night, and irksome dungeons full of dread! 
Then shalt Thou find (when I am past this care) 
My torments, which thy cruelties have bred, 
In heavens, clouds, springs, hard mountains, lambs, and night: 
Here, once united; then, dissevered quite. 
<POEM> 
<S.81.> 
O kingly Jealousy! which canst admit 
No thought of compeers in thine high Desire! 
Love's bastard daughter, for true-loves unfit, 
Scalding men's hearts with force of secret fire! 
Thou poisoned Canker of much-beauteous Love! 
Fostered of Envy's paps, with wrathful rage! 
Thou (which dost still thine own destruction move) 
With eagle's eyes, which secret watch doth wage! 
With peacock's feet, to steal in unawares! 
With PROGNE's wings, to false suspect which flies! 
Which virtues hold in durance, rashly dares! 
Provoker and maintainer of vain lies! 
Who, with rich virtues and fair love possessed, 
Causeless! hast All, to thine heart's hell addressed! 
<POEM> 
<S.82.> 
The Chariot, with the Steed is drawn along. 
Ships, winged with Winds, swift hover on the waves. 
The stubborn Ploughs are hauled with Oxen strong. 
Hard Adamant, the strongest Iron craves. 
But I am with thy beauty strongly forced; 
Which, full of courage, draws me like the Steed. 
Those Winds, thy spirit; whence cannot be divorced. 
Mine heart the Ship, from danger never freed. 
That strong conceit on thy sweet beauty lade; 
The strong-necked Ox which draws my Fancy's Plow, 
Thine heart that Adamant, whose force hath made 
My strong desires stand subject unto you! 
Would I were Horse, Ox, Adamant, or Wind! 
Then had I never cared for Womankind. 
<POEM> 
<S.83.> 
Dark Night! Black Image of my foul Despair! 
With grievous fancies, cease to vex my soul! 
With pain, sore smart, hot fires, cold fears, long care! 
(Too much, alas, this ceaseless stone to roll). 
My days be spent in penning thy sweet praises! 
In pleading to thy beauty, never matched! 
In looking on thy face! whose sight amazes 
My Sense; and thus my long days be dispatched. 
But Night (forth from the misty region rising), 
Fancies, with Fear, and sad Despair, doth send! 
Mine heart, with horror, and vain thoughts agrising. 
And thus the fearful tedious nights I spend! 
Wishing the noon, to me were silent night; 
And shades nocturnal, turned to daylight. 
<POEM> 
<S.84.> 
My sweet PARTHENOPHE! within thy face, 
My Passions' Calendar may plain be read! 
The Golden Number told upon thine head! 
The Sun days (which in card, I holy place, 
And which divinely bless me with their grace) 
Thy cheerful Smiles, which can recall the dead! 
My Working days, thy Frowns, from favors fled! 
Which set a work the furies in my breast. 
These days are six to one more than the rest. 
My Leap Year is (O when is that Leap Year?) 
When all my cares I overleap, and feast 
With her, fruition! whom I hold most dear. 
And if some Calendars, the truth tell me; 
Once in few years, that happy Leap shall be! 
<POEM> 
<S.85.> 
From East's bed rosy, whence AURORA riseth; 
Be thy cheeks figured, which their beams display 
In smiles! whose sight mine heart with joy surpriseth; 
And which my Fancy's flowers do fair array, 
Cheered with the gracious dews of her regard. 
The West, whence evening comes; her frowning brow, 
Where Discontentment ploughs his furrows hard! 
(There doth She bury her affections now!) 
The North, whence storms with mists and frosts proceed; 
My black Despair! long Sorrows! and cold Fear! 
The South, whence showers, in great abundance breed, 
And where hot sun doth to meridian rear; 
Mine Eyes, whose objects nought but tears require! 
And my soft Heart, consumed with rage of fire! 
<POEM> 
<S.86.> 
O fiery Rage! when wilt thou be consumed? 
Thou, that hast me consumed, in such sort 
As never was, poor wretch! (which so presumed) 
But for surveying of that beauteous Fort! 
Kept in continual durance, and enchained 
With hot desires, which have my body pined; 
My mind, from pleasures and content restrained; 
My thoughts, to Care, and Sorrow's Ward assigned: 
There, with continual melancholy placed, 
In dismal horror, and continual fear, 
I pass these irksome hours! scorned and disgraced 
Of her; whose cruelty no breast can bear! 
No thought endure! no torture can outmatch! 
Then burn on, Rage of Fire! but me dispatch! 
<POEM> 
<S.87.> 
Burn on, sweet Fire! For I live by that fuel, 
Whose smoke is as an incense to my soul! 
Each sigh prolongs my smart. Be fierce and cruel, 
My fair PARTHENOPHE! Frown and control! 
Vex! torture! scald! disgrace me! Do thy will! 
Stop up thine ears! With flint, immure thine heart! 
And kill me with thy looks, if they would kill! 
Thine eyes (those crystal phials which impart 
The perfect balm to my dead-wounded breast!) 
Thine eyes, the quivers, whence those darts were drawn, 
Which me, to thy love's bondage have addressed. 
Thy smile, and frown! night star, and daylight's dawn! 
Burn on! Frown on! Vex! Stop thine ears! Torment me! 
More, for thy beauty borne! would not repent me. 
<POEM> 
<S.88.> 
Within thine eyes, mine heart takes all his rest! 
In which, still sleeping, all my sense is drowned. 
The dreams, with which my senses are oppressed, 
Be thousand lovely fancies turning round 
The restless wheel of my much busy brain. 
The morning; which from resting doth awake me. 
Thy beauty! banished from my sight again, 
When I to long melancholy betake me. 
Then full of errors, all my dreams I find! 
And in their kinds contrarious, till the day 
(Which is her beauty) set on work my mind; 
Which never will cease labor! never stay! 
And thus my pleasures are but dreams with me; 
Whilst mine hot fevers, pains quotidian be. 
<POEM>
<S.89.> 
What be those hairs dyed like the marigold? Gold! 
What is that brow, whose frowns make any moan? Anemone! 
What were her eyes, when the great lords controlled? Rolled! 
What be they, when from them, be loves thrown? LOVE's throne! 
What were her cheeks (when blushes rose) like? Rose-like! 
What are those lips, which 'bove pearls' rew be? Ruby! 
Her ivory shoulders, what be those like? Those like! 
What saints are like her? speak, if you be! Few be! 
Thou dwell'st in rocks, hart-like! somewhat then? What then? 
And rocks dwell in her heart! is 'tis true? Tis true! 
Whom she loves best? know this, cannot men! Not men! 
Pass him, she loathes! Then I dismiss you! Miss you! 
What sex to whom, men sue so vain much? Vain much! 
Furies there fires, and I complain such? Plain such! 
<POEM> 
<S.90.> 
My Mistress' Arms, are these; fair, clear, and bright. 
Argent in midst, where is an Ogress set, 
Within an azure ann'let, placed right. 
The Crest, two golden bows, almost near met: 
And by this Crest, her power abroad is known. 
These Arms, She beareth in the Field of Love, 
By bloody colors, where LOVE's wrath is shown: 
But in kind Passion, milder than the dove, 
Her goodly silver ensign, She displays, 
{Semi de roses}: at whose lovely sight, 
All lovers are subdued; and vanquished, praise 
Those glorious colors, under which they fight. 
I, by these Arms, her captive thrall was made! 
And to those Colors, in that Field, betrayed! 
<POEM> 
<S.91.> 
These bitter gusts, which vex my troubled seas, 
And move with force, my sorrow's floods to flow; 
My Fancy's ship tost here and there by these, 
Still floats in danger, ranging to and fro. 
How fears my Thoughts' swift pinnace, thine hard rock! 
Thine heart's hard rock, least thou mine Heart (his pilot) 
Together with himself, should rashly knock 
And being quite dead-stricken, then should cry late, 
"Ah me!" too late to thy remorseless self. 
Now when thy mercies all been banished, 
And blown upon thine hard rock's ruthless shelf; 
My soul in sighs is spent and vanished. 
Be pitiful, alas! and take remorse! 
Thy beauty too much practiseth his force! 
<POEM> 
<S.92.> 
Wilt thou know wonders, by thy beauty wrought? 
Behold (not seen) an endless burning fire 
Of Fancy's fuel! kindled with a thought! 
Without a flame, yet still inflamed higher! 
No flames' appearance, yet continual smoke! 
Drawn cool, to kindle; breathed out hot again! 
Two diamonds, which this secret fire provoke; 
Making two crystals, with their heat, to rain! 
A skin, where beauteous Graces rest at ease! 
A tongue, whose sweetness 'mazes all the Muses! 
And yet, an heart of marble matched with these! 
A tongue, besides, which sweet replies refuses! 
These wonders, by thy beauty wrought alone, 
Through thy proud eye, which made thine heart a stone. 
<POEM> 
<S.93.> 
Begs LOVE! which whilom was a deity? 
I list no such proud beggars at my gate! 
For alms, he, 'mongst cold Arctic folk doth wait; 
And sunburnt Moors, in contrariety: 
Yet sweats, nor freezes more! Then is it piety 
To be remorseful at his bare estate! 
His reach, he racketh at an higher rate. 
He joins with proudest in society! 
His eyes are blind, forsooth! and men must pity 
A naked poor boy, which doth no man harm! 
He is not blind! Such beggar boys be witty! 
For he marks, hits, and wounds hearts with his arm; 
Nor coldest North can stop his naked race; 
For where he comes, he warmeth every place! 
<POEM> 
<S.94.> 
Forth from mine eyes, with full-tide, flows a river; 
And in thine eyes, two sparkling chrysolites. 
Mine eyes, still covet to behold those lights. 
Thine eye, still filled with arrows, is LOVE's Quiver! 
Through mine eye, thine eyes' fire inflames my liver. 
Mine eyes, in heart, thine eyes' clear fancies write; 
Thus is thine eye to me, my fancies giver! 
Which from thine eyes, to mine eyes take their flight. 
Then pierce the secret centre of my heart; 
And feed my fancies with inflamed fuel! 
This only grieves! Mine eyes had not that art 
Thine to transpierce: thy nature was so cruel! 
But eyes and fancies, in this, triumph make; 
That they were blind and raging, for her sake! 
<POEM> 
<S.95.> 
Thou bright beam-spreading LOVE's thrice happy Star! 
Th' Arcadian Shepherd's ASTROPHEL's clear guide! 
Thou that, on swift-winged Pegasus, dost ride, 
AURORA's harbinger! Surpassing, far! 
AURORA carried in her rosy car. 
Bright Planet! Teller of clear evening-tide! 
Star of all stars! Fair favored night's chief pride! 
Which day, from night; and night, from day dost bar! 
Thou that hast worlds of hearts, with thine eye's glance, 
To thy love's pleasing bondage, taken thrall! 
Behold (where Graces, in love's circles dance!) 
Of two clear stars, out-sparkling Planets all! 
For stars, her beauty's arrow-bearers be! 
Then be the subjects; and superior, She! 
<POEM> 
<S.96.> 
The Sun in Pisces; Venus did intend 
To see sick FLORA; whose soil (since by Kind 
TITAN to th' Antipodes, his beams resigned) 
No pleasant flowers, to welcome her did send. 
To whom, for need, PARTHENOPHE did lend 
At Nature's suit, rich Heliochrise, which shined 
In her fair hair; white lilies which combined 
With her high-smoothed brows, which bent, love bend. 
Violets from eyes, sweet blushing eglantine 
From her clear cheeks, and from her lips, sweet roses. 
Thus VENUS' Paradise was made divine 
Which such, as Nature in my Lady closes. 
Then, since with her, LOVE's Queen was glorified! 
Why was not my sweet Lady deified? 
<POEM> 
<S.97.> 
O why should Envy, with sweet LOVE consort? 
But that, with Love's excess, Seven Sins unite! 
Pride, that, in high respect of my delight, 
I scorn all others! Lust, that with disport 
In thought of her, I sometimes take comfort! 
Wrath, that, with those, in secret heart I fight, 
Which smile on her! and Envy, that, I spite 
Such meats and wines, as to her lips resort 
And touch that tongue, which I can never kiss! 
Sloth, that, secure in too much love, I sleep; 
And nuzzled so, am to be freed remiss! 
And Covetous, I never mean can keep 
In craving, wishing, and in working this; 
Though still I kiss and touch, still touch and kiss! 
<POEM> 
<S.98.> 
The Sun, my Lady's Beauty represents! 
Whose fiery-pointed beams each creature heats: 
Such force her grace, on whom it counterbeats, 
Doth practice; which the patient still torments. 
And to her virtues, the bright Moon assents; 
With whose pure Chastity, my love she threats! 
Whose thought itself in her cool circle seats. 
And as the Moon, her bright habiliments, 
Of her bright brother PHOEBUS, borroweth; 
So from her beauty, doth her chaste desire, 
His brightness draw. For which, none dare aspire 
To tempt so rare a beauty. Yet forgive! 
He that, for thy sake! so long sorroweth, 
Cannot but longer love, if longer live! 
<POEM> 
<S.99.> 
This careful head, with divers thoughts distressed, 
My Fancy's Chronicler! my Sorrow's nurse! 
These watchful eyes, whose heedless aim I curse, 
Love's Sentinels! and Fountains of Unrest! 
This tongue still trembling, Herald fit addressed 
To my Love's grief! (than any torment worse!) 
This heart, true Fortress of my spotless love, 
And rageous Furnace of my long desire! 
Of these, by Nature, am I not possessed 
(Though Nature, their first means in me did move) 
But thou, dear Sweet! with thy love's holy fire 
Mine head, Grief's Anvil made! with cares oppressed; 
Mine eyes, a Spring! my tongue, a Leaf wind-shaken! 
Mine heart, a wasteful Wilderness forsaken! 
<POEM> 
<S.100.> 
Pleading for pity to my Mistress' eyes; 
Urging on duty favors as deserts; 
Complaining mine hid flames, and secret smarts: 
She, with disdainful grace, in jest, replies, 
"Her eyes were never made man's enemies!" 
Then me with my conceit she overthwarts, 
Urging my Fancy (which vain thoughts imparts) 
To be the causer of mine injuries, 
Saying, "I am not vexed, as I complained! 
How Melancholy bred this light conceit!" 
Hard-hearted Mistress! Canst thou think I feigned? 
That I, with fancies vain, vain woes repeat? 
Ah, no! For though thine eyes none else offend; 
Yet by thine Eyes and "Noes!" my woes want end! 
<POEM> 
<S.101.> 
Had I been banished from the native soil, 
Where, with my life, I first received light! 
For my first cradles, had my tomb been digt! 
Or changed my pleasure for a ceaseless toil! 
Had I for nurse, been left to lion's spoil! 
Had I for freedom, dwelt in shady night, 
Cooped up in loathsome dungeons from men's sight! 
Those first desires, which in my breast did boil, 
From which, thy loves (Unkind!) thou banished! 
Had not been such an exile to my bliss. 
If life, with my love's infancy, were vanished; 
It had not been so sore a death as this, 
If lionesses were, instead of nurses; 
Or night, for day! Thine hate deserves more curses! 
<POEM> 
<S.102.>
Vain gallants! whose much longing spirits tickle; 
Whose brains swell with abundance of much wit, 
And would be touched fain with an amorous fit: 
O lend your eyes, and bend your fancies fickle! 
You, whom Affection's dart did never prickle! 
You, which hold lovers, fools; and argue it! 
Gaze on my Sun! and if tears do not trickle 
From your much mastered eyes (where Fancies sit): 
Then, Eagles! will I term you, for your eyes; 
But Bears! or Tigers! for your savage hearts! 
But, if it chance, such fountains should arise, 
And you made like partakers of my smarts; 
Her, for her piercing eyes, an Eagle, name! 
But for her heart, a Tiger, never tame! 
<POEM> 
<S.103.>
I slept, when (underneath a laurel shade, 
My face upreared aloft unto the heaven) 
Methought I heard this spoken in a sweaven, 
"Nature, on earth, Love's miracle hath made!" 
With this, methought, upon a bank was laid 
An earthly body which was framed in heaven, 
To whom, such graces (by the Graces given) 
Sweet music in their several organs played. 
In chief, the silent music of her eye 
Softly recorded, with heaven's harmony, 
Drew down URANIA from celestial sphere; 
Who mazed, at mazy turning of her ey'n, 
(To make Divine perfection) glazed there 
Those eyes, with clearest substance crystalline. 
<POEM> 
<S.104.> 
Hold! matchless Mirror of all Womankind! 
These Pens and Sonnets, servants of thy praise! 
Placed in a world of graces, which amaze 
All young beholders, through Desire blind. 
Thou, to whom conquered CUPID hath resigned 
His bows and darts, during thy sunny days! 
Through thine eyes' force enfeebled by the rays 
Which wonderers, to their cost, in thine eyes find! 
That there, with beauty's excellence unable, 
To write, or bear, my pens, and books refuse; 
Thine endless graces are so amiable! 
Passing the spirit of mine humble Muse. 
So that the more I write, more graces rise! 
Which mine astonished Muse cannot comprise. 
<POEM> 
<S.105.> 
Ah me! How many ways have I assayed, 
To win my Mistress to my ceaseless suit! 
What endless means and prayers have I made 
To thy fair graces! ever deaf and mute. 
At thy long absence, like an errant page, 
With sighs and tears, long journeys did I make 
Through paths unknown, in tedious pilgrimage; 
And never slept, but always did awake. 
And having found Thee ruthless and unkind; 
Soft skinned, hard-hearted; sweet looks, void of pity; 
Ten thousand furies raged in my mind, 
Changing the tenor of my lovely Ditty; 
By whose enchanting Saws and magic Spell, 
Thine hard, indurate heart, I must compel. 
<POEM> 
<M.1.> 
O powers Celestial! with what sophistry 
Took She delight, to blank my heart by sorrow! 
And in such riddles, act my tragedy: 
Making this day, for him; for me, tomorrow! 
Where shall I Sonnets borrow? 
Where shall I find breasts, sides, and tongue, 
Which my great wrongs might to the world dispense? 
Where my defense? 
My physic, where? For how can I live long, 
That have foregone mine Heart? I'll steal from hence, 
From restless souls, mine hymns! from seas, my tears! 
From winds, my sighs! from concave rocks and steel 
My sides and voice's echo! reeds which feel 
Calm blasts still-moving, which the shepherd bears 
For wailful plaints, my tongue shall be! 
The land unknown to rest and comfort me. 
<POEM> 
<M.2.> 
Might not this be for man's more certainty, 
By Nature's laws enacted, 
That those which do true meaning falsify, 
Making such bargains as were precontracted, 
Should forfeit freelege of love's tenancy 
To th' plaintiff grieved, if he exact it. 
Think on my love, thy faith! yet hast thou cracked it. 
Nor Nature, Reason, Love, nor Faith can make thee 
To pity me! My prisoned heart to pity, 
Sighs, no fit incense, nor my plaints can wake thee! 
Thy nose, from savor, and thine ears, from sound 
Stopped and obdurate, nought could shake thee! 
Think on, when thou such pleasure found 
To read my lines! and reading, term them witty! 
Whiles lines, for love; and brains, for beauty witless; 
I for Thee, fever-scorched ; yet Thou still fitless! 
<POEM> 
<M.3.> 
Once in an arbor was my Mistress sleeping, 
With rose and woodbine woven, 
Whose person, thousand graces had in keeping, 
Where for mine heart, her heart's hard flint was cloven 
To keep him safe. Behind, stood, pertly peeping, 
Poor CUPID, softly creeping, 
And drave small birds out of the myrtle bushes, 
Scared with his arrows, who sat cheeping 
On every sprig; whom CUPID calls and hushes 
From branch to branch: whiles I, poor soul! sat weeping 
To see her breathe (not knowing) 
Incense into the clouds, and bless with breath 
The winds and air; whiles CUPID, underneath, 
With birds, with songs, nor any posies throwing, 
Could her awake. 
Each noise, sweet lullaby was, for her sake! 
<POEM> 
<M.4.> 
There, had my ZEUXIS place and time, to draw 
My Mistress' portrait; which, on platane table, 
(With Nature, matching colors), as he saw 
Her leaning on her elbow; though not able, 
He 'gan with vermil, gold, white, and sable 
To shadow forth; and with a skillful knuckle 
 Lively set out my fortunes' fable. 
 On lips, a rose; on hand, an honeysuckle. 
 For Nature framed that arbor, in such orders 
That roses did with woodbines buckle; 
Whose shadow trembling on her lovely face, 
He left unshadowed. There Art lost his grace! 
And that white lily leaf, with fringed borders 
Of angels' gold, veiled the skies 
Of mine heaven's hierarchy, which closed her eyes. 
<POEM> 
<M.5.> 
Such strange effects wrought by thought-wounding CUPID, 
In changing me to fish, his baits to swallow; 
With poison choking me, unless that you bid 
Him to my stomach give some antidote! 
Fly, little god, with wings of swallow! 
Or if thy feathers fast float, 
That antidote from mine heart's Empress bring! 
My feeble senses to revive: 
Lest (if thou wave it with an eagle's wing) 
Too late thou come, and find me not alive! 
<POEM> 
<M.6.> 
O why loved I? For love, to purchase hatred! 
Or wherefore hates She? but that I should love her! 
Why were these cheeks with tears bewatered! 
Because my tears might quench those sparks 
Which with heat's pity move her! 
Her cloudy frown, with mist her beauty darks, 
To make it seem obscured at my smiles. 
In dark, true diamonds will shine! 
Her hate, my love; her heat, my tears beguiles! 
Fear makes her doubtful; yet her heart is mine! 
<POEM> 
<M.7.> 
Youth's wanton Spring, when in the raging Bull 
My sun was lodged, gave store of flowers, 
With leaves of pleasure, stalks of hours; 
Which soon shaked off the leaves, when they were full 
Of pleasures, beauty dewed, with April showers. 
My Summer love, whose buds were beautiful, 
Youthful desires, with heats unmerciful, 
Parched; whose seeds, when harvest time was come, 
Were cares, against my suits obdurate. 
With sheaves of scorn bound up, which did benumb 
Mine heart with grief; yet made her heart indurate. 
O chaste desires, which held her heart immurate 
In walls of adamant unfoiled! 
My Winter spent in showers of sorrow's tears! 
Hailstones of hatred! frosts of fears! 
My branches bared of pleasure, and despoiled! 
<POEM> 
<M.8.> 
Why am I thus in mind and body wounded? 
O mind, and body mortal, and divine! 
On what sure rock is your fort grounded? 
On death? Ah, no! For at it, you repine! 
Nay, both entombed in her beauty's shrine 
Will live, though shadow-like; that men astounded 
At their anatomies, when they shall view it, 
May pitiful rue it. 
Yea, but her murdering beauty doth so shine, 
(O yet much merciless!) 
That heart desires to live with her, which slew it! 
And though She still rest pitiless, 
Yet, at her beauty, will I wonder! 
Though sweet graces (past repeat) 
Never appear, but when they threat; 
Firing my secret heart, with dart and thunder. 
<POEM> 
<M.9.> 
For glory, pleasure, and fair flourishing; 
Sweet singing, courtly dancing, curious love, 
A rich remembrance; virtue's nourishing; 
For sacred care of heavenly things; 
For voice's sweetness, music's notes above, 
When she divinely speaks or sings: 
CLIO, dismount! EUTERPE, silent be! 
THALIA, for thy purple, put on sackcloth! 
Sing hoarse, MELPOMENE! with JOVE's Harpies three! 
TERPSICHORE, break off thy galliard dances! 
Leave, ERATO, thy dalliance! court in black cloth! 
Thy praises, POLYHYMNIA! She enhances. 
For heavenly zeal, URANIA, She outreacheth. 
Plead not, CALLIOPE! Sing not to thy lute! 
JOVE and MNEMOSINE, both, be mute! 
Whilst my PARTHENOPHE, your daughters teacheth. 
<POEM> 
 <M.10.> 
Thou scaled my fort, blind Captain of Conceit! 
But you, sweet Mistress! entered at the breach! 
There, you made havoc of my heart! 
There, you to triumph, did my tyrant teach! 
Beware! He knows to win you by deceit! 
Those ivory Walls cannot endure his dart! 
That Turret, framed with heaven's rare art, 
Immured with whitest porphyry, and inset 
With roses, checking Nature's pride of ruby! 
Those two true diamonds which their Windows fret, 
Arched with pure gold, yet mourn in sable shade! 
Warn not these, that in danger you be! 
Vanquish her, little tyrant! I will true be! 
And though She will not yield to me; 
Yet none could thrall my heart, but She! 
<POEM>
<M.11.> 
Thine Eyes, mine heaven! (which harbor lovely rest, 
And with their beams all creatures cheer) 
Stole from mine eyes their clear; 
And made mine eyes dim mirrolds of unrest. 
And from her lily Forehead, smooth and plain, 
My front, his withered furrows took; 
And through her grace, his grace forsook. 
From soft Cheeks, rosy red, 
My cheeks their leanness, and this pallid stain. 
The Golden Pen of Nature's book, 
(For her Tongue, that task undertook!) 
Which to the Graces' Secretory led, 
And sweetest Muses, with sweet music fed, 
Enforced my Muse, in tragic tunes to sing: 
But from her heart's hard frozen string, 
Mine heart his tenderness and heat possessed. 
<POEM> 
<M.12.> 
Like to the Mountains, are mine high desires; 
Level to thy love's highest point: 
Grounded on faith, which thy sweet grace requires. 
For Springs, tears rise in endless source. 
For Summer's flowers, Love's fancies I appoint. 
The Trees, with storms tossed out of course, 
Figure my thoughts, still blasted with Despair. 
Thunder, lightning, and hail 
Make his trees mourn: thy frowns make me bewail! 
This only difference! Here, fire; there, snows are! 
<POEM> 
<M.13.> 
Soft, lovely, rose-like lips, conjoined with mine! 
Breathing out precious incense such! 
(Such as, at Paphos, smoke to VENUS' shrine) 
Making my lips immortal, with their touch! 
My cheeks, with touch of thy soft cheeks divine; 
Thy soft warm cheeks, which VENUS favor much! 
Those arms, such arms! which me embraced, 
Me, with immortal cincture girding round 
Of everlasting bliss! then bound 
With her enfolded thighs in mine entangled; 
And both in one self-soul placed, 
Made an hermaphrodite, with pleasures ravished! 
There, heat for heat's, soul for soul's empire wrangled! 
Why died not I, with love so largely lavished? 
For 'wake (not finding truth of dreams before) 
It secret vexeth ten times more! 
<POEM> 
<M.14.> 
Ah, ten times worse tormented than before! 
Ten times more pity shouldst thou take of me! 
I have endured; then, Sweet! restore 
That pleasure, which procured this pain! 
Thou scorn'st my lines! (a Saint, which make of thee!) 
Where true desires of thine hard heart complain, 
There thou, 'bove STELLA placed; 
'Bove LAURA; with ten thousand more installed: 
And now, proud, thinks me graced, 
That am to thee (though merciless!) enthralled. 
<POEM> 
<M.15.> 
Nature's pride, Love's pearl, Virtue's perfection, 
In sweetness, beauty, grace, 
Of body, face, affection 
Hath glory, brightness, place 
In rosy cheeks, clear eyes, and heavenly mind ; 
All which, with wonder, honor, praise, take race 
To charm, to shine, to fly, with Fame's protection. 
Mine heart the first, mine eyes next, third my thought 
Did wound, did blind, did bind; 
Which grieved, obscured, and wrought 
Heart, eyes, and senses with such imperfection, 
That in their former comfort, sight, and kind 
They moved, gazed, and sought, 
Yet found not, in what order, sort, and case 
Of tears, plaints, sighs, with seas, with murmur, wind 
To find, to get, t' embrace 
Nature's pride, Love's pearl, Virtue's perfection. 
<POEM> 
<M.16.> 
Sleep PHOEBUS still, in glaucy THETIS' lap! 
JOVE's eagle's piercing eyes, be blind. 
Soft things whose touch is tickle to the mind, 
Give no like touch, all joys in one to wrap. 
All instruments, all birds and voices 
Make no such heavenly music in their kind. 
No fruits have such sweet sap, 
No root such juices, 
No balm so much rejoices. 
O breath, exceeding every rich perfume! 
For love, all pleasures in a Kiss did lap. 
Her eyes did give bright glances. 
Sight is no sight, all light with that consume. 
She touched my cheek! at which touch, mine heart dances. 
Mine eyes, in privy combat, did presume, 
Charging mine hands, to charge her middle; 
Whilst they threw wounding darts, and healing lances. 
She kissed and spoke, at once, a riddle, 
But such sweet meaning in dark sense, 
As showed the drift of her dear sweet pretense, 
More pleasing than the chord of harp or lute. 
On heavenly cherries then I feed, 
Whose sap deliciouser than angels' food, 
Whose breath more sweet than gum, herb, flower, or bood. 
O kiss! which did all sense exceed! 
No man can speak those joys! Then, Muse, be mute! 
But say! for sight, smell, hearing, taste, and touch; 
In any one thing, was there ever such? 
<POEM> 
<M.17.> 
Envious air, all Nature's public nurse, 
Lend to my life, no spirit! 
Not that I prosper worse 
Than erst of yore; for I, the state inherit, 
Which gods in Paradise, 'bove man demerit: 
But for I highly scorn 
Thy common vapor should 
With her sweet breath immix! I cannot bear it! 
Cold air's infusion cannot be foreborn; 
O kiss! O soul, which could 
All wailings have outworn! 
Angel of Bliss! which cheers me night and morn! 
Sweet Cloud! which now, with my soul dost enfold! 
Salve to my Soul! once sick. 
Let men in Inde iborn 
Cease boasting of rich drugs, and sweet perfume! 
Egyptian gums, and odors Arabic, 
I loath! and wood, dear sold, 
From myrrh and cypress torn! 
Tarry, sweet kiss! Do not in clouds consume! 
Yet can I feel thy spirit moving quick. 
O why should air presume 
To be her spirit's rival? 
What do I speak? Nor am I lunatic! 
I cannot live; else would I not assume 
Cold air, to contrive all 
My sorrows, with immixion. 
Then die! whilst this sweet spirit thee doth prick! 
Whilst thy sweet comfort's kisses are alive all! 
And love's sweet jurisdiction 
Will make thee die possessed 
Of all heaven's joys; which, for most comfort, strive all! 
Lest Death, to Pleasure should give interdiction, 
Ah let my lips be pressed! 
And, with continual kisses, 
Pour everlasting spirit to my life. 
So, shall I always live! so, still be blessed! 
Kiss still! and make no misses! 
Double! redouble kisses! 
Murmur affections! War in pleasing strife 
Press lips! Lips, rest oppressed! 
This Passion is no fiction. 
<POEM> 
<M.18.> 
After AURORA's blush, the sun arose 
And spread his beams! 
With whose clear gleams 
My prickless rosebud veiled his purple leaves! 
In whose sweet folds, Morning did pearls enclose, 
Where sun his beams, in orb-like circle weaves, 
And then t' enrich, stole those 
Nature's beauty, PHOEBUS' virtue, Love's incense; 
Whose favor, sap, and savor, my sense 'reaves. 
My Muse had these for themes: 
They, to my Muse; my Muse, to them, defense. 
PHOEBUS, sometimes, LOVE's Oracles sends thence. 
Thus by my sun, a rose, 
(Though a sweet rose prickless!) 
Prickles arose; dear prickle! 
Which me diseaseth much, though I be sickless. 
Nought me of joy bereaves; 
Save favor, sap, and savor, all be fickle. 
Blush not for shame that thy sun spreads his beams! 
My soul in sunder cleaves! 
After AURORA's blush, the sun arose! 
<POEM> 
<M.19.> 
Thy love's conceits are wound about mine heart! 
Thy love itself within mine heart, a wound! 
Thy torches all a row stick, 
Which thy sweet grace about mine heart hath bound! 
There, gleaming arrows stick in every part, 
Which unto my marrow prick. 
Thy beauty's fancy to mine heart is thrall; 
Mine heart, thy beauty's thrall is found! 
And thou mine heart a Bulwark art! 
Conquered with Beauty! battered to the ground! 
And yet though conquered will not yield at all. 
For in that conflict, though I fall, 
Yet I myself a conqueror repute 
In fight continual, like victorious mart 
Yet ever yield, as ever overthrown. 
To be, still, prisoner! is my suit. 
I will be, still, thy captive known! 
Such pleasing Servitude 
Victorious Conquest is, and Fortitude! 
<POEM> 
<M.20.> 
My Love, alas, is sick! Fie, envious Sickness! 
That, at her breast (where rest all joys and ease), 
Thou shouldst take such despite, her to displease, 
In whom, all virtue's health hath quickness! 
Thou durst not come in living likeness! 
For hadst thou come, thou couldst not her disease! 
Her beauty would not let thee press! 
Sweet graces, which continually attend her, 
At her short breath, breathe short! and sigh so deep! 
Which Sickness's sharp furies might appease: 
Both Loves and Graces strive to mend her. 
O never let me rest; but sigh and weep! 
Never but weep and sigh! "Sick is my Love; 
And I love-sick! Yet physic may befriend her! 
But what shall my disease remove?" 
<POEM> 
<M.21.> 
When this celestial goddess had indued 
Her eyes with spheric revolution, 
VESTA, with her next gift ensued, 
And lent to Nature that thrice sacred fire, 
To which, once, JAPHET's offspring did aspire. 
Which made a dissolution 
Of a strange ore, engendered by the sun, 
In grace, and worth more pure than gold, 
Which ('gainst the Cyprian triumphs should be done) 
Gilded those wheels, which CUPID's chariot rolled. 
<POEM> 
<M.22.> 
In centre of these Stars of Love, 
('Bove all conceits in man's capacity,) 
An orient jet which did not move, 
To CUPID's chariot wheel, made for the naffe, 
Was fixed; which could, with mild rapacity, 
Of lighter lovers, draw the lighter chaff. 
This, shadow gives to clearer light, 
In which, as in a mirrold, there was framed 
For those (which love's conditions treat upon) 
A glass which should give semblance right 
Of all their phys'gnomies impassionate. 
Those hearts, which tyrant Love doth beat upon, 
May there behold, what CUPID works! 
Yielding in it, that figure fashionate 
Which in the jetty mirror lurks. 
<POEM> 
<M.23.> 
PHOEBUS, rich father of eternal light! 
And in his hand, a wreath of Heliochrise 
He brought, to beautify those tresses, 
Whose train, whose softness, and whose gloss more bright, 
APOLLO's locks did overprize. 
Thus, with this garland, whiles her brows he blesses 
The golden shadow, with his tincture, 
Colored her locks, I gilded with the cincture. 
<POEM> 
<M.24.> 
Thus, as She was, 'bove human glory graced, 
The Saint, methought, departed; 
And suddenly upon her feet, she started. 
JUNO beheld, and fain would have defaced 
That female miracle! proud Nature's wonder! 
Least JOVE, through heaven's clear windows, should espy her; 
And (for her beauty) JUNO's love neglect! 
Down she descends; and as she walked by her, 
A branch of Lilies, JUNO tears in sunder. 
Then, from her sphere, did VENUS down reflect, 
Lest MARS, by chance, her beauty should affect. 
And with a branch of Roses 
She beat upon her face! Then JUNO closes! 
And with white lilies, did her beauty chasten. 
But lovely Graces, in memorial, 
Let both the Rose and Lily's color fall 
Within her cheeks, which, to be foremost hasten. 
<POEM> 
<M.25.> 
Whiles these two wrathful goddesses did rage, 
The little god of might 
(Such as might fitter seem with cranes to fight, 
Than, with his bow, to vanquish gods and kings) 
In a cherry tree sat smiling; 
And lightly waving, with his motley wings, 
(Fair wings, in beauty! boys and girls beguiling!) 
And cherry garlands, with his hands compiling: 
Laughing, he leaped light 
Unto the Nymph, to try which way best might 
Her cheer; and, with a cherry branch, her bobbed! 
But her soft lovely lips, 
The cherries, of their ruddy ruby robbed! 
Eftsoons, he, to his quiver skips 
And brings those bottles, whence his mother sips 
Her Nectar of Delight; 
Which in her bosom, claimed place by right. 
<POEM> 
<M.26.> 
I dare not speak of that thrice holy hill, 
Which, spread with silver lilies, lies; 
Nor of those violets which void veins full fill, 
Nor of that maze on love's hill-top: 
These secrets must not be surveyed with eyes! 
No creature may those flowers crop! 
Nor bathe in that clear fountain, 
Where none but PHOEBE with chaste virgins wash! 
In bottom of that sacred mountain -- 
 But, whither, now? Thy verses overlash! 
<SES.1.> 
When I waked out of dreaming, 
Looking all about the garden, 
Sweet PARTHENOPHE was walking: 
O what fortune brought her hither! 
She much fairer than that Nymph, 
Which was beat with rose and lilies. 
<STANZA> 
Her cheeks exceed the rose and lilies. 
I was fortunate in dreaming 
Of so beautiful a Nymph. 
To this happy blessed garden, 
Come, you Nymphs! come, Fairies! hither. 
Wonder Nature's Wonder walking! 
<STANZA> 
So She seemed, in her walking, 
As she would make rose and lilies 
Ever flourish. O, but hither 
Hark! (for I beheld it dreaming) 
Lilies blushed within the garden, 
Stained with beauties of that Nymph. 
<STANZA> 
The Rose for anger at that Nymph 
Was pale! and, as She went on walking, 
When She gathered in the garden, 
Tears came from the Rose and Lilies! 
As they sighed, their breath, in dreaming 
I could well perceive it hither. 
<STANZA> 
When PARTHENOPHE came hither, 
At the presence of that Nymph, 
(That hill was heaven! where I lay dreaming) 
But when I had espied her walking, 
And in hand her Rose and Lilies 
As sacrifice given by that garden; 
<STANZA> 
(To Love, stood sacred that fair garden!) 
I dared the Nymphs to hasten hither. 
Make homage to the Rose and Lilies 
Which are sacred to my Nymph. 
Wonder, when you see her walking! 
(Might I see her, but in dreaming!) 
Even the fancy of that Nymph 
Would make me, night and day, come hither, 
To sleep in this thrice happy garden. 
<POEM> 
<SES.2.> 
In sweetest pride of youthful May, 
Where my poor flocks were wont to stay 
About the valleys and high hills, 
Which FLORA with her glory fills; 
PARTHENOPHIL, the gentle Swain, 
Perplexed with a pleasing pain, 
Despairing how to slake his pain; 
To woods and floods, these words did say, 
"PARTHENOPHE, mine heart's Sovereign! 
Why dost thou, my delights delay? 
And with thy cross unkindness kills, 
Mine heart, bound martyr to thy wills!" 
<STANZA> 
But women will have their own wills, 
Alas, why then should I complain? 
Since what She list, her heart fulfills. 
I sigh! I weep! I kneel! I pray! 
When I should kiss, She runs away! 
Sighs! knees! tears! prayers! spent in vain! 
<STANZA> 
My verses do not please her vain, 
Mine heart wears with continual thrills 
His Epilogue about to play! 
My Sense, unsound; my Wits, in wane; 
I still expect an happy day! 
Whilst harvest grows, my winter spills! 
<STANZA> 
PARTHENOPHE mine harvest spills! 
She robs my storehouse of his grain! 
Alas, sweet Wench! thy rage allay! 
Behold, what fountain still distills; 
Whiles thine heat's rage in me doth rain! 
Yet moisture will not his flame stay. 
<STANZA> 
PARTHENOPHE! thy fury stay! 
Take hence! th' occasion of these ills 
Thou art the cause! but come again! 
Return! and FLORA's pride disdain! 
Her lilies, rose, and daffodils! 
Thy cheeks and forehead disarray 
<STANZA> 
The rose and lilies of their grain; 
What swans can yield so many quills 
As all her glories can display? 
<POEM> 
<SES.3.> 
You loathed fields and forests, 
Infected with my vain sighs! 
You stony rocks, and deaf hills, 
With my complaints, to speak taught! 
You sandy shores, with my tears, 
Which learn to wash your dry face! 
<STANZA> 
Behold, and learn in my face, 
The state of blasted forests! 
If you would learn to shed tears, 
Or melt away with oft sighs; 
You shall, of me, be this taught, 
As I sit under these hills, 
<STANZA> 
Beating mine arms on these hills, 
Laid grovelling on my lean face! 
My sheep, of me to bleat taught; 
And wander through the forests! 
The sudden winds learn my sighs! 
AURORA's flowers, my tears! 
<STANZA> 
But She that should see my tears, 
Swift scuddeth by the high hills, 
And sees me spent with long sighs, 
And views my blubbered lean face; 
Yet leaves me to the forests, 
Whose solitary paths taught 
<STANZA> 
My woes, all comforts untaught. 
These sorrows, sighs, and salt tears 
Fit solitary forests! 
These outcries meet for deaf hills! 
These tears, best fitting this face! 
This air, most meet for these sighs! 
<STANZA> 
Consume! consume, with these sighs! 
Such sorrows, they to die taught! 
Which printed are in thy face, 
Whose furrows made with much tears! 
You stony rocks! and high hills! 
You sandy shores! and forests! 
<STANZA> 
Report my seas of salt tears! 
You! whom I nothing else taught, 
But groanings! tears! and sad sighs! 
<POEM> 
<SES.4.> 
Echo! What shall I do to my Nymph, when I go to behold her? Hold
her! 
So dare I not! lest She should think that I make her a prey then!
Pray then! 
Yea, but at me, She will take scorn, proceeded of honor! On her! 
Me bear will She (with her, to deal so saucily) never! Ever! 
Yea, but I greatly fear She will have pure thoughts to refuse
such. Few such! 
Then will I venture again more bold, if you warn me to do so! Do
so! 
I must write with tears and sighs, before that I do so! Do so! 
But what if my tears and sighs be too weak to remove her? Move
her! 
So shall ye move huge Alps with tears and sighs, if you may such!
You may such! 
If any that, shall affirm for a truth; I shall hold that they
lie then! Lie hen!
If I study to death, in kind, shall I lie never! Ever! 
O! what is it to lie? Is't not dishonor? 'Tis honor! 
Then to flatter a while her, is't not dishonor? Honor! 
Then will I wrest out sighs, and wring forth tears when I do so?
Do so! 
Lest She find my craft, with her I may toy never? Ever! 
Then, if you jest in kind with her, you win her? You win her! 
Then, what time She laughs from her heart, shall I smile then?
Ay, smile then! 
They that like my toys! is it harm, if I kiss such? Ay, kiss
such! 
Yea, but most Ladies have disdainful minds, to refuse such! Few
such! 
In what space, shall I know, whether her love resteth in honor?
In one hour! 
O for such a sweet hour! My life of hours will I pray then! Ay
then! 
Then if I find, as I would; more bold to urge her, I may be so?
Be so! 
But if she do refuse! then, woe to th' Attempter! Attempt her! 
She will proudly refuse! And speaks in jest never! Ever! 
So though still She refuse, She speaks in jest ever! Ever! 
Then such as these, be the true best signs to seek out such? Seek
out such! 
Such will I seek! But what shall I do, when I first shall attempt
her! Tempt her!
How shall I tempt her, ere She stand on terms of her honor? On
her! 
O might I come to that! I think 'tis even so. 'Tis even so! 
Strongly to tempt and move, at first, is surely the best then?
The best then! 
What, when they do repugn, yet cry not forth! will they do then?
Do then! 
With such a blunt Proem, Ladies, shall I move never? Ever! 
I must wait, at an inch, on such Nymphs whom I regard so; Guard
so! 
Those whom, in heart, I love; my faith doth firmly deserve such.
Serve such! 
Then to become their slaves, is no great dishonor? Honor! 
But to the Muses, first, I will recommend her! Commend her! 
They that pity lovers; is't good, if I praise such? Ay, praise
such! 
If that I write their praise; by my verse, shall they live never?
Ever! 
If thy words be true; with thanks, take adieu then. Adieu then! 
<POEM>
<SES.5.> 
Then, first, with locks dishevelled and bare, 
Strait girded, in a cheerful calmy night, 
Having a fire made of green cypress wood, 
And with male frankincense on altar kindled; 
I call on threefold HECATE with tears! 
And here, with loud voice, invocate the Furies! 
<STANZA> 
For their assistance to me, with their furies; 
Whilst snowy steeds in coach, bright PHOEBE bare. 
Ay me! PARTHENOPHE smiles at my tears! 
I neither take my rest by day or night; 
Her cruel loves in me such heat have kindled. 
Hence, goat! and bring her to me raging wood! 
<STANZA> 
HECATE tell, which way she comes through the wood! 
This wine about this altar, to the Furies 
I sprinkle! whiles the cypress boughs be kindled. 
This brimstone, earth within her bowels bare! 
And this blue incense, sacred to the night! 
This hand, perforce, from this bay this branch tears! 
<STANZA> 
So be She brought! which pitied not my tears! 
And as it burneth with the cypress wood, 
So burn She with desire, by day and night! 
You gods of vengeance! and avengeful Furies! 
Revenge, to whom I bend on my knees bare. 
Hence, goat! and bring her, with love's outrage kindled! 
<STANZA> 
HECATE! make signs, if She with love come kindled! 
Think on my Passions! HECATE! and my tears! 
This Rosemarine (whose branch She chiefly bare, 
And loved best) I cut, both bark and wood: 
Broke with this brazen axe, and, in love's furies, 
I tread on it, rejoicing in this night, 
<STANZA> 
And saying, "Let her feel such wounds this night!" 
About this altar, and rich incense kindled, 
This lace and vervine (to love's bitter furies!) 
I bind, and strew; and, with sad sighs and tears, 
About, I bear her Image, raging wood. 
Hence, goat! and bring her from her bedding bare! 
<STANZA> 
HECATE! reveal if She like Passions bare! 
I knit three true-lovers knots (this is Love's night!) 
Of three discolored silks, to make her wood; 
But She scorns VENUS, till her loves be kindled, 
And till She find the grief of sighs and tears. 
"Sweet Queen of Loves! For mine unpitied furies, 
<STANZA>
Alike torment her, with such scalding furies! 
And this Turtle, when the loss she bare 
Of her dear Make, in her kind, did shed tears 
And mourning; did seek him, all day and night: 
Let such lament in her, for me be kindled! 
And mourn she still! till she run raging wood 
<STANZA> 
Hence, goat! and bring her to me raging wood! 
These letters, and these verses to the Furies, 
Which She did write, all in this flame be kindled. 
Me, with these papers, in vain hope She bare, 
That She, to day would turn mine hopeless night, 
These, as I rent and burn, so fury tears. 
<STANZA> 
Her hardened heart, which pitied not my tears. 
The wind-shaked trees make murmur in the wood, 
The waters roar at this thrice sacred night, 
The winds come whisking shrill to note her furies; 
Trees, woods, and winds, a part in my plaints bare, 
And knew my woes; now joy to see her kindled! 
<STANZA> 
See! whence She comes, with loves enraged and kindled! 
The pitchy clouds, in drops, send down their tears! 
Owls screech! Dogs bark to see her carried bare! 
Wolves yowl and cry! Bulls bellow through the wood! 
Ravens croape! Now, now! I feel love's fiercest furies! 
Seest thou, that black goat! brought, this silent night, 
<STANZA> 
Through empty clouds, by th' Daughters of the Night! 
See how on him, She sits! with love rage kindled! 
Hither, perforce, brought with avengeful Furies! 
Now, I wax drowsy! Now, cease all my tears; 
Whilst I take rest, and slumber near this wood! 
Ah me! PARTHENOPHE naked and bare! 
<STANZA> 
Come, blessed goat, that my sweet Lady bare! 
Where hast thou been, PARTHENOPHE! this night? 
What, cold! Sleep by this fire of cypress wood, 
Which I, much longing for thy sake, have kindled! 
Weep not! Come Loves and wipe away her tears! 
At length yet, wilt Thou take away my furies? 
<STANZA> 
Ay me! Embrace me! See those ugly Furies! 
Come to my bed! lest they behold thee bare; 
And bear thee hence! They will not pity tears! 
And these still dwell in everlasting night! 
Ah, Loves, (sweet love!) sweet fires for us hath kindled! 
But not inflamed with frankincense or wood. 
<STANZA> 
The Furies, they shall hence into the wood! 
Whiles CUPID shall make calmer his hot furies, 
And stand appeased at our fires kindled. 
Join! join PARTHENOPHE! Thyself unbare! 
None can perceive us in the silent night! 
Now will I cease from sighs, laments, and tears! 
<STANZA> 
And cease, PARTHENOPHE! Sweet! cease thy tears! 
Bear golden apples, thorns in every wood! 
Join heavens! for we conjoin this heavenly night! 
Let alder trees bear apricots! (Die Furies!) 
And thistles, pears! which prickles lately bare! 
Now both in one, with equal flame be kindled! 
<STANZA> 
Die magic boughs! now die, which late were kindled! 
Here is mine heaven! Loves drop, instead of tears! 
It joins! it joins! Ah, both embracing bare! 
Let nettles bring forth roses in each wood! 
Last ever verdant woods! Hence, former Furies! 
O die! live! joy! What? Last continual, night! 
<STANZA> 
Sleep PHOEBUS still with THETIS! Rule still, night! 
I melt in love! Love's marrow-flame is kindled! 
Here will I be consumed in Love's sweet furies! 
I melt! I melt! Watch CUPID, my love tears! 
If these be Furies, O let me be wood! 
If all the fiery element I bare; 
 'Tis now acquitted! Cease your former tears! 
For as She once, with rage my body kindled; 
So in hers, am I buried this night! 
<POEM> 
<O.1.> 
When I walk forth into the Woods, 
With heavy Passion to complain 
I view the trees with blushing buds 
Ashamed, or grieved at my pain! 
There amaranthe, with rosy stain 
(Me pitying) doth his leaves ingrain! 
<STANZA> 
When I pass pensive to the Shore, 
The water birds about me fly, 
As if they mourned! when rivers roar, 
Chiding thy wrathful cruelty; 
Halcyon watcheth warily 
To chide thee, when thou comest by! 
<STANZA> 
If to the City, I repair 
Mine eyes thy cruelty betray! 
And those which view me, find my care: 
Swoll'n eyes and sorrows it betray! 
Whose figures in my forehead are, 
These curse the cause of mine ill fare! 
<STANZA> 
When I go forth to feed my Flocks 
As I, so they hang down their head! 
If I complain to ruthless Rocks, 
(For that it seems, hard rocks her bred) 
Rocks' ruth, in rivers may be read! 
Which from those rocks down trickled. 
<STANZA> 
When shepherds would know how I fare, 
And ask, "How doth PARTHENOPHIL?" 
"Ill,"ECHO answers, in void air; 
And with these news, each place doth fill! 
Poor herdgrooms, from each cottage, will 
Sing my complaints, on every hill! 
<POEM> 
<O.2.> 
Speak, ECHO! tell 
With lilies, columbines, and roses, 
What their PARTHENOPHE composes? Posies! 
O sacred smell! 
For those, which in her lap she closes, 
The gods please well! 
<STANZA> 
Speak, ECHO! tell 
With daffodils, what doth she plet 
Which in such order, she doth set 
For LOVE to dwell? 
As She should FLORA's chapel let? Chaplet! 
This LOVE likes well! 
<STANZA> 
Speak, ECHO! tell 
Why lilies and red roses like her? Like her! 
No pity with remorse will strike her! 
Did Nature well, 
Which did, from fairest Graces, pike her 
To be mine hell? 
<STANZA> 
Speak, ECHO! tell 
Why columbines she entertains? 
Because the proverb "Watchet" feigns, 
"True-loves like well!" 
And do these therefore like her veins? Her veins! 
There CUPIDS dwell! 
<STANZA> 
Speak, ECHO, tell 
Wherefore her chaplets yellow were like, 
When others here, were more her like? Hair-like! 
Yet, I know well! 
Her heart is tiger-like, or bear-like, 
To rocks itsell. 
<POEM> 
<O.3.> 
Upon an holy Saints Eve 
As I took my pilgrimage, 
Wand'ring through the forest wary, 
Blest be that holy Saint! 
I met the lovely Virgin, MARY! 
And kneeled, with long travel faint, 
Performing my due homage. 
My tears foretold mine heart did grieve, 
Yet MARY would not me relieve! 
<STANZA> 
Her I did promise, every year, 
The firstling female of my flock; 
That in my love she would me further. 
(I curst the days of my first love, 
My comfort's spoils, my pleasures' murder.) 
She, She, alas, did me reprove! 
My suits, as to a stony rock, 
Were made; for she would not give ear: 
Ah love! dear love! love bought too dear! 
<STANZA> 
MARY, my Saint chaste and mild! 
Pity, ah, pity my suit! 
Thou art a virgin, pity me! 
Shine eyes, though pity wanting; 
That she, by them, my grief may see! 
And look on mine heart panting! 
But her deaf ears, and tongue mute, 
Shows her hard heart unreconciled! 
Hard heart, from all remorse exiled! 
<POEM> 
<O.4.> 
BACCHUS! Father of all sport! 
Worker of Love's comfort! 
VENUS' best beloved brother! 
(Like beloved is none other!) 
Greater Father of Felicity! 
Fill full, with thy divinity, 
These thirsty and these empty veins! 
Thence, fuming up into my brains, 
Exceed APOLLO, through thy might! 
And make me, by thy motion light, 
That, with alacrity, I may 
Write pleasing Odes! and still display 
PARTHENOPHE, with such high praises, 
(Whose beauty, Shepherds all amazes) 
And, by those means, her loves obtain! 
Then, having filled up every vein, 
I shall be set in perfect state 
The rights of love to celebrate! 
Then, each year, fat from my sheepcot, 
Thy sacrifice, a tydie goat! 
And {Io Euhoe} shall be 
Loud chanted, everywhere, to thee! 
<POEM> 
<O.5.> 
PARTHENOPHE! See what is sent! 
By me (fair Nymph!) these Saints salute thee! 
Whose presents in this basket here, 
Faithful PARTHENOPHIL doth bear! 
Nor will I prove ingrate! nor mute be! 
If my power were, 
Such gifts as these 
(If they would please) 
Here willingly I would present! 
<STANZA> 
And these, those presents present be! 
First, JUNO sent to thee, these lilies! 
In whose stead chaste Affection moves. 
VENUS hath sent two turtle doves! 
NARCISSUS gives thee daffodillies! 
For doves, true loves! 
For daffodils 
My golden wills! 
Which countervails what here is sent thee! 
<STANZA> 
FLORA doth greet thee, with sweet roses! 
THETIS, with rich pearl orient! 
LEUCOTHOE, with frankincense! 
For roses, my love's chaste pretense! 
For pearls, those tears which I have spent! 
My sighs' incense, 
For sweet perfume! 
Thus I presume, 
Poor Shepherd! to present these posies! 
<STANZA> 
Though I be rude, as shepherds are, 
Lilies, I know, do stand for whiteness! 
And daffodils, thy golden hair! 
And doves, thy meekness! figures bear. 
Red roses, for a blushing brightness! 
Thy teeth, pearls were! 
That incense showed 
Thy breath that blowed, 
A sacrifice! for which gods care. 
<STANZA> 
Blest is that Shepherd, nine times nine! 
Which shall, in bosom, these flowers keep 
Bound in one posy; whose sweet smell, 
In Paradise may make him dwell! 
And sleep a ten times happy sleep! 
I dare not mell! 
Else with good will 
PARTHENOPHIL 
Would to thy lips, one kiss assign! 
<POEM> 
<O.6.> 
O fair sweet glove! 
Divine token 
Of her sweet love, 
Sweetly broken! 
By words, sweet loves She durst not move! 
These gifts, her love to me do prove! 
Though never spoken. 
<STANZA> 
On her fair hand, 
This glove once was! 
None in this land 
Did ever 'pass 
Her hands' fair white! Come Loves! here stand! 
Let Graces' with yours, match her hand! 
Hide! hide, alas! 
<STANZA> 
Graces would smile 
If you should match! 
Hers, yours beguile! 
Hers, garlands catch 
From all the Nymphs! which blush the while 
To see their white outmatched a mile! 
Which praise did watch. 
<STANZA> 
This glove, I kiss! 
And, for thy sake, 
I will not miss, 
But ballads make! 
And every shepherd shall know this; 
PARTHENOPHIL in such grace is! 
Muses, awake! 
<STANZA> 
For I will sing 
Thy matchless praises! 
And my pipes bring, 
Which floods amazes! 
Wild Satyrs, friskins shall outfling! 
The rocks shall this day's glory ring! 
Whiles Nymphs bring daisies. 
<STANZA> 
Some, woodbines bear! 
Some, damask roses! 
The Muses were 
A-binding posies. 
My goddess' glove to herrye here 
Great PAN comes in, with flowers sear, 
And crowns composes! 
<STANZA> 
I note this day 
Once every year! 
An holiday 
For Her kept dear! 
A hundred Swains, on pipes shall play! 
And for the Glove, masque in array 
With jolly cheer! 
<STANZA> 
A Glove of Gold, 
I will bring in! 
Shall strife begin! 
And he, which loves can best unfold; 
And hath in Songs, his mind best told; 
The Glove shall win! 
Nymphs shall resort! 
And they, with flowers, 
Shall deck a Fort 
For paramours, 
Which for this Glove, shall there contend! 
Impartial Nymphs shall judgment end! 
And in those bowers, 
<STANZA> 
Pronounce who best 
Deserved, of all! 
Then by the rest 
A Coronal 
Of Roses, freshly shall be dressed! 
And he, with that rich Glove possessed, 
As Principal! 
<POEM> 
<O.7.> 
When I did think to write of war, 
And martial chiefdens of the field, 
DIANA did enforce to yield 
My Muse to praise the Western Star! 
But PALLAS did my purpose bar, 
My Muse as too weak, it to wield! 
<STANZA> 
ELIZA's praises were too high! 
Divinest Wits have done their best! 
And yet the most have proved least; 
Such was her Sacred Majesty! 
Love's Pride! Grace to Virginity! 
O could my Muse, in her praise rest! 
<STANZA> 
VENUS directed me to write 
The praise of peerless Beauty's Wonder! 
A theme more fit for voice of thunder! 
PARTHENOPHE, from whose eyes bright, 
Ten thousand Graces dared my might, 
And willed me, five degrees write under! 
<STANZA> 
But yet her Fancy wrought so much, 
That my Muse did, her praise adventure! 
Wherein, of yore, it durst not enter. 
And now her beauty gives that touch 
Unto my Muse, in number such; 
Which makes me more and more repent her!  
<POEM>
<O.8.> 
In a shady grove of myrtle, 
Where birds musical resorted, 
With FLORA's painted flowers fert'le, 
Which men with sight and scent comforted, 
Whilst turtles equally disported, 
Where each Nymph looses 
Bunches of posies, 
Which into chaplets sweet they sorted! 
<STANZA> 
There, seated in that lovely shade, 
With LAYA beautiful, there sat 
A gentle Shepherd, which had made, 
'Gainst evening twilight, somewhat late, 
An arbor built in sylvan state, 
Where, in exchange, 
Their eyes did range, 
Giving each other, the checkmate. 
<STANZA> 
He said, "Sweet comfort of my Life! 
Come and embrace PARTHENOPHIL!" 
"Met we," said She, "to fall at strife! 
I will be gone! Ay, that I will!" 
"I loved you long!" "Why, do so still!" 
"I cannot choose, 
If you refuse! 
But shall myself, with sorrow kill." 
<STANZA> 
With that, he sighed, and would have kissed 
And viewed her with a fearful smile: 
She turned, and said, "Your aim missed!" 
With sighs redoubled, the meanwhile, 
The Shepherd sat, but did compile 
Green-knotted rushings; 
Then roundlays sings! 
And pleasant doth twilight beguile! 
<STANZA> 
At length, he somewhat nearer pressed, 
And, with a glance, the Nymph deceiving, 
He kissed her! She said, "Be at rest!" 
Willing displeased, in the receiving! 
Thence, from his purpose, never leaving, 
He pressed her further! 
She would cry "Murder!" 
But somewhat was, her breath bereaving! 
<STANZA> 
At length, he doth possess her whole! 
Her lips! and all he would desire! 
And would have breathed in her, his soul! 
If that his soul he could inspire: 
Eft that chanced, which he did require, 
A live soul possessed 
Her matron breast -- 
 Then waking, I found Sleep a liar! 
<POEM>
<O.9.> 
Behold, out walking in these valleys, 
Where fair PARTHENOPHE doth tread, 
How joysome FLORA, with her dallies! 
And, at her steps, sweet flowers bred! 
Narcissus yellow, 
And Amaranthus ever red, 
Which all her footsteps overspread: 
With Hyacinth that finds no fellow. 
<STANZA> 
Behold, within that shady thick, 
Where my PARTHENOPHE doth walk, 
Her beauty makes trees moving quick, 
Which, of her grace, in murmur talk! 
The Poplar trees shed tears; 
The blossomed Hawthorn, white as chalk; 
And Aspen trembling on his stalk; 
The tree which sweet frankincense bears; 
<STANZA> 
The barren Heben coaly black; 
Green Ivy, with his strange embraces; 
Daphne, which scorns JOVE's thundercrack; 
Sweet Cypress, set in sundry places; 
And singing Atis tells 
Unto the rest, my Mistress graces! 
From them, the wind, her glory chases 
Throughout the West; where it excels. 
<POEM> 
<O.10.> 
Why doth heaven bear a sun 
To give the world an heat? 
Why, there, have stars a seat? 
On earth, when all is done! 
PARTHENOPHE's bright sun 
Doth give a greater heat! 
<STANZA> 
And in her heaven there be 
Such fair bright blazing stars; 
Which still make open wars 
With those in heaven's degree. 
These stars far brighter be 
Than brightest of heaven's stars! 
Why doth earth bring forth roses, 
Violets, or lilies, 
Or bright daffodillies? 
In her clear cheeks, she closes 
Sweet damask roses! 
In her neck, white lilies! 
<STANZA> 
Violets in her veins! 
Why do men sacrifice 
Incense to deities? 
Her breath more favor gains, 
And pleaseth heavenly veins 
More than rich sacrifice! 
<POEM> 
<O.11.> 
Lovely MAYA! HERMES' mother, 
Of fair FLORA much befriended, 
To whom this sweet month is commended, 
This month more sweet than any other, 
By thy sweet sovereignty defended. 
<STANZA> 
Daisies, cowslips, and primroses, 
Fragrant violets, and sweet mint, 
Matched with purple hyacinth 
Of these, each where, Nymphs make trim posies, 
Praising their mother BERYCINTH. 
<STANZA> 
Behold, an herd of jolly Swains 
Go flocking up and down the mead! 
A troop of lovely Nymphs do tread! 
And dearnly dancing on yon plains: 
Each doth, in course, her hornpipe lead! 
<STANZA> 
Before the grooms, plays PEERS the Piper. 
They bring in hawthorn and sweet brier: 
And damask roses, they would bear; 
But them, they leave till they be riper. 
The rest, round Morrises dance there! 
<STANZA> 
With frisking gambols, and such glee, 
Unto the lovely Nymphs they haste! 
Who, there, in decent order placed, 
Expect who shall Queen FLORA be; 
And with the May Crown, chiefly graced? 
<STANZA> 
The Shepherds poopen in their pipe, 
One leads his wench a Country Round; 
Another sits upon the ground; 
And doth his beard from drivel wipe, 
Because he would be handsome found. 
<STANZA>
To see the frisking, and scouping! 
To hear the herdgrooms wooing speeches! 
Whiles one to dance, his girl beseeches. 
The lead-heeled lazy luskins louping, 
Fling out, in their new motley breeches! 
<STANZA> 
This done, with jolly cheer and game, 
The batch'lor Swains, and young Nymphs met; 
Where in an arbor, they were set. 
Thither, to choose a Queen, they came, 
And soon concluded her to fet. 
<STANZA> 
There, with a garland, they did crown 
PARTHENOPHE, my true sweet-love! 
Whose beauty all the Nymphs above, 
Did put the lovely Graces down. 
The Swains, with shouts, rocks' echoes move! 
<STANZA> 
To see the Rounds, and Morris Dances, 
The leaden galliards, for her sake! 
To hear those songs, the Shepherds make! 
One with his hobby horse still prances! 
Whiles some, with flowers, an highway make! 
<STANZA> 
There in a mantle of light green, 
(Reserved, by custom, for that day) 
PARTHENOPHE, they did array! 
And did create her, Summer's Queen! 
And Ruler of their merry May! 
<POEM> 
<O.12.> 
One night, I did attend my sheep, 
Which I, with watchful ward, did keep 
For fear of wolves assaulting: 
For, many times, they broke my sleep, 
And would into the cottage creep, 
Till I sent them out halting! 
<STANZA> 
At length, methought, about midnight, 
(What time clear CYNTHIA shined bright) 
Beneath, I heard a rumbling! 
At first, the noise did me affright; 
But nought appeared in my sight, 
Yet still heard somewhat tumbling. 
<STANZA> 
At length, good heart I took to rise, 
And then myself crossed three times thrice; 
Hence, a sharp sheephook raught 
I feared the wolf had got a prize; 
Yet how he might, could not devise! 
I, for his entrance sought. 
<STANZA> 
At length, by moonlight, could I espy 
A little boy did naked lie 
Frettished, amongst the flock: 
I, him approached somewhat nigh. 
He groaned, as he were like to die; 
But falsely me did mock! 
<STANZA> 
For pity, he cried, "Well a day! 
Good master, help me, if you may! 
For I am almost starved!" 
I pitied him, when he did pray; 
And brought him to my couch of hay. 
But guess as I was served! 
<STANZA> 
He bare about him a long dart, 
Well gilded with fine painter's art; 
And had a pile of steel. 
On it I looked every part: 
Said I, "Will this pile wound an heart?" 
"Touch it!" quoth he, "and feel!" 
<STANZA> 
With that, I touched the javelin's point! 
Eftsoons it pierced to the joint! 
And rageth now so fierce, 
That all the balms which it anoint 
Cannot prevail with it, a point; 
But it mine heart will pierce. 
<POEM> 
<O.13.> 
On the plains, 
Fairy trains 
Were a treading measures, 
Satyrs played, 
Fairies stayed 
At the stops' set leisures. 
<STANZA> 
Nymphs begin 
To come in 
Quickly, thick, and threefold! 
Now the dance! 
Now the prance, 
Present there to behold! 
<STANZA> 
On her breast 
That did best 
A jewel rich was placed! 
FLORA chose 
Which of those 
Best the measures graced. 
<STANZA>
When he had 
Measures lad 
PARTHENOPHE did get it! 
Nymphs did chide 
When they tried, 
Where the judgment set it. 
<STANZA> 
Thus they said 
"This fair Maid, 
Whom you gave the jewel, 
Takes no pleasure 
To keep measure; 
But it is too too cruel!" 
<POEM> 
<O.14.> 
Hark! all you lovely Nymphs forlorn! 
With VENUS, chaste DIANA meets! 
And one another friendly greets! 
Did you not hear her wind an horn? 
Then cease, fair Ladies! Do not mourn! 
<STANZA> 
Virgins, whom VENUS made offend, 
Resort into the wood at even; 
And every one shall be forgiven! 
There shall all controversies end! 
DIANA shall be VENUS' friend! 
<STANZA> 
Hark, Nymphs forlorn! what is decreed! 
Spotless DIANA must not fail, 
But be addressed with VENUS' veil; 
VENUS must wear DIANA's weed. 
This veil will shadow, when you need! 
<STANZA> 
If any think a virgin light; 
DIAN' in VENUS veil excuseth, 
And her Nymph PHOEBE's habit useth. 
These quaint attires befit you right, 
For each a diverse garment chooseth. 
<POEM> 
<O.15.> 
VULCAN, in Lemnos Isle, 
Did golden shafts compile 
For CUPID's bow. 
Then VENUS did, with honey sweet, 
To make it please, anoint the pile. 
CUPID below 
Dipped it in gall, and made it meet 
Poor wounded creatures to beguile. 
<STANZA> 
When MARS returned from war, 
Shaking his spear afar; 
CUPID beheld! 
At him, in jest, MARS shaked his spear! 
Which CUPID, with his dart did bar 
(Which millions quelled). 
Then, MARS desired his dart to bear: 
But soon the weight, his force did mar! 
<STANZA> 
Then MARS subdued, desired 
(Since he was with it tired) 
CUPID to take it. 
"Nay, you shall keep it!" CUPID said; 
"For first to feel it you required. 
Wound I will make it 
As deep as yours! You me did fear; 
And for that, you shall be fired!" 
<POEM> 
<O.16.> 
Before bright TITAN raised his team 
Or lovely Morn with rosy cheek, 
With scarlet dyed the Eastern stream, 
On PHOEBUS' day, first of the week; 
Early, my goddess did arise, 
With breath to bless the morning air. 
O heavens, which made divine mine eyes! 
Glancing on such a Nymph! so fair! 
Whose Hair, downspread in curled tresses, 
PHOEBUS his glitter and beams withstood: 
Much like him, when, through cypresses, 
He danceth on the silver flood; 
Or like the golden purled down, 
Broached upon the palm-flowered willows, 
Which downward scattered from her crown, 
Loosely dishevelled on love's pillows. 
Covering her swan-like back below 
Like ivory matched with purest gold; 
Like PHOEBE when on whitest snow 
Her gilded shadow taketh hold. 
Her Forehead was like to the rose 
Before ADONIS pricked his feet! 
Or like the path to heaven which goes, 
Where all the lovely Graces meet! 
CUPID's rich Chariot stood under! 
Moist pearl about the wheels was set! 
Grey agate spokes, not much asunder! 
The axletree of purest jet! 
Her seemly Nose, the rest which graced, 
For CUPID's Trophy was upreared! 
Th-imperial Thrones, where LOVE was placed 
When, of the world, he would be feared. 
Where CUPID, with sweet VENUS sat 
Her cheeks with rose and lilies decked, 
Nature upon the coach did wait, 
And all in order did direct. 
Her Cheeks to damask roses sweet, 
In scent and color were so like ; 
That honey bees in swarms would meet 
To suck; and, sometimes, She would strike 
With dainty plume, the bees to fear! 
And being beaten, they would sting! 
They found such heavenly honey there; 
CUPID, which there sat triumphing, 
When he perceived the bee did sting her 
Would swell for grief, and curse that bee, 
More than the bee that stinged his finger! 
Yet still about her they would flee! 
Then LOVE to VENUS would complain 
Of Nature, which his chariot dressed! 
Nature would it excuse again, 
Saying, "She then showed her skill best!" 
When she drank wine, upon her face, 
BACCHUS would dance! and spring to kiss! 
And shadow, with a blushing grace, 
Her cheeks, where lovers build their bliss: 
Who, when she drank, would blush for shame 
That wanton BACCHUS she should use; 
Who, VENUS' brother, might defame 
Her, that should such acquaintance choose! 
What gloss the scarlet curtains cast 
On a bedstead of ivory. 
Such like, but such as much surpassed 
All gloss, her cheeks did beautify. 
Her roseate Lips, soft lovely swelling, 
And full of pleasure as a cherry; 
Her Breath of divine spices smelling, 
Which, with tongue broken, would make merry 
Th' infernal souls; and, with her voice, 
Set heaven wide open, hell gates shut, 
Move melancholy to rejoice, 
And thralled in Paradise might put. 
Her Voice, not human, when she speaketh 
I think some angel or goddess, 
Into celestial tunes which breaketh, 
Speaks like her, with such cheerfulness. 
All birds and instruments may take 
Their notes divine and excellent, 
Melodious harmony to make, 
From her sweet voice's least accent. 
This we Love's Sanctuary call! 
Whence Sacred Sentences proceed, 
Rolled up in sounds angelical; 
Whose place, sweet Nature hath decreed, 
Just under CUPID's Trophy fixed, 
Where music hath his excellence 
And such sweets, with Love's spirit mixed, 
As please far more than frankincense, 
Thence, issue forth Love's Oracles 
Of Happiness, and luckless Teen! 
So strange be Love's rare miracles 
In her, as like have never been! 
Her Neck that curious axletree, 
Pure ivory like, which doth support 
The Globe of my Cosmography: 
Where, to my Planets I resort 
To take judicial signs of skill, 
When tempests to mine heart will turn? 
When showers shall my fountains fill? 
And extreme droughts mine heart shall burn? 
There, in that Globe, shall I perceive 
When I shall find clear Element; 
There, gloomy mists shall I conceive, 
Which shall offend the Firmament! 
On this, my studies still be bent, 
Where even as rivers from the seas 
In branches through the land be sent, 
And into crooked sinews press, 
Throughout the globe such wise the veins 
Clear crystalline throughout her neck 
Like sinuous, in their crooked trains, 
Wildly the swelling waves did check. 
Thence, rise her humble seemly Shoulders, 
Like two smooth polished ivory tops; 
Of Love's chief Frame, the chief upholders, 
Whiter than that was of PELOPS! 
Thence, CUPID's five-grained mace out brancheth; 
Which fivefold, the five Senses woundeth. 
Whose sight the mind of lookers lanceth, 
Whose force, all other force astoundeth. 
Thence, to that bed, where LOVE's proud Queen, 
In silent majesty, sweet sleepeth; 
Where her soft lovely pillows been, 
Where CUPID, through love's conduits creepeth. 
Pillows of VENUS' turtles' down! 
Pillows, than VENUS' turtles softer! 
Pillows, the more where LOVE lies down 
More covets to lie down and ofter! 
Pillows, on which two sweet Rosebuds, 
Dewed with ambrosial nectar lie; 
Where Love's Milk-Way, by springs and floods, 
Through violet paths, smooth slideth by. 
But now, with fears and tears, proceed 
LOVE's Place of Torture to declare! 
Which such calamity doth breed 
To those which there imprisoned are; 
Which, once in chains, are never free! 
Which still for want of succor pine! 
Dry sighs, salt-wat'ry tears, which be 
For dainty cakes and pleasant wine! 
Immured with pure white ivory, 
Fetters of adamant to draw, 
Even steel itself, if it be nigh! 
A bondage without right or law! 
With poor ACTAEON overthrown 
But for a look! and with an eye 
In his clear arms, LOVE's Sergeant known, 
Arrests each lover that goes by. 
This is her Heart! Love's Prison called! 
Whose conquest is impregnable. 
Whence, who so chance to be enthralled, 
To come forth after, are unable. 
Further to pass than I have seen, 
Or more to show than may be told; 
Were too much impudence! I ween: 
Here, therefore, take mine anchor hold! 
And with the Roman Poet, deem 
Parts unrevealed to be most sweet; 
Which here described, might evil beseem 
And for a modest Muse unmeet. 
Such blessed mornings seldom be! 
Such sights too rare when men go by! 
Would I but once the like might see; 
That I might die, before I die! 
POEM> 
<O.17.> 
Reveal, sweet Muse! this secret! 
Wherein the lively Senses 
Do most triumph in glory? 
Where others talk of eagles, 
Searching the sun with quick sight; 
With eyes, in brightness piersant, 
PARTHENOPHE, my sweet Nymph, 
With Sight more quick than eagle's, 
With eyes more clear and piersant, 
(And, which exceeds all eagles, 
Whose influence gives more heat 
Than sun in Cancer's Tropic) 
With proud imperious glances 
Subduing all beholders, 
Which gaze upon their brightness, 
Shall triumph over that Sense 
<STANZA>
Reveal, sweet Muse, this secret! 
Wherein the lively Senses 
Do most triumph in glory? 
Where some of heavenly nectar 
The Taste's chief comfort talk of 
For pleasure and sweet relish; 
Where some, celestial syrups 
And sweet Barbarian spices, 
For pleasantness, commend most: 
PARTHENOPHE, my sweet Nymph, 
With Lips more sweet than nectar, 
Containing much more comfort 
Than all celestial syrups; 
And which exceeds all spices, 
On which none can take surfeit, 
Shall triumph over that Sense. 
<STANZA> 
Reveal, sweet Muse, this secret! 
Wherein the lively Senses 
Do most triumph in glory? 
Where some Panchaian incense, 
And rich Arabian odors, 
And waters sweet distilled, 
Where some of herbs and flowers 
Of Ambergrease and sweet roots, 
For heavenly spirit, praise most: 
PARTHENOPHE, my sweet Nymph, 
With Breath more sweet than incense, 
Panchaian or Arabic, 
Or any sorts of sweet things. 
And which exceeds all odors; 
Whose spirit is Love's godhead, 
Shall triumph over that Sense. 
<STANZA>
Reveal, sweet Muse, this secret! 
Wherein the lively Senses 
Do most triumph in glory? 
Where Music rests in voices, 
As SOCRATES supposed; 
In voice and bodies moving, 
As though ARISTOXINUS; 
In mind, as THEOPHRASTUS: 
Her Voice exceeds all music, 
Her body's comely carriage, 
Her gesture, and divine grace 
Doth ravish all beholders. 
Her mind, it is much heavenly, 
And which exceeds all judgment; 
But such sweet looks, sweet thoughts tell 
And makes her conquer that Sense. 
<STANZA> 
Reveal, sweet Muse, this secret! 
Wherein the lively Senses 
Do most triumph in glory? 
Where some of sacred hands talk, 
Whose blessing makes things prosper; 
Where some of well skilled fingers, 
Which makes such heavenly music 
With wood and touch of sinews: 
PARTHENOPHE's divine Hands, 
Let them but touch my rude hands, 
Let them but touch my pale cheeks! 
Let them but any part touch, 
My sorrow shall assuage soon! 
Let her check the little string! 
The sound to heaven shall charm me. 
Thus She, the Senses conquers. 
<POEM> 
<O.18.> 
O that I could make her, whom I love best, 
Find in a face, with misery wrinkled; 
Find in an heart, with sighs over-ill-pined, 
Her cruel hatred! 
O that I could make her, whom I love best, 
Find by my tears, what malady vexeth; 
Find by my throbs, how forcibly love's dart, 
Wounds my decayed heart! 
O that I could make her, whom I love best, 
Tell with a sweet smile, that she respecteth 
All my lamentings; and that, in her heart, 
Mournfully she rues! 
For my deserts were worthy the favors 
Of such a fair Nymph, might she be fairer! 
O then a firm faith, what may be richer? 
Then to my love yield! 
Then will I leave these tears to the waste rocks! 
Then will I leave these sighs to the rough winds! 
O that I could make her, whom I love best, 
Pity my long smart! 
<POEM>
<O.19.> 
Why should I weep in vain, poor and remedyless? 
Why should I make complaint to the deaf wilderness? 
Why should I sigh for ease? Sighs, they breed malady! 
Why should I groan in heart? Groans, they bring misery! 
Why should tears, plaints, and sighs, mingled with heavy groans, 
Practice their cruelty, whiles I complain to stones? 
O what a cruel heart, with such a tyranny, 
Hardly she practiseth, in grief's extremity? 
Such to make conquered whom she would have depressed, 
Such a man to disease, whom she would have oppressed. 
O but, PARTHENOPHE! turn, and be pitiful! 
Cruelty, beauty stains! Thou, Sweet! art beautiful! 
If that I made offense, my love is all the fault 
Which thou can charge me with, then do not make assault 
With such extremities, for my kind hearty love! 
But for love's pity sake, from me, thy frowns remove! 
So shalt thou make me blest! So shall my sorrows cease! 
So shall I live at ease! So shall my joys acrease! 
So shall tears, plaints, and sighs, mingled with heavy groans, 
Weary the rocks no more! nor lament to the stones! 
<POEM>
<O.20.> 
O sweet, pitiless eye, beautiful orient 
(Since my faith is a rock, durable everywhere), 
Smile! and shine with a glance, heartily me to joy! 
Beauty taketh a place! Pity regards it not! 
Virtue findeth a throne, settled in every part! 
Pity found none at all, banished everywhere! 
Since then, Beauty triumphs (Chastity's enemy), 
And Virtue cleped is, much to be pitiful; 
And since that thy delight is ever virtuous: 
My tears, PARTHENOPHE! pity! Be pitiful! 
So shall men Thee repute great! as an holy Saint! 
So shall Beauty remain, mightily glorified! 
So thy fame shall abound, durably chronicled! 
Then, sweet PARTHENOPHE! pity! Be merciful! 
<POEM> 
<E.1.> 
Why did the milk, which first ALCIDES nourished, 
Ingend'ring with CYBELE, breed the lily? 
Th' Assyrian hunter's blood, why hath it flourished 
The rose with red? Why did the daffadilly 
Spring from NARCISSUS' self-conceited love? 
Why did great JOVE, for the Poenian cow, 
Devise the marble colored violet? 
Or what for PHOEBUS' love, from mountains hilly 
Did hyacinth to rosy blushes move? 
Since my sweet Mistress, under PHOEBE's brow, 
JUNO's and fair ADONIS' flowers hath set, 
Adown her neck, NARCISSUS's gold doth bow, 
IO's grey violets in her crystal lights 
Th' Oebalian boy's complexion still alights 
Upon her hyacinthine lips, like ruby. 
And with love's purest sanguine, CUPID writes 
The praise of beauty, through her veins which blue be 
Conducted through love's sluice, to thy face rosy, 
Where dove's and redbreasts sit for VENUS' rights. 
In sign that I to Thee, will ever true be; 
The rose and lilies shall adorn my posy! 
The violets and hyacinth shall knit 
With daffodil, which shall embellish it! 
Such heavenly flowers, in earthly posies few be! 
<POEM> 
<E.2.> 
O that, some time, thou saw mine endless fits; 
When I have somewhat of thy beauty pondered! 
Thou could not be persuaded that my wits 
Could once retire so far from Sense asundered! 
Furies, themselves, have at my Passions wondered! 
Yet thou, PARTHENOPHE! well pleased, sits, 
Whilst in me, so thy moisture's heat hath thundered, 
And thine eyes' darts, at every Colon, hits 
My soul with double pricks, which mine heart splits: 
Whose fainting breath, with sighing Commas broken, 
Draws on the sentence of my death, by pauses; 
Ever prolonging out mine endless clauses 
With "Ifs" Parenthesis, yet find no token 
When with my grief, I should stand even or odd. 
My life still making preparations, 
Through thy love's darts, to bear the Period; 
Yet stumbleth on Interrogations! 
These are those scholar-like vexations 
Which grieve me, when those studies I apply. 
I miss my lesson still! but, with love's rod, 
For each small accent sounded but awry, 
Am I tormented! Yet, I cannot die! 
<POEM> 
<E.3.> 
Sweet thralldom, by LOVE's sweet impression wrought. 
LOVES! in that bondage ever let me live! 
For LOVE hath brought me bondslave, with a thought! 
And to my thoughts, LOVE did me bondman give! 
Ah me, my thoughts' poor prisoner, shall I rest? 
And shall my thoughts make triumph over me? 
First, to fierce famished lions stand addressed! 
Or let huge rocks and mountains cover thee! 
Behold one, to his fancies made a prey! 
A poor ACTEON, with his hounds devoured! 
An oak, with his green ivy worn away! 
A wretch consume' with plenties great down poured! 
A garment with his moth despoiled, and rotten! 
A thorn, with his bred caterpillar cankered! 
A buried CAESAR, with his fame forgotten! 
A friend betrayed by those on whom he anchored! 
Behold a fire consumed with his own heat! 
An iron worn away with his own rust! 
But were mine heart of oak, this rage would eat, 
Still fresh as ivy, mine hard oak to dust! 
And were my pleasures durable as steel, 
Despair would force they should Time's canker feel! 
<POEM> 
<E.4.> 
This day, sweet Mistress! you to me, did write 
(When for so many lines, I begged replyal), 
That "From all hope, you would not bar me quite! 
Nor grant plain (Placet)! nor give dead denial!" 
But in my chamber window, while I read it, 
A waspish bee flew round about me buzzing 
With full-filled flanks, when my Time's flower had fed it, 
(Which there lay strewed); and in my neck, with huzzing, 
She fixed her sting! Then did I take her out; 
And in my window left her, where she died. 
My neck still smarts, and swelleth round about; 
By which her wrath's dear ransom may be tried. 
A mirror to thee, Lady! which I send 
In this small schoede, with commendations tied; 
Who, though the sting and anguish stay with me, 
Yet for revenge, saw his unlucky end. 
Then note th' example of this hapless bee! 
And when to me, thou dost thy sting intend; 
Fear some such punishment should chance to thee 
<POEM> 
<E.5.> 
Are you so waspish that, from time to time, 
You nourish bees! and to so good an end, 
That having sucked your honey, they must climb 
Into your bosom, to bethank their friend! 
And for a sign, that they come to defend, 
Reward you with such weapons as they have! 
Nor was it more than your deserts did crave! 
Not much unlike unto the viper's youngling, 
Who (nourished with the breeder's dearest blood) 
Snarls with his teeth, nor can endure the bongling 
Within the viper's belly, but makes food 
Of her! Thus Nature worketh in her brood. 
So you, forsooth! (nor was it much amiss!) 
Feed snakes, which thankfully both sting and hiss! 
But if that any of our sex did sting you, 
Know this, moreover! Though you bear the prick; 
And though their frowns, to Melancholy bring you: 
Yet are we, seldom, or else never, sick! 
Nor do we die, like bees! but still be quick! 
And soon recovering what we lost before, 
We sting apace! yet still keep stings in store! 
<POEM> 
<E.6.> 
Behold these tears, my love's true tribute payment! 
These plaintive Elegies, my griefs' bewrayers; 
Accoutered, as is meet, in mournful raiment! 
My red-swollen eyen, which were mine heart's betrayers! 
And yet, my rebel eye, excuse prepares, 
That he was never worker of my wayment, 
Plaining my thoughts, that my confusion they meant. 
Which thoughts, with sighs (for incense), make dumb prayers 
T' appease the furies in my martyred breast; 
Which witness my true loves, in long lament. 
And with what agonies I am possessed! 
Ah me, poor man! where shall I find some rest? 
Not in thine eyes, which promise fearful hope! 
Thine heart hath vowed, I shall be still distressed! 
To rest within thine heart, there is no scope! 
All other places made for body's ease, 
As bed, field, forest, and a quiet chamber; 
There, ever am I, with sad cares oppressed! 
Each pleasant spectacle doth me displease! 
Grief and Despair so sore on me did seize, 
That day, with tediousness, doth me molest! 
And PHOEBE, carried in her couch of amber, 
Cannot close up the fountains of my woe! 
Thus days from nights, my charged heart doth not know; 
Nor nights, from days! All hours, to sorrows go! 
Then punish Fancy! cause of thy disease! 
<POEM> 
<E.7.> 
Youth, full of error! whither dost thou hail me? 
Down to the dungeon of mine own conceit! 
Let me, before, take some divine receipt; 
For well I know, my Gaoler will not bail me! 
Then, if thou favor not, all helps will fail me! 
That fearful dungeon, poisoned with Despair, 
Affords no casement to receive sweet air; 
There, ugly visions ever will appall me, 
Vain Youth misguideth soon, with Love's deceit! 
Deeming false painted looks most firmly fair. 
Now to remorseless judges must I sue 
For gracious pardon; whiles they do repeat 
Your bold presumption! threatening me, with you! 
Yet am I innocent, though none bewail me! 
Ah, pardon! pardon! Childish Youth did view 
Those two forbidden apples, which they wished for! 
And children long for that, which once they rue. 
Suffice, he found Repentance! which he fished for, 
With great expense of baits and golden hooks. 
Those living apples do the suit pursue! 
And are you Judges? See their angry looks! 
Where, underneath that wrathful canopy, 
They use to open their condemning books! 
Expect now, nothing but extremity! 
Since they be Judges, and in their own cause 
Their sights are fixed on nought but cruelty: 
Ruling with rigor, as they list! their laws. 
O grant some pity! (placed in Pity's Hall!) 
Since our Forefather (for the like offense) 
With us, received sufficient recompense 
For two fair apples, which procured his fall. 
<POEM>
<E.8.> 
"Cease, Sorrow! Cease, O cease thy rage a little! 
Ah, Little Ease! O, grant some little ease! 
O Fortune, ever constant, never brittle! 
For as thou 'gan, so dost thou still displease. 
Ah, ceaseless Sorrow! take some truce with me! 
Remorseless tyrants, sometime, will take peace 
Upon conditions; and I'll take of thee 
Conditions; so thou wilt, thy fury cease! 
And dear conditions! for to forfeit life, 
So thou wilt end thy plagues, and vex no more!" 
But, out alas! he will not cease his strife! 
Lest he should lose his privilege before! 
For were I dead, my Sorrow's rule were nought, 
And, whiles I live, he, like a Tyrant rageth! 
"Ah, rage, fierce Tyrant! for this grief is wrought 
By Love, thy counsel; which my mind engageth 
To thy fierce thralldom, whiles he spoils mine heart!" 
So be my mind and heart imprisoned fast 
To two fierce Tyrants, which this empire part. 
"O milder Gods! Shall this, for ever, last? 
If that I have these bitter plagues deserved; 
Yet let Repentance (which my soul doth melt) 
Obtain some favor, if you be not swerved 
From laws of mercy!" Know what plagues I felt! 
Yea, but I doubt enchantment in my breast! 
For never man, so much aggrieved as I, 
Could live with ceaseless Sorrow's weight oppressed, 
But twenty thousand times, perforce, should die! 
And with her eyes, She did bewitch mine heart; 
Which lets it live, but feel an endless smart. 
<POEM> 
<E.9.> 
With humble suit, upon my bended knee, 
(Though absent far from hence, not to be seen; 
Yet, in thy power, still present, as gods be) 
I speak these words (whose bleeding wounds be green) 
To thee, dread CUPID! and thy mother Queen! 
"If it, at any time, hath lawful been 
Men mortal to speak with a deity; 
O you great guiders of young Springing Age; 
Whose power immortal ever was, I ween, 
As mighty as your spacious monarchy! 
O spare me! spare my tedious pilgrimage! 
Take hence the least brand of your extreme fires! 
Do not, 'gainst those which yield, fierce battle wage! 
I know by this, you will allay your rage! 
That you give life unto my long desires: 
Which still persuades me, you will pity take. 
Life is far more than my vexed soul desires. 
O take my life! and, after death, torment me! 
Then, though in absence of my chief delight, 
I shall lament alone! My soul requires 
And longs to visit sweet Elizian fields! 
Then, that I loved, it never shall repent me! 
There (till those days of Jubilee shall come), 
Would I walk pensive, pleased, alone, and dumb! 
Grant this petition, sweet love's Queen! (which wields 
The heart of forlorn lovers evermore!) 
Or else Zanclaean CHARBID' me devour! 
And through his waters, sent to Stygian power! 
Or patient, let me burn in Etna's flame! 
Or fling myself, in fury, from the shore, 
Into deep waves of the Leucadian god! 
Rather than bear this tumult and uproar; 
And, through your means, be scourged with mine own rod! 
O let me die, and not endure the same! 
The suit I make, is to be punished still; 
Nor would I wish not to be wretched there, 
But that I might remain in hope and fear! 
Sweet lovely Saints! Let my suit like your will!" 
<POEM> 
<E.10.> 
In quiet silence of the shady night, 
All places free from noise of men and dogs, 
When PHOEBE, carried in her chariot bright, 
Had cleared the misty vapors, and night fogs: 
Then (when no care the quiet shepherd clogs, 
Having his flock safe foddered in the fold) 
A lively Vision, to my Fancy's sight 
Appeared; which, methought, wake I did behold. 
A fiery boy, outmatching the moonlight, 
Who, softly whispering in mine ear, had told 
"There, thou, thy fair PARTHENOPHE may see!" 
I quickly turning, in an heben bed 
With sable covering, and black curtains spread 
With many little LOVES in black, by thee! 
Thee! thee, PARTHENOPHE! left almost dead! 
Pale cold with fear I did behold. Ay me! 
Ah me! left almost senseless in my bed, 
My groans perceived by those which near me lay; 
By them, with much ado recovered. 
Which fearful vision so did me affray 
That, in a fury set beside my wit, 
Sick as before, methought, I saw thee yet 
VENUS, thy face, there covered with a veil; 
(Mine heart with horror chills, to think on it!) 
The Graces kissed thy lips, and went away. 
Then I, with furious raging, did assail 
To kiss thee! lest thou should depart before! 
And then (in sight of those, which there did stand), 
Thinking that I should never see thee more, 
Mistaking thee, I kissed a firebrand! 
Burnt with the fire, my senses (which did fail) 
Freshly recalled into their wits again; 
I found it was a dream! But, Sweet! expound it! 
For that strange dream, with tears renews my pain; 
And I shall never rest, till I have found it. 
<POEM> 
<E.11.> 
Was it decreed by Fate's too certain doom 
That under Cancer's Tropic (where the Sun 
Still doth his race, in hottest circuit run) 
My mind should dwell (and in none other room), 
Where comforts all be burnt before the bloom? 
Was it concluded by remorseless Fate 
That underneath th' Erymanthian Bear, 
Beneath the Lycaonian axletree 
(Where ceaseless snows, and frost's extremity 
Hold jurisdiction) should remain my Fear; 
Where all mine hopes be nipped before the Bear? 
Was it thus ordered that, till my death's date, 
When PHOEBUS runs on our meridian line, 
When mists fall down beneath our hemisphere, 
And CYNTHIA, with dark antipod's doth shine, 
That my Despair should hold his Mansion there? 
Where did the fatal Sisters this assign? 
Even when this judgment to them was awarded; 
The silent Sentence issued from her eyen, 
Which neither pity, nor my cares regarded. 
<POEM>
<E.12.> 
O never can I see that sunny light! 
That bright contriver of my fiery rage! 
Those precious Golden Apples shining bright: 
But, out alas! methinks, some fearful sight 
Should battle, with the dear beholders wage. 
I fear such precious things should have some force 
Them to preserve, lest some beholders might 
Procure those precious apples by their slight. 
Then cruel ATLAS, banished from remorse, 
Enters my thoughts, and how he feared away 
The poor inhabitants which dwelt about; 
Lest some, of his rich fruit should make a prey: 
Although the Orchard, circummured throughout 
With walls of steel was; and a vigil stout 
Of watchful dragons guarded everywhere, 
Which bold attempters vexed with hot pursuit, 
So that none durst approach his fruit for fear. 
Thus, ATLAS-like, thine heart hath dragons set 
Tyrannous Hatred, and a Proud Disdain, 
Which in that Orchard cruelly did reign, 
And with much rigor rule thy lovely eyes! 
Immured in steely walls of chaste Desire, 
Which entrance to poor passengers denies, 
And death's high danger to them that require. 
And even as ATLAS (through fierce cruelty, 
And breach to laws of hospitality; 
When lodging to a stranger he denied) 
Was turned to a stony mountain straight; 
Which on his shoulders, now, supports heaven's weight: 
(A just revenge for cruelty and pride!) 
Even so, thine heart (for inhumanity, 
And wrath to those, that thine eyes' apples love! 
And that it will not lodge a lovely guest) 
Is turned to rock, and doth the burden bear 
Of thousand zealous lovers' dear complaints; 
Whom thou, with thy fierce cruelty, didst tear! 
An huge hard rock, which none can ever move; 
And of whose fruit, no man can be possessed. 
Thy golden smiles make none attempts too dear: 
But when attempted once those apples be, 
The vain Attempter, after, feels the smart; 
Who, by thy dragons, Hatred and Disdain, 
Are torn in sunder with extremity! 
For having entered, no man can get forth 
(So those enchanting apples hinder thee), 
Of such dear prize be things of such rare worth; 
But even as PERSEUS, JOVE's thrice valiant son, 
(Begot of DANAE in a golden shower) 
Huge ATLAS conquered, when he first begun; 
Then killed the dragons with his matchless power: 
At length, the beauteous Golden Apples won. 
So right is he born in a golden hour 
(And for his fortune, may from JOVE descend), 
Who first thine heart (an ATLAS!) hath subdued; 
Next, Hatred and Disdain brought to their end; 
Fierce dragons, which Attempters all pursued, 
And which, before, none ever have eschewed. 
At length, who shall these golden apples gain, 
He shall, alone, be PERSEUS, for his pain! 
<POEM> 
<E.13.> 
Swift ATALANTA (when she lost the prize 
By gathering golden apples in her race) 
Shows how, by th' apples of thine heavenly eyes, 
(Which Fortune did, before my passage place, 
When for mine heart's contentment, I did run) 
How, I was hindered, and my wager lost! 
When others did the wager's worth surprise; 
I viewed thine eyes! Thus eyes viewed to my cost! 
Nor could I them enjoy, when all was done! 
But seeming (as they did) bright as the sun, 
My course I stayed to view their fiery grace; 
Whose sweet possession I could not comprise. 
Th' Idaean Shepherd, when the strife begun 
Amongst three goddesses, as Judge decreed, 
The golden apple to VENUS did award 
(Cause of the waste and downfall of proud Troy). 
But when the Graces had a sweet regard, 
How fair PARTHENOPHE did her exceed; 
And VENUS, now, was from the world debarred: 
One so much fairer far, as too much coy, 
PARTHENOPHE, they chose in VENUS stead. 
And since her beauty VENUS' did outgo, 
Two golden apples were to her assigned! 
Which apples, all th' outrageous tumults breed 
That are heaped up in my distressed mind: 
Whose figure, in inflamed Troy I find; 
The chief occasion of mine endless woe. 
<POEM> 
<E.14.> 
When I remember that accursed night, 
When my dear Beauty said "She must depart! 
And the next morning, leave the City's sight," 
Ah, then! Even then, black Sorrow showed his might! 
And placed his empire in my vanquished heart: 
Mine heart still vanquished, yet assaulted still, 
Burnt with Love's outrage; from whose clear torchlight, 
Fierce Sorrow finds a way to spoil and kill. 
Ah, Sorrow! Sorrow! never satisfied! 
And if not satisfied, work on thy will! 
O dear departure of mine only bliss! 
When willing, from the City thou did ride; 
And I made offer (though then wounded wide) 
To go with thee; thou, rashly, didst refuse 
With me distressed, to be accompanied! 
And binding words (imperious) didst use! 
Commanding me another way to chose. 
Ah then! even then, in spirit crucified, 
Mine eyes, with tears; mine heart, with sighs and throbs; 
Those, almost blind! that, hard swollen, almost burst! 
My brains abjuring harbor to my Muse 
Did leave me choked almost, with strait sobs. 
Ah! be that hour and day, for ever curst; 
Which me, of my life's liberty did rob! 
For, since that time, I never saw my Love! 
Long can we not be severed! I will follow 
Through woods, through mountains, waves, and caves made hollow! 
O Grief! of grief's extremity the worst! 
Still, will I follow! till I find thee out! 
And, if my wish, with travel, will not prove; 
Yet shall my sorrows travel round about 
In wailful Elegies, and mournful Verse, 
Until they find! and Thee, with pity pierce! 
Meanwhile, to see Thee more, standing in doubt; 
I'll sing my Plain Song with the turtle dove; 
And Prick Song, with the nightingale rehearse! 
<POEM> 
<E.15.> 
O dear remembrance of my Lady's eyes, 
In mind whose revolutions I revolve! 
To you, mine heart's bright guide stars! my Soul cries 
Upon some happy Sentence to resolve. 
A Sentence either of my life or death! 
So bail me from the dungeon of Despair! 
On you! I cry, with interrupted breath, 
On you! and none but you! to cross my care. 
My care to cross, lest I be crucified, 
Above the patience of an human soul! 
Do this! ah this! and still be glorified! 
Do this! and let eternities enroll 
Thy fame and name! Let them enroll for ever 
In lasting records of still lasting steel! 
Do this! ah this! and famous still persever! 
Which in another Age, thy ghost shall feel. 
Yet, howsoever, thou, with me shall deal; 
Thy beauty shall persever in my Verse! 
And thine eyes' wound, which thine heart would not heal! 
And my complaints, which could not thine heart pierce! 
And thine hard heart, thy beauty's shameful stain! 
And that foul stain, thine endless infamy! 
So, though Thou still in record do remain, 
The records reckon but thine obloquy! 
When on the paper, which my Passion bears, 
Relenting readers, for my sake! shed tears. 
<POEM> 
<E.16.> 
Ah, were my tears, as many writers' be, 
Mere drops of ink proceeding from my pen! 
Then in these sable weeds, you should not see 
Me severed from society of men! 
Ah me! all colors do mine eyes displease, 
Save those two colors of pure white, and red! 
And yet I dare not flourish it in these, 
Because I cannot! For my color's dead. 
Those colors flourish round about each where, 
But chiefly with my Mistress, in their kind: 
And fain I would her lovely colors wear; 
So that it might be pleasing to her mind! 
But nought will please her over-cruel eye, 
But black and pale, on body, and in face; 
Then She triumphs in beauty's tyranny, 
When she sees Beauty, Beauty can disgrace! 
When her sweet smiling eyes dry VESTA's throne! 
Can blubbered blear-eyes, drown in seas of tears! 
And laughs to hear poor lovers, how they moan! 
Joys in the paper, which her praises bears! 
And, for his sake than sent, that schedule tears! 
What but pale Envy doth her heart assail? 
When She would be still fair, and laugh alone; 
And, for her sake, all others mourn and pale! 
<POEM> 
<E.17> 
Dear Mistress! than my soul, to me much dearer! 
Wonder not that another writes my letter; 
For Sorrow, still, mine heart oppresseth nearer, 
And extreme sickness doth my sinews fetter. 
Of my dear life, to thy love am I debtor! 
Thine is my soul! Than soul, what can be meerer? 
Thine, my chief best! Than that, what can be better? 
Absented far and (that which is far worse) 
Unable either for to go or ride; 
Here am I, in perpetual bondage tied! 
Than if with savage Sauromates, far worse! 
This air is loathsome: and this air, I curse; 
Because, with thy sweet breath it is not blest! 
Though hot; cool waters I cannot abide, 
Since the which thy clear eyes as all the rest. 
Be not, as they sometimes were, purified! 
The ground I tread, my footing doth infest; 
Because it is not hallowed with thy feet! 
I loathe all meat; for all meat is unmeet, 
Which is not eaten, where thy sweet self feedest! 
Nothing is pleasant, lovely, rich, or sweet; 
Which doth not with his grace, thy beauty greet; 
Ah, too dear absence! which this sickness breedest 
Of thy dear Sweet, which cannot be too dear! 
Yet, if thou will vouchsafe my life to save, 
Write but one line! One line, my life will cheer! 
The ransom of my life, thy name will pay! 
And I be freed from my much doubtful fear. 
<POEM> 
<E.18.> 
If neither Love, nor Pity can procure 
Thy ruthless heart subscribe to my content; 
But if thou vow that I shall still endure 
This doubtful fear, which ever doth torment! 
If to thine eyes, thine heart can lend a fire, 
Whiles cold disdain, upon them sets a lock 
To bar forth Pity, which kind hearts desire, 
Whiles the distressed make prayers to a rock! 
If that thine eyes send out a sunny smile 
From underneath a cloudy frown of hate! 
Plain love with counterfeasance, to beguile; 
Which, at thy windows, for some grace await! 
If thou, thine ears can open to thy praise, 
And them, with that report delighted, cherish. 
And shut them, when the Passionate assays 
To plead for pity, then about to perish! 
If thou canst cherish graces in thy cheek, 
For men to wonder at, which thee behold! 
And they find furies, when thine heart they seek, 
And yet prove such as are extremely cold! 
Now as I find no thought to man's conceit; 
Then must I swear, to woman's, no deceit! 
<POEM> 
<E.19.> 
Dear Sorrow! Give me leave to breathe a while! 
A little leave, to take a longer breath! 
Whose easy passage, still, thou dost beguile, 
Choked up with sighs, proclaimers of my death. 
O let the tears of ever-thirsty eyes 
Return back to the channels of mine heart! 
They, to my sight be vowed enemies 
And made a traitorous league not to depart; 
Under the color of tormenting those 
Which were first causers of mine heart's distress. 
And closely with mine heart, by guile, did close 
Through blinding them, to make my torment less; 
O let those fearful thoughts, which still oppress me, 
Turn to the dungeon of my troubled brain! 
Despair t' accompany! which doth possess me, 
And with his venom poisoneth every vein. 
Ugly Despair! who, with black force, assaults 
Me vanquished with conceit, and makes me dwell 
With Horror, matched in Melancholy's vaults! 
Where I lie burning in my Fancies' Hell. 
O thou, dread Ruler of my sorrows' rage! 
Of thee! and none but thee, I beg remorse! 
With thy sweet breath, thou may my sighs assuage! 
And make my sorrows' fountains stay their course, 
And banish black Despair! Then help me, now! 
Or know, Death can do this, as well as thou! 
<POEM> 
<E.20.> 
O dear vexation of my troubled soul! 
My life, with grief, when wilt thou consummate? 
The dear remembrance of my passing soul; 
Mine heart, with some rests, hope doth animate. 
How many have those conquering eyes subdued! 
How many vanquished captives to thine heart! 
Hard iron-hearted Captains (when they viewed) 
Were drawn, till they were wounded with thy dart! 
O when, I, their haired bodies have beheld, 
Their martial stomachs, and oft-wounded face; 
Which bitter tumults and garboils foretelled; 
In which, it seemed they found no coward's place: 
Then, I recalled how far Love's power exceeds, 
Above the bloody menace of rough war! 
Where every wounded heart close inward bleeds; 
And sudden pierced, with twinkling of a star! 
Then (when such iron-hearted Captains be, 
To thine heart's Bulwark, forced for to try 
Which way to win that Fort by battery; 
And how all Conquerors, there conquered lie!) 
Methinks, thine heart, or else thine eyes be made 
(Because they can such iron objects force) 
Of hardest adamant! that men (which laid 
Continual siege) be thralled, without remorse. 
Thine heart, of adamant! because it takes 
The hardest hearts, drawn prisoners unto thine. 
Thine eye! because it, wounded many makes. 
Yet no transpiercing beams can pierce those eyen! 
Thine heart of adamant, which none can wound! 
Thine eye of adamant, unpierced found! 
<POEM> 
<E.21.> 
Happy! depart with speed! Than me, more fortunate ever! 
Poor Letter, go thy ways! unto my sweet Lady's hands! 
She shall look on thee! and then, with her beautiful eyes bless! 
Smiling eyes (perhaps, thee to delight with a glance) 
She shall cast on a line; if a line, there, pleaseth her humor! 
But if a line displease; then shall appear in a frown! 
How much she dislikes thy loves, and saucy salutings! 
O my life's sweet Light! know that a frown of thine eye 
Can transpierce to my soul, more swift than a Parthian arrow; 
And more deeply wound than any lance, or a spear! 
But thy sweet Smiles can procure such contrary motions; 
Which can, alone, that heal, wounded afore by thine eyes! 
Like to the lance's rust, which healed whom warlike ACHILLES 
With right hand valiant, doughtily wounded afore. 
Not unlike to the men, whose grief the scorpion helpeth 
(Whom he, before, did sting), ready to die through pain: 
Thou, that Beauty procures to be thy Chastity's handmaid, 
With Virtue's regiment glorious, ordered alone! 
Thou, that those smooth brows, like plates of ivory planed, 
(When any look on them) canst make appear like a cloud! 
Thou, that those clear eyes, whose light surpasseth a star's
Canst make Love's flames shoot, with cruel anger, abroad! 
Thou, that those fair cheeks, when a man thy beauty beholdeth, 
(Deeply to wound), canst make sweetly to blush like a rose! 
Make thy brows (to delight mine heart!) smooth! Shadow thy clear
eyes! 
(Whose, smile is to my soul, like to the sun from a cloud, 
When he shines to the world in most pride, after a tempest; 
And with his heat provokes all the delights of the ground) 
Grant me, sweet Lady! this! This, grant! kind Pity requesteth! 
Tears and sighs make a suit! Pity me! pity my suit! 
Thus to thy sweet graces, will I leave my dreary bewailings! 
And to thy gracious heart, I recommend my laments! 
Thrice blessed! go thy way, to my Dear! Go, thrice speedy Letter!

And for me, kiss them! since I may not kiss her hands. 
<POEM> 
<D.S.1.> 
Deign, mighty Lord! these verses to peruse, 
Which my black mournful Muse presenteth here! 
Blushing, at her first entrance, in for fear; 
Where of herself, her self She doth accuse, 
And seeking Patronage, bold means doth use 
To show that duty, which in heart I bear 
To your thrice noble House! which shall outwear 
Devouring Time itself, if my poor Muse 
Divine aright: whose virtuous excellence 
She craves, her ruder style to patronize. 
Vouchsafe, then, noble Lord! to give defense: 
Who, when her brighter glory shall arise, 
Shall fly to fetch Fame, from her Fort of Brass; 
Which, with your virtues, through the world shall pass! 
<POEM> 
<D.S.2.> 
Vouchsafe, thrice valiant Lord! this Verse to read, 
When time from cares of more import, permits; 
The too dear charge of mine uncharged wits! 
And that I do my lighter Muses lead 
To kiss your sacred hands! I mildly plead 
For pardon; where all gracious virtue sits. 
Since time of yore, their Lord's first-fruit admits; 
My bashful Muse (which lost her maidenhead 
In too dear travail of my restless Love) 
To you, my Lord! her first-born babe presents! 
Unworthy such a patron! for her lightness. 
Yet deign her zeal! though not the light contents; 
Till, from your virtues (registered above), 
To make her Love more known, she borrow brightness. 
<POEM> 
<D.S.3.> 
Receive, sweet Lord! with thy thrice sacred hand, 
(Which sacred Muses make their instrument) 
These worthless leaves! which I, to thee present! 
(Sprung from a rude and unmanured land) 
That with your countenance graced, they may withstand 
Hundred-eyed Envy's rough encounterment; 
Whose Patronage can give encouragement 
To scorn back-wounding ZOILUS his band. 
Vouchsafe, right virtuous Lord! with gracious eyes, 
(Those heavenly lamps which give the Muses light, 
Which give and take, in course, that holy fire) 
To view my Muse with your judicial sight; 
Whom, when time shall have taught, by flight, to rise 
Shall to thy virtues, of much worth, aspire. 
<POEM> 
<D.S.4.> 
Pride of our English Ladies! never matched! 
Great Favorer of PHOEBUS' offspring! 
In whom, even PHOEBUS is most flourishing! 
Muse's chief comfort! Of the Muses, hatched! 
On whom, URANIA hath so long time watched 
In Fame's rich Fort, with crown triumphing 
Of laurel, ever green in lusty Spring, 
After thy mortal pilgrimage, despatched 
Unto those planets, where thou shalt have place 
With thy late sainted Brother, to give light! 
And with harmonious spheres to turn in race. 
Vouchsafe, sweet Lady! with a forehead bright, 
To shine on this poor Muse; whose first-born fruit, 
That you (of right) would take, she maketh suit! 
<POEM> 
<D.S.5.> 
Sweet Lady! Might my humble Muse presume 
Thy beauties' rare perfection to set out 
(Whom she, Pride of our English Court reputes) 
Ambitious, she would assume 
To blazon everywhere about 
Thy beauty! whose dumb eloquence disputes 
With fair Loves' Queen; and her, by right confutes! 
But since there is no doubt 
But that thy beauty's praise (which shall consume 
Even Time itself) exceedeth 
All British Ladies; deign my Muse's suits! 
Which, unacquainted of your beauty, craves 
Acquaintance! and proceedeth 
T' approach so boldly! and behaves 
Herself so rudely! daunted at your sight; 
As eyes in darkness, at a sudden light. 
<POEM> 
<D.S.6.> 
Rose of that Garland! fairest and sweetest 
Of all those sweet and fair flowers! 
Pride of chaste CYNTHIA's rich crown! 
Receive this Verse, thy matchless beauty meetest! 
Behold thy graces which thou greetest, 
And all the secret powers 
Of thine, and such like beauties, here set down! 
Here shalt thou find thy frown! 
Here, thy sunny smiling! 
Fame's plumes fly with thy Love's, which should be fleetest! 
Here, my loves' tempests and showers! 
These, read, sweet Beauty! whom my Muse shall crown! 
Who for thee! such a Garland is compiling, 
Of so divine scents and colors, 
As is immortal, Time beguiling! 
<POEM> 
<CAN.1.> 
All beauty's far perfections rest in thee! 
And sweetest grace of graces 
Decks thy face, 'bove faces! 
All virtue takes her glory from thy mind! 
The Muses in thy wits have their places! 
And in thy thoughts all mercies be! 
Thine heart from all hardness free! 
An holy place in thy thoughts, holiness doth find! 
In favorable speech, kind! 
A sacred tongue and eloquent! 
Action sweet and excellent! 
Music itself, in joints of her fair fingers is! 
She, Chantress of singers is! 
Her plighted faith is firm and permanent! 
O now! now, help! Wilt thou take some compassion? 
She thinks I flatter, writing on this fashion! 
<STANZA> 
Thy beauty past, with misorder stained is! 
In thee, no graces find rest! 
In thee, who sought it, saw least! 
And all thy thoughts be vain and vicious! 
Thy brains with heavy dullness are oppressed! 
Of thee, no mercy gained is! 
Thine heart, hard and feigned is! 
A mind profane, and of the worst suspicious! 
In speech not delicious! 
A tongue tied, which cannot utter! 
Gesture lame, like words which stutter! 
Thy hands and mind, unapt in music to rejoice! 
For songs unfit, an hoarse voice! 
Thy faith unconstant, whatsoe'er thou mutter! 
Be gracious! No! She thinks my words be bitter! 
Through my misfortunes, they for myself be fitter! 
<STANZA> 
O how long! how long shall I be distressed! 
How long in vain shall I moan! 
How long in pain shall I groan! 
How long shall I bathe in continual tears! 
How long shall I sit sad, and sigh alone! 
How long shall fear discomfort give! 
How long shall hopes let me live! 
How long shall I lie bound in despairs and fears! 
With sorrow still my heart wears! 
My sundry fancies subdue me! 
Thine eyes kill me, when they view me! 
When thou speaks with my soul; thy voice music maketh, 
And souls from silence waketh! 
Thy brow's smiles quicken me; whose frowns slew me! 
Then fair Sweet! behold! See me, poor wretch! in torment! 
Thou perceivest well! but thine heart will not relent. 
<STANZA> 
Mine Eyes and Sleep be fierce professed foes! 
Much care and tears did make it: 
Nor yet will they forsake it; 
But they will vex my brains, and troubled eyes! 
If any sorrow sleep, they will wake it! 
Still, sighing mine heart overthrows! 
Yet art Thou cause of these woes! 
But what avails! if I make to the deaf, such horrible outcries? 
She hears not my miseries! 
O Sorrow! Sorrow, cease a while! 
Let her but look on me and smile! 
And from me, for a time, thou shalt be banished! 
My comforts are vanished! 
Nor hope, nor time, my sorrows can beguile! 
Yet cease I not to cry for mercy! vexed thus; 
But thou wilt not relieve us, which perplexed us! 
<STANZA> 
Ah, would Thou set some limits to my woes! 
That, after such a time set 
(As penance to some crime set), 
Forbearance, through sweet hope, I might endure! 
But as bird (caught in the fowler's lime set) 
No means for his liberty knows; 
Me such despair overgoes, 
That I can find no comfortable hope of cure! 
Then since nothing can procure 
My sweet comfort, by thy kindness; 
(Armed in peace, to bear this blindness) 
I voluntarily submit to this sorrow, 
As erst, each even and morrow. 
Can women's hearts harbor such unkindness? 
O, relent! Relent, and change thy behavior! 
Foul is the name of Tyrant; sweet, of Savior! 
<STANZA> 
Long to the rocks, have I made my complaints! 
And to the woods desolate, 
My plaints went early and late! 
To the forsaken mountains and rivers! 
Yet comfortless, and still disconsolate; 
Mine heart, as it was wonted, faints! 
Such small help comes from such Saints! 
Why should men which in such pain live, be called, Livers? 
Such arrows bear love's quivers. 
Now, since rocks and woods will not hear; 
Nor hills and floods, my sorrows bear; 
In sounding echoes and swift waves, the world about, 
These papers report it out! 
Whose lasting Chronicles shall Time outwear! 
Then, take remorse, dear Love! and to these, united 
Shall be thy mercies! with matchless praise recited. 
<STANZA> 
You hapless winds! with my sighs infected 
Whose fumes, you never let rise 
To please her with sacrifice! 
But evermore, in gross clouds them choked; 
So that my Dear could never them comprise! 
O you (that never detected 
My plaints, but them neglected! 
Which in your murmurs brought, might have her provoked! 
When them with clouds you cloaked!) 
Know that a prouder spirit flies, 
Bearing them to posterities! 
And lays them open wide, that the world may view them; 
That all which read, may rue them; 
When they shall pierce thine ears, though not thine eyes! 
Then, sweet Fair! pity my long service and duty! 
Lest thine hard heart be more famous than thy beauty! 
Then do no longer despise, 
But, with kind pity, relent thee! 
Cease to vex and torment me! 
If Shame's fear move not (which all discovers), 
Fear plague of remorseless lovers! 
<POEM> 
<CAN.2.> 
Sing! sing, PARTHENOPHIL! sing! pipe! and play! 
This feast is kept upon this plain, 
Amongst th' Arcadian shepherds everywhere, 
For ASTROPHEL's birthday! Sweet ASTROPHEL! 
Arcadia's honor! mighty PAN's chief pride! 
Where be the Nymphs? The Nymphs all gathered be 
To sing sweet ASTROPHEL's sweet praise! 
ECHO! record what feasts be kept today 
Amongst th' Arcadian shepherd swain! 
What keep they, whiles they do the Muses cheer? Cheer! 
<STANZA> 
He cheered the Muses with celestial skill! 
All Shepherds' praise died with him, when he died! 
He left no peer! Then, what deserved he, 
At whose pipe's sound, the lambkin bays? Bays! 
<STANZA> 
The bullocks leap! the fawns dance in array! 
Kids skip! The Satyrs friskins fain! 
Here stands an herd of Swains! Fair Nymphs stand there! 
Swains dance! whiles Nymphs with flowers their baskets fill! 
What was he to those Nymphs which garlands tied? Tied! 
<STANZA> 
What tied him? Hath he to tell there bound t'ee? Bounty! 
How! To report his martial days? All days! 
Thrice happy man! that found this happy way! 
His praise all Shepherds' glory stain! 
What doth PARTHENOPHE, my purchase dear? Chase dear! 
What saith She, to her PARTHENOPHIL? O fill! 
<STANZA> 
Shepherds! I fill sweet wines repurified, 
And to his blessed Soul, this health have we! 
Singing sweet Odes and Roundelays! 
Let every man drink round beside this bay! 
Where are the Nymphs and Fairy train? 
STELLA, three garlands in her hand doth bear; 
And those, for his sweet sake! she proffer will, 
Unto th' Elizian souls! And I have spied 
PARTHENOPHE, with spoil returns to me, 
Of three great hearts. Sing Virelays! 
<STANZA> 
Those golden darts fly never void of prey, 
And STELLA sits (as if some Chain 
Of Fancies bound her!) by that motley bier! 
Where, with sweet eglantine and daffodil, 
She, chaplets makes, with gold and scarlet dyed. 
Here, COLIN sits, beneath that oaken tree! 
ELIZA singing in his Lays! 
<STANZA> 
Blest is Arcadia's Queen! Kneel Swains, and say 
That "She (which here chief Nymph doth reign) 
May blessed live! to see th' extremest year!" 
For sacrifice, then, lambs and kidlings kill! 
And be, by them, ELIZA glorified! 
The Flower of Loves, and pure Virginity! 
This Delian Nymph doth amaze! 
<STANZA> 
The fairest deers, which in the forests stay! 
Those harts (which proudest herds disdain; 
And range the forests as without compeer!) 
Submissive, yield themselves! that if She will, 
She, them may wound! or on their swift backs ride! 
Lions and bears, with beauty tameth She! 
Shepherds! for Her! your voices raise! 
<STANZA> 
ECHO! this favor, if I purchase may! 
Do not herdgrooms there feign? They're fain! 
What want they? Speak! now, they be blest, if e'er! Fear! 
What be the confines? Rebels they be still! They be still! 
What is She, that so many Swains doth there guide? Their guide! 
None but herself hath that ability 
To rule so many blessed ways! 
Her thoughts, sure grounded on Divinity; 
For this sweet Nymph, each Shepherd prays! 
<POEM> 
<CAN.3.> 
Sweet is the golden Cowslip bright and fair! 
Ten times more sweet, more golden, fair, and bright, 
Thy Tresses! in rich trammelled knots, resembling. 
VENUS' swan's back is lovely, smooth, and white! 
More lovely, smooth, and white his feathers are, 
The silver lustre of thy Brows dissembling! 
Bright are the Sunbeams, on the water trembling! 
Much brighter, shining like love's holy fire, 
On the well-watered diamonds of those eyes, 
Whose heat's reflection, Love's Affection tries! 
Sweet is the Censer, whose fume doth aspire 
Appeasing LOVE, when for revenge he flies! 
More sweet the Censer, like thy seemly Nose! 
Whose beauty (than Invention's wonder higher!) 
Nine times nine Muses never could disclose. 
<STANZA> 
Sweet Eglantine, I cannot but commend 
Thy modest rosy blush! pure, white, and red! 
Yet I thy white and red praise more and more 
In my sweet Lady's Cheeks since they be shed. 
When Grapes to full maturity do tend, 
So round, so red, so sweet, all joy before 
Continually I long for them therefore 
To suck their sweet, and with my lips to touch! 
Not so much for the Muses' nectar sake, 
But that they from thy Lips their purple take. 
Sweet! pardon, though I thee compare to such. 
Proud Nature, which so white LOVE's doves did make, 
And framed their lovely heads, so white and round. 
How white and round! It doth exceed so much, 
That nature nothing like thy Chin hath found! 
<STANZA> 
Fair Pearls, which garnish my sweet Lady's neck: 
Fair orient pearls! O, how much I admire you! 
Not for your orient gloss, or virtue's rareness, 
But that you touch her Neck, I much desire you! 
Whose whiteness so much doth your lustre check, 
As whitest lilies the Primrose in fairness; 
A neck most gorgeous, even in Nature's bareness. 
Divine Rosebuds, which, when Spring doth surrender 
His crown to Summer, he last trophy reareth; 
By which he, from all seasons, the palm beareth! 
Fair purple crisped folds sweet-dewed and tender; 
Whose sweetness never wears, though moisture weareth, 
Sweet ripe red Strawberries, whose heavenly sap 
I would desire to suck; but Loves engender 
A nectar more divine in thy sweet Pap! 
<STANZA> 
O lovely tender paps! but who shall press them 
Whose heavenly nectar, and ambrosial juice 
Proceed from Violets sweet, and asier-like, 
And from the matchless purple {Fleur de luce}. 
Round rising hills, white hills (sweet VENUS bless them!) 
Nature's rich trophies, not those hills unlike, 
Which that great monarch, CHARLES, whose power did strike 
From th' Arctic to th' Antarctic, dignified 
With proud {Plus ultra}: which {Cerography} 
In unknown Characters of Victory, 
Nature hath set; by which she signified 
Her conquests' miracle reared up on high! 
Soft ivory balls! with which, whom she lets play, 
Above all mortal men is magnified, 
And wagers 'bove all price shall bear away! 
<STANZA>
O Love's soft hills! how much I wonder you! 
Between whose lovely valleys, smooth and straight, 
That glassy moisture lies, that slippery dew! 
Whose courage touched, could dead men animate! 
Old NESTOR (if between, or under you! 
He should but touch) his young years might renew! 
And with all youthful joys himself indue! 
O smooth white satin, matchless, soft, and bright! 
More smooth than oil! more white than lily is! 
As hard to match, as Love's Mounts hilly is! 
As soft as down! clear, as on glass sunlight! 
To praise your white, my tongue too much silly is! 
How much at your smooth soft, my sense amazed is! 
Which charms the feeling, and enchants the sight; 
But yet her bright, smooth, white, soft Skin more praised is! 
<STANZA> 
How oft have I, the silver Swan commended 
For that even chesse of feathers in her wing! 
So white! and in such decent order placed! 
When she, the doly Dirge of Death did sing, 
With her young mournful cygnets' train attended! 
Yet, not because the milk-white wings her graced, 
But when I think on my sweet Lady's Waist, 
Whose ivory sides, a snowy shadow gives 
Of her well-ordered ribs, which rise in falling! 
How oft, the swan I pitied, her death calling, 
With dreary notes! Not that she so short lives, 
And 'mongst the Muses sings for her installing; 
But that so clear a white should be disdained 
With one that for Love's sugared torment lives! 
And makes that white a plague to lovers pained. 
<STANZA> 
O, how oft! how oft did I chide and curse 
The brethren Winds, in their power disagreeing! 
East, for unwholesome vapor! South, for rain! 
North, for, by snows and whirlwinds, bitter being! 
I loved the West, because it was the Nurse 
To FLORA's gardens, and to CERES' grain! 
Yet, ten times more these, I did curse again! 
Because they were inconstant and unstable 
In drought! in moisture! frosty cold! and heat! 
Here, with a sunny smile! There, stormy threat! 
Much like my Lady's fancies variable! 
How oft with feet, did I the marble beat; 
Harming my feet, yet never hurt the stone! 
Because, like her, it was impenetrable, 
And her heart's nature with it, was all one? 
<STANZA> 
O that my ceaseless sighs and tears were able 
To counter charm her heart! to stone converted. 
I might work miracles to change again 
The hard to soft! that it might rue my pain. 
But of herself she is so straitly skirted 
(Falsely reputing True Love, Honor's Stain) 
That I shall never move, and never die, 
So many ways her mind I have experted! 
Yet shall I live, through virtue of her eye! 
<POEM>
<EIDILL.> 
VENUS aloud, for her son CUPID cried, 
"If any spy LOVE gadding in the street, 
It is my rogue! He that shall him betray, 
For hire, of VENUS shall have kisses sweet! 
But thou that brings him, shall have more beside, 
Thou shalt not only kiss, but as guest stay! 
By many marks, the Boy thou mayst bewray! 
'Mongst twenty such beside, thou shalt perceive him! 
Not of a pale complexion, but like fire! 
Quick rolling eyes, and flaming in their gyre! 
False heart! Sweet words, which quickly will deceive him, 
To whom he speaks! Sweet speech, at your desire; 
But vex him! then, as any wasp he stingeth! 
Lying, and false! if you receive him; 
A crafty lad! and cruel pastimes bringeth! 
<STANZA> 
A fair curled head, and a right waggish face! 
His hands are small; yet he shoots far away! 
For even so far as Acheron, he shooteth! 
And to th' Infernal Monarch, his darts stray. 
Clotheless, he, naked goes in every place! 
And yet to know his thoughts, it no man booteth! 
Swift, as a bird, he flies! and quickly footeth, 
Now to these men! and women, now to those! 
But yet he sits within their very marrow 
A little bow, and in that bow, an arrow! 
A small flight-shaft, but still to heavenward goes! 
About his neck, a golden dart-barrow! 
In which, he placeth every bitter dart; 
Which, often, even at me! he throws! 
All full of cruelty! all full of smart! 
And yet this thing more wondrous! A small brand 
That even the very sun itself doth burn! 
<STANZA> 
If him thou take; pitiless, lead him, bound! 
And, if thou chance to see him weep, return! 
Then (lest he thee deceive), his tears withstand! 
And if he laugh, draw him along the ground! 
If he would kiss, refuse! His lips confound! 
For those alone be poisoned evermore! 
But if he say, "Take! these I give to thee! 
All those my weapons which belong to me!" 
Touch them not, when he lays them, thee before! 
Those gifts of his, all false and fiery be!" 
</FILE>
<FILE Grcaelic.d>
<AUTH> Fulke Greville
<TITLE>Caelica
<NOTES> edit G. Yerovsek Spring 1990
<POEM>
<1>
Love, the delight of all well-thinking minds;
Delight, the fruit of virtue dearly lov'd;
Virtue, the highest good, that reason finds;
Reason, the fire wherein men's thoughts be prov'd;
Are from the world by Nature's power bereft,
And in one creature, for her glory, left.
Beauty, her cover is, the eyes' true pleasure;
In honor's fame she lives, the ears' sweet music;
Excess of wonder grows from her true measure;
Her worth is passion's wound, and passion's physic;
From her true heart, clear springs of wisdom flow,
Which imag'd in her words and deeds, men know.
Time fain would stay, that she might never leave her,
Place doth voice, that she must needs contain her,
Death craves of Heaven, that she may not bereave her,
The Heavens know their own, and do maintain her;                 
Delight, love, reason, virtue let it be,
To set all women light, but only she.
<STANZA>
<2>
Fair dog, which so my heart doth tear asunder,
That my life's blood, my bowels overfloweth,
Alas, what wicked rage conceal'st thou under
These sweet enticing joys, thy forehead showeth?
Me, whom the light-wing'd god of long hath chased,
Thou hath attain'd, thou gave'st that fatal wound,
Which my soul's peaceful innocence hath rased,
And reason to her servant humor bound.
Kill therefore in the end, and end my anguish,
Give me my death, methinks even time upbraideth
A fullness of the woes, wherein I languish:
Or if thou wilt I live, then pity pleadeth
Help out of thee, since Nature hath revealed,
That with thy tongue thy bitings may be healed.
<STANZA>
<3>
More than most fair, full of that heavenly fire,
Kindled above to show the Maker's glory,
Beauty's first born, in whom all powers conspire,
To write the Graces' life, and Muses' story.
If in my heart all saints else be defaced,
Honor the shrine, where you alone are placed.
Thou window of the sky, and pride of spirits,
True character of honor in perfection,
Thou heavenly creature, judge of earthly merits,
And glorious prison of man's pure affection,
If in my heart all nymphs else be defaced,
Honor the shrine, where you alone are placed.
<STANZA>
<4>
You little stars that live in skies,
And glory in Apollo's glory,
In whose aspects conjoined lies
The Heavens' will, and Nature's story,
Joy to be liken'd to those eyes,
Which eyes make all eyes glad, or sorry,
For when you force thoughts from above
These overrule your force by love.
And thou O Love, which in these eyes
Hath married reason with affection,
And made them saints of beauty's skies,
Where joys are shadows of perfection,
Lend me thy wings that I may rise
Up not by worth but thy election;
For I have vow'd in strangest fashion,
To love, and never seek compassion.
<STANZA>
<5>
Who trusts for trust, or hopes of love for love,
Or who belov'd in Cupid's laws doth glory;
Who joys in vows, or vows not to remove,
Who by this light god, hath not been made sorry;
Let him see me eclipsed from my sun,
With shadows of an earth bite overrun.
Who thinks that sorrows felt, desires hidden,
Or humble faith with constant honor armed,
Can keep love from the fruit that is forbidden,
(Change I do mean by no faith to be charmed,)
Looking on me, let him know, love's delights
Are treasures hid in caves, but kept with sprites. 
<STANZA>
<6>
Eyes, why did you bring unto me those graces,
Grac'd to yield wonder out of her true measure,
Measure of all joys, stay to fancy-traces,
Model of pleasure?
Reason is now grown a disease in reason,
Thoughts knit upon thoughts free alone to wonder,
Sense is a spy, made to do fancy treason,
Love go I under.
Since then eyes' pleasure to my thoughts betray me,
And my thoughts reason's level have defaced;
So that all my powers to be hers, obey me,
Love be thou graced.
Grac'd by me, love? No, by her that owes me.
She that an angel's spirit hath retained
In Cupid's fair sky, which her beauty shows me,
Thus have I gained.
<STANZA>   
<7>
The world, that all contains, is ever moving,
The stars within their spheres for ever turned,
Nature (the queen of change) to change is loving,
And form to matter new, is still adjourned. 
Fortune our fancy-god, to vary liketh,
Place is not bound to things within it placed,
The present time upon time passed striketh,
With Phoebus' wandering course the earth is graced.
The air still moves, and by its moving cleareth,
The fire up ascends, and planets feedeth,
The water passeth on, and all lets weareth,
The earth stands still, yet change of changes breedeth;
Her plants, which summer ripes, in winter fade,
Each creature in unconstant mother lieth,
Man made of earth, and for whom earth is made,
Still dying lives, and living ever dieth;
Only like fate sweet Myra never varies,
Yet in her eyes the doom of all change carries.
<STANZA>
<8>
Self-pity's tears, wherein my hope lies drown'd,
Sighs from thought's fire, where my desires languish,
Despair by humble love of beauty crown'd,
Furrows not worn by time, but wheels of anguish;
Dry up, smile, joy, make smooth, and see
Furrows, despairs, sighs, tears, in beauty be.
Beauty, out of whose clouds my heart tears rained,
Beauty, whose niggard fire sighs' smoke did nourish,
Beauty,in whose eclipse despairs remained,
Beauty, whose scorching beams make wrinkles Sourish;
Time hath made free of tears, sighs, and despair,
Writing in furrows deep; she once was fair. 
<STANZA>
<9>
O Love, thou mortal sphere of powers divine,
The paradise of nature in perfection,
What makes thee thus thy kingdom undermine,
Veiling thy glories under woe's reflection?
Tyranny counsel out of fear doth borrow,
To think her kingdom safe in fear and sorrow.
If I by nature, wonder and delight,
Had not sworn all my powers to worship thee,
Justly mine own revenge receive I might,
And see thee, tyrant, suffer tyranny:
See thee thy self-despair, and sorrow breeding,
Under the wounds of woe and sorrow bleeding.
For sorrow holds man's life to be her own,
His thoughts her stage, where tragedies she plays,
Her orb she makes his reason overthrown, 
His love foundations for her ruins lay;
So as while love will torments of her borrow,
Love shall become the very love of sorrow.
Love therefore speak to Caelica for me,
Show her thy self in everything I do;
Safely thy powers she may in others see,
And in thy power see her glories too;
Move her to pity, stay her from disdain,
Let never man love worthiness in vain.
<STANZA>
<10>
Love, of man's wandering thoughts the restless being,
Thou from my mind with glory was invited,
Glory of those fair eyes, where all eyes, seeing
Virtue's and beauty's riches, are delighted;
What angel's pride, or what self-disagreeing,
What dazzling brightness hath your beams benighted,
That fallen thus from those joys which you aspired,
Down to my darken'd mind you are retired?
Within which mind since you from thence ascended,
Truth clouds itself, wit serves but to resemble,
Envy is king, at others' good offended,
Memory doth worlds of wretchedness assemble,
Passion to ruin passion is intended,
My reason is but power to dissemble;
Then tell me Love, what glory you divine
Yourself can find within this soul of mine?
Rather go back unto that heavenly choir
Of Nature's riches, in her beauties placed,
And there in contemplation feed desire,
Which till it wonder, is not rightly graced;
For those sweet glories, which you do aspire,
Must as ideas only be embraced,
Since excellence in other form enjoyed,
Is by descending to her saints destroyed. 
<STANZA>
<11>
Juno, that on her head Love's livery carried,
Scorning to wear the marks of Io's pleasure,
Knew while the boy in Equinoctial tarried,
His heats would rob the heaven of heavenly treasure,
Beyond the Tropics she the boy doth banish,
Where smokes must warm, before his fire doth blaze,
And children's thoughts not instantly grow mannish,
Fear keeping lust there very long at gaze:
But see how that poor goddess was deceived,
For women's hearts far colder there than ice,
When once the fire of lust they have received,
With two extremes so multiply the vice,
As neither party satisfying other,
Repentance still becomes desire's mother.
<STANZA>
<12>
Cupid, thou naughty boy, when thou were loathed,
Naked and blind, for vagabonding noted,
Thy nakedness I in my reason clothed,
Mine eyes I gave thee, so was I devoted.
Fie, wanton, fie; who would show children kindness?
No sooner he into mine eyes was gotten,
But straight he clouds them with a seeing blindness,
Makes reason wish that reason were forgotten. 
From thence to Myra's eyes the wanton strayeth,
Where while I charge him with ungrateful measure,
So with fair wonders he mine eyes betrayeth,
That my wounds, and his wrongs, become my pleasure;
Till for more spite to Myra's heart he flieth,
Where living to the world, to me he dieth.
<STANZA>
<13>
Cupid, his boy's play many times forbidden
By Venus, who thinks Mars' best manhood boyish,
While he shot all, still for not shooting chidden,
Weeps himself blind to see that sex so coyish.
And in this blindness wand'reth many places,
Till his foe Absence, hath him prisoner gotten,
Who breaks his arrows, bow and wings defaces,
Keeps him till he his boy's play hath forgotten.
Then lets him loose, no god of years but hours,
Cures and restores him all things, but his blindness,
Forbids him nothing but the constant powers,
Where Absence never can have power of kindness:
Ladies, this blind boy that ran from his mother,
Will ever play the wag with one or other.
<STANZA>
<14>
Why how now reason, how are you amazed?
Is worth in beauty, shrin'd up to be loathed?
Shall nature's riches by yourself be razed?
In what but these can you be finely clothed? 
Though Myra's eyes, glasses of joy and smart,
Daintily shadow'd, show forth love and fear,
Shall fear make reason from her right depart?
Shall lack of hope, the love of worth forbear?
Where is the homage then that nature oweth?
Love is a tribute to perfection due,
Reason in self-love's livery bondage showeth,
And hath no freedom, Myra, but in you;
Then worth, love, reason, beauty be content,
In Myra only to be permanent.
<STANZA>
<15>
When gentle beauty's over-wanton kindness,
Had given love the liberty of playing,
Change brought his eyesight by and by to blindness,
Still hatching in excess her own decaying;
Then cut I self-love's wings to lend him feathers,
Gave him mine eyes to see, in Myra's glory,
Honor and beauty reconcil'd together
Of love, the birth, the fatal tomb and story.
Ah wag, no sooner he that sphere had gotten,
But out of Myra's eyes my eyes he woundeth;
And, but his boy's play having all forgotten,
His heat in her chaste coldness so confoundeth,
As he that burns must freeze, who trusts must fear,
Ill-quarter'd coats, which yet all lovers bear.
<STANZA>
<16>
Fie foolish earth, think you the heaven wants glory,
Because your shadows do yourself benight?
All's dark unto the blind, let them be sorry,
The heavens in themselves are ever bright.
Fie fond desire, think you that love wants glory,
Because your shadows do yourself benight?
The hopes and fears of lust, may make men sorry,
But love still in herself finds her delight.
Then earth stand fast, the sky that you benight
Will turn again, and so restore your glory;
Desire be steady, hope is your delight,
An orb wherein no creature can be sorry;
Love being plac'd above the middle regions,
Where every passion wars itself with legions.
<STANZA>
<17>
Cynthia, whose glories are at full for ever,
Whose beauties draw forth tears, and kindles fires,
Fires, which kindled once are quenched never,
So beyond hope your worth bears up desires.
Why cast you clouds on your sweet looking eyes?
Are you afraid they show me too much pleasure?
Strong Nature decks the grave wherein it lies,
Excellence can never be expressed in measure. 
Are you afraid, because my heart adores you,
The world will think I hold Endymion's place?
Hippolytus, sweet Cynthia, kneel'd before you,
Yet did you not come down to kiss his face.
Angels enjoy the heavens' inward choirs:
Star-gazers only multiply desires.
<STANZA>
<18>
I offer wrong to my beloved saint,
I scorn, I change, I falsify my love,
Absence and time have made my homage faint,
With Cupid I do everywhere remove.
I sigh,I sorrow, I do play the fool,
Mine eyes like weather-cocks, on her attend:
Zeal thus on either side she puts to school,
That will needs have inconstancy to friend.
I grudge, she says, that many should adore her,
Where love doth suffer, and think all things meet,
She says, All self-ness must fall down before her:
I say, Where is the sauce should make that sweet?
Change and contempt (you know) ill speakers be:
Caelica: and such are all your thoughts of me.
<STANZA>
<19>
Ah silly Cupid, do you make it coy
To keep your seat in Cala's furrow'd face?
Think in her beauty what you did enjoy,
And do not service done you so disgrace. She that refus'd not any
shaft you shot,
Lent dews to youth, and sparks to old desire;
If such flat homage be so soon forgot,
Many good fellows will be out of hire.
Good archers ever have two bows at least,
With beauty faded shoot the elder sort;
For though all be not to shoot at the best,
Yet archers with their butting-bows make sport:
The glory that men in good kingdoms see,
Is when both young, and old in traffic be.
<STANZA>
<20>
Why how now Cupid, do you covet change?
And from a stealer to a keeper's state,
With barking dogs do you the coverts range,
That carried bread to still them but of late?
What shall we do that with your bow are wounded?
Your bow which blindeth each thing it doth hit,
Since fear and lust in you are so confounded,
As your hot fire bears water still in it.
Play not the fool, for though your dogs be good,
Hardly loud, earnest, and of little sleep,
Yet mad desires with cries are not withstood,
They must be better arm'd that mean to keep:
And since unweapon'd care makes men forlorn,
Let me first make your dog an unicorn. 
<STANZA>
<21>
Satan, no woman, yet a wandering spirit,
When he saw ships sail two ways with one wind,
Of sailors' trade he hell did disinherit:
The Devil himself loves not a steadfast mind.
The satyr when he saw the shepherd blow
To warm his hands, and make his pottage cool,
Manhood forswears, and half a beast did know,
Nature with double breath is put to school.
Cupid doth head his shafts in women's faces,
Where smiles and tears dwell ever near together,
Where all the arts of change give passion graces;
While these clouds threaten, who fears not the weather?
Sailors and satyrs, Cupid's knights, and I,
Fear women that swear, Nay; and know they lie.
<STANZA>
<22>
I with whose colors Myra dress'd her head,
I, that wore posies of her own hand making,
I, that mine own name in the chimneys read
By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking:
Must I look on, in hope time coming may
With change bring back my turn again to play?
I, that on Sunday at the church-sale found,
A garland sweet, with true-love knots in flowers,
Which I to wear about mine arm was bound,
That each of us might know that all was ours:
Must I now lead an idle life in wishes?
And follow Cupid for his loaves, and fishes? I, that did wear the
ring her mother left,
I, for whose love she gloried to be blamed,
I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft,
I, who did make her blush when I was named;
Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft and go naked,
Watching with sighs, till dead love be awaked?
I, that when drowsy Argus fell asleep,
Like jealousy o'erwatched with desire,
Was even warned modesty to keep,
While her breath, speaking, kindled Nature's fire:
Must I look on a-cold, while others warm them?
Do Vulcan's brothers in such fine nets arm them?
Was it for this that I might Myra see
Washing the water with her beauties, white?
Yet would she never write her love to me;
Thinks wit of change while thoughts are in delight?
Mad girls must safely love, as they may leave,
No man can print a kiss, lines may deceive.
<STANZA>
<23>
Merlin, they say, an English prophet born,
When he was young and govern'd by his mother,
Took great delight to laugh such fools to scorn,
As thought, by nature we might know a brother.
His mother chid him often, till on a day,
They stood, and saw a corpse to burial carried,
The father tears his beard, doth weep and pray;
The mother was the woman he had married. Merlin laughs out aloud
instead of crying;
His mother chides him for that childish fashion;
Says, Men must mourn the dead, themselves are dying,
Good manners doth make answer unto passion.
The child (for children see what should be hidden)
Replies unto his mother by and by,
`Mother, if you did know, and were forbidden,
Yet you would laugh as heartily, as I.
`This man no part hath in the child he sorrow,
His father was the monk that sings before him:
See then how nature of adoption borrows,
Truth covets in me, that I should restore him.
True fathers singing, supposed fathers crying,
I think make women laugh, that lie a-dying.'
<STANZA>
<24>
Painting, the eloquence of dumb conceit,
When it would figure forth confused passion,
Having no tables for the world's receipt,
With few parts of a few, doth many fashion.
Who then would figure worthiness disgraced,
Nature and wit imprisoned, or starved,
Kindness a scorn, and courtesy defaced,
If he do well paint want, hath well deserved.
But who, his art in worlds of woe, would prove,
Let him within his heart but cipher love.
<STANZA>
<25>
Cupid, my pretty boy, leave off thy crying,
Thou shall have bells or apples; be not peevish;
Kiss me sweet lad; beshrew her for denying;
Such rude denials do make children thieves. 
Did reason say that boys must be restrained?
What was it, tell: hath cruel honor chidden?
Or would they have thee from sweet Myra weaned?
Are her fair breasts made dainty to be hidden?
Tell me (sweet boy,) doth Myra's beauty threaten?
Must you say grace when you would be a-playing?
Doth she cause thee make faults, to make thee beaten?
Is beauty's pride in innocents' betraying?
Give me a bow, let me thy diver borrow,
And she shall play the child with love, or sorrow.
<STANZA>
<26>
Was ever man so overmatch'd with boy?
He plays and dallies me with every toy;
With pretty stealths, he makes me laugh and wonder.
When with the child, the child-thoughts of mine own
Do long to play and toy as well as he,
The boy is sad, and melancholy grown,
And with one humor cannot long agree.
Straight do I scorn and bid the child away
The boy knows fury, and soon showeth me
Caelica's sweet eyes, where love and beauty play,
Fury turns into love of that I see.
If these mad changes do make children gods,
Women, and children are not far at odds.
<STANZA>
<27>
Cupid, in Myra's fair bewitching eyes,
(Where beauty shows the miracles of pleasure)
When thou lays bound for honor's sacrifice,
Sworn to thy hate, equality and measure,
With open hand thou offered me her heart,
Thy bow and arrow, if I would conspire,
To ruin honor, with whose frozen art
She tyranniz'd thy kingdom of desire.
I glad to dwell, and reign in such perfections,
Gave thee my reason, memory, and sense,
In them to work thy mystical reflections,
Against which nature can have no defense;
And will thou now to nourish my despair                      
Both head and feather all thy shafts with fear?
<STANZA>
<28>
You faithless boy, persuade you me to reason?
With virtue do you answer my affection?
Virtue, which you with livery and seisin
Have sold and changed out of your protection.
When you lay flattering in sweet Myra's eyes,
And played the wanton both with worth and pleasure,
In beauty's field you told me virtue dies,
Excess and infinite in love, was measure. 
I took your oath of dalliance and desire,
Myra did so inspire me with her graces,
But like a wag that sets the straw on fire,
You running to do harm in other places,
Sware what is felt with hand, or seen with eye,
As mortal, must feel sickness, age, and die.
<STANZA>
<29>
Faction, that ever dwells
In courts where wit excels,
Hath set defiance:
Fortune and love have sworn,
That they were never born,
Of one alliance.
Cupid, that doth aspire
To be god of desire,
Swears he gives laws:
That where his arrows hit,
Some joy, some sorrow it,
Fortune no cause.
Fortune swears weakest hearts,
The books of Cupid's arts,
Turn with her wheel:
Senses themselves shall prove,
Venture hath place in love,
Ask them that feel.
This discord it begot
Atheists, that honor not
Nature, thought good;
Fortune should ever dwell
In courts, where wits excel:
Love keeps the wood. 
Thus to the wood went I
With love to live and die;
Fortune's forlorn:
Experience of my youth
Thus makes me think the truth
In desert born.
My saint is dear to me,
Myra herself is she,
She fair, and true:
Myra that knows to move,
Passions of love with love:
Fortune Adieu.
<STANZA>
<30>
Rome, while thy senate governors did choose,
Your soldiers flourish'd, citizens were free,
Thy state by change of consuls did not lose,
They honor'd were that serv'd or ruled thee:
But after thy proud legions gave thee laws,
That their bought voices empire did bestow,
Worthiness no more was of election cause,
Authority her owners did not know.
Sweet Myra, while good will your friends did choose,
Passions were dainty, sweet desires free,
By one friend marriage did no honor lose,
They were esteem'd, that serv'd or ruled thee: 
But after flattering change did give thee laws,
That her false voices did thy faith bestow,
Worthiness no more was of affection cause,
Desire did many heads like monsters show;
Thus Rome and Myra acting many parts,
By often changes lost commanding arts.
<STANZA>
<31>
Good-fellows whom men commonly do call,
Those that do live at war with truth, and shame,
If once to love of honesty they fall,
They both lose their goodfellows, and their name;
For thieves, whose riches rest in others' wealth,
Whose rents are spoils, and others' thrift their gain,
When they grow bankrupts in the art of stealth,
Booties to their old fellows they remain.
Cupid, thou free of these goodfellows art:
For while man cares not who, so he be one,
Thy wings, thy bow, thy arrows take his part,
He neither lives, nor loves, nor lies alone;
But be he once to Hymen's close yoke sworn,
Thou straight brav'st this goodfellow with the horn.
<STANZA>
<32>
Heavens! I see how bringing up corrupts or betters;
Cupid long prentice to his mother bound,
Hath taken oath, only to scape her fetters,
That he will still like to herself be found. 
Which is fair in his youth, in old age painted,
Kind out of lust, and humble for his pleasure,
Not long agreeing with things long acquainted,
Covetous, yet prodigal of fame and treasure.
Now as they wrong themselves, that for it thunders
Blame sky, or air, wherein these tempests blow:
So doth he that at women's changes wonders,
Since strange it should not be that all men know:
Therefore if Myra change as others do,
Free her; but blame the son, and mother too.
<STANZA>
<33>
Cupid, thy folly blears sweet Myra's eyes,
For like the blind, that upwards look for light,
You fix those fatal stars on Fortune's skies,
As though such planets gave not Fortune might.
Base boy, what heart will do him sacrifice,
That wraps repentance in his greatest pleasure?
And his true servants under Fortune ties,
As though his own coin were no current treasure?
Must Danae's lap be wet with golden showers?
Or through the seas must bulls Europa bear?
Must Leda only serve the higher powers?
Base changeling boy, and would thou have me swear,
The well-known secrets of Astolfo's cup,
Not to disclose, but with white wax seal up? 
<STANZA>
<34>
The gods to show they joy not in offenses,
Nor plague of human nature do desire,
When they have made their rods and whipt our senses,
They throw the rods themselves into the fire.
Then Cupid, thou whom man hath made a god,
Be like thy fellow gods in weight and fashion,
And now my faults are punish'd, burn the rod
In fires blown with many-headed passion.
Thy rod is Worth, in Myra's beauty plac'd,
Which like a sun hath power to burn another,
And though itself can no affections taste,
To be in all men else affection's mother:
Therefore if thou will prove thyself a god,
In thy sweet fires, let me burn this fair rod.
<STANZA>
<35>
Cupid, my little boy, come home again,
I do not blame thee for thy running hence,
Where thou found nothing but desire's pain,
Jealousy, with self-unworthiness, offense.
Alas, I cannot Sir, I am made lame,
I light no sooner in sweet Myra's eyes,
(Whence I thought joy and pleasure took their name)
But my right wing of wanton passion dies. 
And I poor child am here instead of play,
So whipt and scourg'd with modesty and truth,
As having lost all hope to scape away,
I yet take pleasure to entice hither youth:
That my school-fellows plagu'd as well as I,
May not make merry, when they hear me cry.
<STANZA>
<36>
Kings that in youth like all things else, are fine,
Have some who for their childish faults are beaten;
When more years unto greater vice incline,
Some, whom the world doth for their errors threaten:
So Cupid, you, who boast of prince's blood,
For women's prince-like weaknesses are blamed,
And common error, yet not understood,
Makes you for their new-fangleness, defamed.
Poor women swear, they ignorant of harms,
With gentle minds perchance take easy motions;
Sweet nature yielding to the pleasing charms
Of man's false lust disguised with devotion;
But which are worse, kings ill, or easily led,
Schools of this truth are yet not brought a-bed.
<STANZA>
<37>
A thief, risen early up to seek his prey,
Spieth a pretty boy, whereas he lay,
Crying fast by a well:
He wills him why to tell,
And swears to make him well, if that he may 
The pretty boy smileth, and thanketh the man,
Told him, that he hath fall'n his father's can,
All of gold in the deep
Which loss did make him weep;
Prayeth him counsel keep; help if he can.
The man not for conscience, but only for hope,
Puts off his clothes, goes down by the rope,
Meaning to have the cup,
If he can get it up;
He spills that steals a sup; haste loseth hope.
For while in the water the false fellow sought,
The pretty boy steals his cloak, well was he taught:
Wet comes the fellow up,
He cannot find the cup;
His cloak is taken up; falsehood is nought.
Little lad Cupid, by night and by day,
Wonted in beauty's face wanton to play,
Fast bound and prison'd lies,
In Myra's stealing eyes,
Woefully whence he cries, to run away.
l asked the boy, the boy telleth his case,
He says, that virtue seeks beauty's disgrace,
Virtue that grieves to find,
With what an humble mind,
Men are to beauty kind, and her deface.
Virtue thinks all this is long of my bow,
Which hiding her beauties do counterfeits show,
And beauty virtues arm,
With such a modest charm,
As my shafts do no harm: she can say, No.
</FILE>
<FILE Grepoems.d>
<AUTH> Robert Greene
<TITLE> Poems
<NOTES> fr. Dyce, Ed., 1831; Shakespeare Society, 1844.>
<POEM>
<1. Menaphon's Eclogue, fr. Menaphon, 1589>
Too weak the wit, too slender is the brain, 
That means to mark the power and worth of love; 
Not one that lives, except he hap to prove, 
Can tell the sweet, or tell the secret pain.
<STANZA>
Yet I that have been 'prentice to the grief, 
Like to the cunning sea-man from afar, 
By guess will take the beauty of that star, 
Whose influence must yield me chief relief.
<STANZA>
You censors of the glory of my dear, 
With reverence and lowly bent of knee, 
Attend and mark what her perfections be; 
For in my words my fancies shall appear.
<STANZA>
Her locks are plighted like the fleece of wool 
That Jason with his Grecian mates achiev'd; 
As pure as gold, yet not from gold deriv'd; 
As full of sweets, as sweet of sweets is full.
<STANZA>
Her brows are pretty tables of conceit, 
Where love his records of delight doth quote; 
On them her dallying locks do daily float, 
As love full oft doth feed upon the bait.
<STANZA>
Her eyes, fair eyes, like to the purest lights 
That animate the sun, or cheer the day; 
In whom the shining sunbeams brightly play, 
Whiles fancy doth on them divine delights.
<STANZA>
Her cheeks like ripen'd lilies steep'd in wine, 
Or fair pomegranate kernels wash'd in milk, 
Or snow-white threads in nets of crimson silk, 
Or gorgeous clouds upon the sun's decline.
<STANZA>
Her lips are roses over-wash'd with dew, 
Or like the purple of Narcissus' flower; 
No frost their fair, no wind doth waste their power, 
But by her breath her beauties do renew.
<STANZA>
Her crystal chin like to the purest mould, 
Enchas'd with dainty daisies soft and white, 
Where fancy's fair pavilion once is pight, 
Whereas embrac'd his beauties he doth hold.
<STANZA>
Her neck like to an ivory shining tower, 
Where through with azure veins sweet nectar runs, 
Or like the down of swans where Senesse woons, 
Or like delight that doth itself devour.
<STANZA>
Her paps are like fair apples in the prime, 
As round as orient pearls, as soft as down; 
They never vail  their fair through winter's frown, 
But from their sweets love suck'd his summer time.
<STANZA>
Her body beauty's best esteemed bower, 
Delicious, comely, dainty, without stain; 
The thought whereof (not touch) hath wrought my pain; 
Whose fair all fair and beauties doth devour.
<STANZA>
Her maiden mount, the dwelling house of pleasure; 
Not like, for why no like surpasseth wonder: 
O blest is he may bring such beauties under, 
Or search by suit the secrets of that treasure!
<STANZA>
Devour'd in thought, how wanders my device! 
What rests behind I must divine upon: 
Who talks the best, can say but fairer none; 
Few words well couch'd do most content the wise.
<STANZA>
All you that hear, let not my silly style 
Condemn my zeal, for what my tongue should say, 
Serves to enforce my thoughts to seek the way 
Whereby my woes and cares I do beguile.
<STANZA>
Seld speaketh love, but sighs his secret pains; 
Tears are his truchmen, words do make him tremble: 
How sweet is love to them that can dissemble 
In thoughts and looks, till they have reap'd the gains!
<STANZA>
All lonely I complain, and what I say 
I think, yet what I think tongue cannot tell: 
Swept censors, take my silly worst for well; 
My faith is firm, though homely be my lay.
<POEM>
<2. MELICERTUS' ECLOGUE, from Menaphon, 1589.>
WHAT need compare, where sweet exceeds compare? 
Who draws his thoughts of love from senseless things, 
Their pomp and greatest glories doth impair, 
And mounts love's heaven with over-laden wings.
<STANZA>
Stones, herbs, and flowers, the foolish spoils of earth, \
Floods, metals, colors, dalliance of the eye; 
These shew conceit is stain'd with too much dearth, 
Such abstract fond compares make cunning die.
<STANZA>
But he that hath the feeling taste of love 
Derives his essence from no earthly toy; 
A weak conceit his power cannot approve, 
For earthly thoughts are subject to annoy.
<STANZA>
Be whist, be still, be silent, censors, now:
My fellow swain has told a pretty tale, 
Which modern poets may perhaps allow, 
Yet I condemn the terms, for they are stale.
<STANZA>
Apollo, when my mistress first was born, 
Cut off his locks, and left them on her head, 
And said, I plant these wires in nature's scorn, 
Whose beauties shall appear when time is dead.
<STANZA>
From forth the crystal heaven when she was made, 
The purity thereof did taint her brow, 
On which the glistering sun that sought the shade 
'Gan set, and there his glories doth avow.
<STANZA>
Those eyes, fair eyes, too fair to be describ'd, 
Were those that erst the chaos did reform 
To whom the heavens their beauties have ascrib'd, 
That fashion life in man, in beast, in worm.
<STANZA>
When first her fair delicious cheeks were wrought, 
Aurora brought her blush, the moon her white; 
Both so combin'd as passed nature's thought, 
Compil'd those pretty orbs of sweet delight.
<STANZA>
When Love and Nature once were proud with play, 
Front both their lips her lips the coral drew; 
On them doth fancy sleep, and every day 
Doth swallow joy, such sweet delights to view.
<STANZA>
Whilom while Venus' son did seek a bower 
To sport with Psyche, his desired clear, 
He chose her chin, and from that happy stowre 
He never stints in glory to appear.
<STANZA>
Desires and Joys, that long had served Love, 
Besought a hold where pretty eyes might woo them: 
Love made her neck, and for their best behove 
Hath shut them there, whence no man can undo them.
<STANZA>
Once Venus dream'd upon two pretty things, 
Her thoughts they were affection's chiefest nests; 
She suck'd and sigh'd, and bath'd her in the springs, 
And when she wak'd, they were my mistress' breasts.
<STANZA>
Once Cupid sought a hold to couch his kisses, 
And found the body of my best belov'd, 
Wherein he clos'd the beauty of his blisses, 
And from that bower can never be remov'd.
<STANZA>
The Graces erst, when Acidalian springs 
Were waxen dry, perhaps did find her fountain 
Within the vale of bliss, where Cupid's wings 
Do shield the nectar fleeting from the mountain.
<STANZA>
No more, fond man things infinite I see 
Brook no dimension; hell a foolish speech 
For endless things may never talked be; 
Then let me live to honor and beseech.
<STANZA>
Sweet nature's pomp, if my deficient phrase 
Hath stain'd thy glories by too little skill, 
Yield pardon, though mine eye that long did gaze 
Hath left no better pattern to my quill.
<STANZA>
I will no more, no more will I detain
Your listening ears with dalliance of my tongue;
I speak my joys, but yet conceal my pain,
My pain too old, although my years be young.
<POEM>
<3. Doron's Eclogue, joined with Carmela's, Menaphon, 1589>
<Doron>
SIT down, Carmela; here are cobs for kings, 
Sloes black as jet, or like my Christmas shoes, 
Sweet cider, which my leathern bottle brings; 
Sit down, Carmela, let me kiss thy toes.
<STANZA>
<Carmela>
Ah, Doron! ah, my heart! thou art as white, 
As is my mother's calf or brinded cow; 
Thine eyes are like the slow-worms in the night; 
Thine hairs resemble thickest of the snow.
<STANZA>
The lines within thy face are deep and clear, 
Like to the furrows of my father's wain; 
The sweat upon thy face doth oft appear 
Like to my mother's fat and kitchen gain.
<STANZA>
Ah, leave my toe, and kiss my lips, my love! 
My lips are thine, for I have given them thee; 
Within thy cap 'tis thou shalt wear my glove; 
At foot-ball sport thou shalt my champion be.
<STANZA>
<DORON.>
Carmela dear, even as the golden ball 
That Venus got, such are thy goodly eyes; 
When cherries' juice is jumbled therewithal, 
Thy breath is like the steam of apple-pies.
<STANZA>
Thy lips resemble two cucumbers fair; 
Thy teeth like to the tusks of fattest swine; 
Thy speech is like the thunder in the air; 
Would God, thy toes, thy lips, and all were mine!
<STANZA>
<Carmela>
Doron, what thing doth move this wishing grief?
<STANZA>
<Doron>
'Tis love, Carmela, ah, 'tis cruel love! 
That like a slave and caitiff villain thief, 
Hath cut my throat of joy for thy behove.
<STANZA>
<Carmela>
Where was he born?
<STANZA>
<Doron>
In faith, I know not where:
But I have heard much talking of his dart; 
Aye me, poor man! with many a trampling tear 
I feel him wound the forehearse of my heart.
<STANZA>
What, do I love? O no, I do but talk:
What, shall I die for love? O no, not so: 
What, am I dead? O no, my tongue doth walk: 
Come, kiss, Carmela, and confound my woe.
<STANZA>
<CARMELA.>
<STANZA>
Even with this kiss, as once my father did, 
I seal the sweet indentures of delight 
Before I break my vow the Gods forbid, 
No, not by day, nor yet by darksome night.
<STANZA>
<Doron>
<STANZA>
Even with this garland made of hollyhocks, 
I cross thy brows from every shepherd's kiss: 
Heigh ho! how glad am I to touch thy locks! 
My frolic heart even now a freeman is.
<STANZA>
<CARMELA.>
<STANZA>
I thank you, Doron, and will think on you; 
I love you, Doron, and will wink on you. 
I seal your charter patent with my thumbs: 
Come, kiss and part, for fear my mother comes.
<POEM>
<4. Sonetto, fr. Menaphon, 1589>
What thing is love?  It is a power divine, 
That reigns in us, or else a wreakful law, 
That dooms our minds to beauty to incline: 
It is a star, whose influence doth draw
Our hearts to love dissembling of his might, 
Till he be master of our hearts and sight.
<STANZA>
Love is a discord, and a strange divorce 
Betwixt our sense and reason, by whose power, 
As mad with reason, we admit that force, 
Which wit or labor never may devour:
It is a will that brooketh no consent; 
It would refuse, yet never may repent.
<STANZA>
Love's a desire, which for to wait a time, 
Doth lose an age of years, and so doth pass, 
As doth the shadow, sever'd from his prime, 
Seeming as though it were, yet never was;
Leaving behind nought but repentant thoughts 
Of days ill spent, for that which profits noughts.
<STANZA>
It's now a peace, and then a sudden war; 
A hope consum'd before it is conceiv'd; 
At hand it fears, and menaceth afar; 
And he that gains is most of all deceiv'd
It is a secret hidden and not known, 
Which one may better feel than write upon.
<POEM>
<5. MADRIGAL FROM PERIMEDES, THE BLACKSMITH, 1588.
THE swans, whose pens as white as ivory, 
Eclipsing fair Endymion's silver love, 
Floating like snow down by the banks of Po, 
Ne'er tun'd their notes, like Leda once forlorn, 
With more despairing sorts of madrigals, 
Than I, whom wanton Love hath with his gad 
Prick'd to the court of deep and restless thoughts. 
The frolic youngsters Bacchus' liquor mads, 
Run not about the wood of Thessaly, 
With more enchanted fits of lunacy, 
Than I, whom Love, whom sweet and bitter Love 
Fires, infects with sundry passions; 
Now lorn with liking overmuch my love, 
Frozen with fearing if I step too far, 
Fired with gazing at such glimmering stars, 
As stealing light from Phoebus' brightest rays, 
Sparkle and set a flame within my breast. 
Rest, restless Love, fond baby be content; 
Child, hold thy darts within thy quiver close; 
And, if thou wilt be roving with thy bow, 
Aim at those hearts that may attend on love: 
Let country swains, and silly swads t be still, 
To court, young wag, and wanton there thy fill!
<POEM>
<6 DITTY, from Perimedes, 1588.>
Obscure and dark is all the gloomy air, 
The curtain of the night is overspread; 
The silent mistress of the lowest sphere 
Puts on her sable color'd veil, and lours. 
Nor star, nor milk-white circle of the sky 
Appears, where Discontent doth hold her lodge. 
She sits shrin'd in a canopy of clouds, 
Whose massy darkness mazeth every sense. 
Wan are her looks, her cheeks of azure hue; 
Her hairs as Gorgon's foul retorting snakes; 
Envy the glass wherein the hag doth gaze; 
Restless the clock that chimes her fast asleep; 
Disquiet thoughts the minutes of her watch. 
Forth from her cave the fiend full oft doth fly: 
To kings she goes, and troubles them with crowns, 
Setting those high aspiring brands on fire, 
That flame from earth unto the seat of Jove; 
To such as Midas, men that dote on wealth, 
And rent the bowels of the middle earth 
For coin, who gape as did fair Danae 
For showers of gold, there Discontent in black 
Throws forth the vials of her restless cares; 
To such as sit at Paphos for relief, 
And offer Venus many solemn vows; 
To such as Hymen in his saffron robe 
Hath knit a Gordian knot of passions; 
To these, to all, parting the gloomy air, 
Black Discontent doth make her bad repair.
<POEM>
<7. SONNET, fr. Perimedes, 1588.>
IN Cyprus sat fair Venus by a fount, 
Wanton Adonis toying on her knee:
She kiss'd the wag, her darling of account; 
The boy 'gan blush, which when his lover see,
She smil'd, and told him love might challenge debt, 
And he was young, and might be wanton yet.
<STANZA>
The boy wax'd bold, fired by fond desire, 
That woo he could and court her with conceit:
Reason spied this, and sought to quench the fire 
With cold disdain; but wily Adon straight
Cheer'd up the flame, and said, good sir, what let? 
I am but young, and may be wanton yet.
<STANZA>
Reason replied, that beauty was a bane 
To such as feed their fancy with fond love,
That when sweet youth with lust is overta'en, 
It rues in age: this could not Adon move,
For Venus taught him still this rest to set, 
That he was young, and might be wanton yet.
<STANZA>
Where Venus strikes with beauty to the quick, 
It little 'vails sage reason to reply;
Few are the cares for such as are love-sick, 
But love: then, though I wanton it awry,
And play the wag, from Adon this I get, 
I am but young, and may be wanton yet.
<POEM>
<8.SONNET, fr. Perimedes, 1588>
THE Siren Venus nourish'd in her lap 
Fair Adon, swearing whiles he was a youth
He might be wanton: note his after-hap, 
The guerdon that such lawless lust ensu'th;
So long he follow'd flattering Venus' lore, 
Till, seely lad, he perish'd by a boar.
<STANZA>
Mars in his youth did court this lusty dame, 
He won her love; what might his fancy let,
He was but young? at last, unto his shame, 
Vulcan entrapp'd them slily in a net,
And call'd the Gods to witness as a truth, 
A lecher's fault was not excus'd by youth.
<STANZA>
If crooked age accounteth youth his spring, 
The spring, the fairest season of the year,
Enrich'd with flowers, and sweets, and many a thing,
That fair and gorgeous to the eyes appear; 
It fits that youth, the spring of man, should be 
Enrich'd with such flowers as virtue yieldeth thee.
<POEM>
<8. SONNET, fr Perimedes.>
Fair is my love, for April in her face, 
Her lovely breasts September claims his part,
And lordly July in her eyes takes place, 
But cold December dwelleth in her heart:
Blest be the months, that set my thoughts on fire, 
Accurst that month that hindereth my desire!
<STANZA>
Like Phoebus' fire, so sparkle both her eyes; 
As air perfum'd with amber is her breath;
Like swelling waves, her lovely teats do rise; 
As earth her heart, cold, dateth me to death
Aye me, poor man, that on the earth do live, 
When unkind earth death and despair doth give!
<STANZA>
In pomp sits mercy seated in her face;
Love 'twixt her breasts his trophies doth imprint;
Her eyes shine favor, courtesy, and grace; 
But touch her heart, ah, that is fram'd of flint!
Therefore my harvest in the grass bears grain; 
The rock will wear, wash'd with a winter's rain.
<POEM>
<9. SONNET, fr. Perimedes, 1588.>
Phillis kept sheep along the western plains, 
And Coridon did feed his flocks hard by:
This shepherd was the flower of all the swains 
That trac'd the downs of fruitful Thessaly,
And Phillis, that did far her flocks surpass 
In silver hue, was thought a bonny lass.
<STANZA>
A bonny lass, quaint in her country 'tire, 
Was lovely Phillis, Coridon swore so;
Her locks, her looks, did set the swain on fire, 
He left his lambs, and he began to woo;
He look'd, he sigh'd, he courted with a kiss, 
No better could the silly swad than this.
He little knew to paint a tale of love,
Shepherds gan fancy, but they cannot say:
Phillis 'gan smile, and wily thought to prove
What uncouth grief poor Corydon did pay;
She ask'd him how his flocks or he did fare,
Yet pensive thus his sighs did tell his care.
<STANZA>
The shepherd blush'd when Phillis question'd so,
And swore by Pan it was not for his flocks;
'Tis love, fair Phillis, breedeth all this woe,
My thoughts are trapp'd within thy lovely locks,
Thine eye hath pierc'd, thy face hath set on fire; 
Fair Phillis kindleth Coridon's desire.
Can shepherds love? said Phillis to the swain; 
Such saints as Phillis, Coridon replied;
Men when they lust can many fancies feign, 
Said Phillis; this not Coridon denied,
That lust had lies, but love, quoth he, says truth, 
Thy shepherd loves, then, Phillis, what ensu'th?
<STANZA>
Phillis was won, she blush'd and hung the head; 
The swain stepp'd to, and cheer'd her with a kiss;
With faith, 'with troth, they struck the matter dead; 
So used they when men thought not amiss:
This love begun and ended both in one; 
Phillis was lov'd, and she lik'd Coridon.
<POEM>
<10. FROM PANDOSTO, THE TRIUMPH OF TIME, 1694.>
<Dorastus in love-passion writes these few lines in praise of 
         his loving and best-beloved Fawnia.>
AH, were she pitiful as she is fair,
Or but as mild as she is seeming so, 
Then were my hopes greater than my despair,
Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe. 
Ah, were her heart relenting as her hand,
That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, 
Then knew I where to seat me in a land,
Under wide heavens; but yet there is not such. 
So as she shows, she seems the budding rose,
Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower, 
Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows,
Compass'd she is with thorns and canker'd flower,  
Yet were she willing to be pluck'd and worn, 
She would be gather'd, though she grew on thorn.
Ah, when she sings, all music else be still, 
For none must be compared to her note;
Ne'er breath'd such glee from Philomela's bill,  
Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat.
Ah, when she riseth from her blissful bed, 
She comforts all the world, as doth the sun,
And at her sight the night's foul vapor's fled; 
When she is set, the gladsome day is done.
O glorious sun, imagine me the west, 
Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast!
<POEM>
<9. Canzone, from Never Too Late, 1590>
As then the sun sat lordly in his pride,
Not shadow'd with the veil of any cloud,
The welkin had no rack that seem'd to glide,
No dusky vapor did bright Phoebus shroud;
No blemish did eclipse.the beauteous sky
From setting forth heaven's secret searching eye.
No blustering wind did shake the shady trees,
Each leaf lay still and silent in the wood;
The birds were musical; the laboring bees,
That in the summer heap their winter's good,
Plied to their hives sweet honey from those flowers,
Whereout the serpent strengthens all his powers.
The lion laid and stretch'd him in the lawns;
No storm did hold the leopard fro his prey;
The fallow fields were full of wanton fawns;
The plough-swains never saw a fairer day;
For every beast and bird did take delight,
To see the quiet heavens to shine so bright.
When thus the winds lay sleeping in the caves,
The air was silent in her concave sphere,
And Neptune with a calm did please his slaves,
Ready to wash the never-drenched bear;
Then did the change of my affects begin,
And `wanton love assay d to snare me in.
Leaning my back against a lofty pine,
Whose top did check the pride of all the air,
Fixing my thoughts, and with my thoughts mine eyne,
Upon the sun, the fairest of all fair;
What thing made God so fair as this, quoth I?
And thus I mus'd until I dark'd mine eye.
Finding the sun too glorious for my sight,
I glanc'd my look to shun so bright a lamp
With that appear'd an object twice as bright,
So gorgeous as my senses all were damp; 
In Ida richer beauty did not win,
When lovely Venus show'd her silver skin.
Her pace was like to Juno's pompous strains,
Whenas she sweeps through heaven's brass-paved way;
Her front was powder'd through with azur'd veins,
That `twixt sweet roses and fair lilies lay,
Reflecting such a mixture from her face,
As tainted Venus' beauty with disgrace.
Arctophylax, the brightest of the stars,
Was not so orient as her crystal eyes,
Wherein triumphant sat both peace and wars,
From out whose arches such sweet favor flies,
As might reclaim Mars in his highest rage,
At beauty's charge his fury to assuage.
The diamond gleams not more reflecting lights,
Pointed- with fiery pyramids to shine,
Than are those flames that burnish in our sights,
Darting fire out the crystal of her eyne,
Able to set Narcissus' thoughts on fire,
Although he swore him foe to sweet desire.
Gazing upon this leman with mine eye,
I felt my sight vail bonnet to her looks;
So deep a passion to my heart did fly,
As I was trapp'd within her luring hooks,
Forc'd to confess, before that I had done,
Her beauty far more brighter than the sun.
<POEM>
<10. THE SHEPHERD'S ODE.>
Walking in a valley green,
Spread with Flora, summer queen,
Where she heaping all her graces,
Niggard seem'd in other places;
Spring it was, and here did spring
All that nature forth can bring.
Groves of pleasant trees there grow,
Which fruit and shadow could bestow
Thick-leav'd boughs small birds cover,
Till sweet notes themselves discover
Tunes for number seem'd confounded,
Whilst their mixtures music sounded,
`Greeing well, yet not agreed
That one the other should exceed.
A sweet stream here silent glides,
Whose clear water no fish hides;
Slow it runs, which well bewray'd
The pleasant shore the current stay'd.
In this stream a rock was planted,
Where no art nor nature wanted.
Each thing so did other grace,
As all places may give place;
Only this the place of pleasure,
Where is heaped nature's treasure.
Here mine eyes with wonder stay'd,
Eyes amaz'd, and mind afraid,
Ravish'd with what was beheld,
From departing were withheld.
Musing then with sound advice
On this earthly paradise;
Sitting by the river side,
Lovely Phillis was descried.
Gold her hair, bright her eyne
Like to Phoebus in his shine;
White her brow, her face was fair
Amber breath perfum'd the air;
Rose and lily both did seek
To shew their glories on her cheek
Love did nestle in her looks,
Baiting there his sharpest hooks.
Such a Phillis ne'er was seen,
More beautiful than love's queen
Doubt it was, whose greater grace,
Phillis' beauty, or the place.
Her coat was of scarlet red,
All in pleats; a mantle spread,
Fring'd with gold; a wreath of boughs,
To check the sun from her brows;
In her hand a shepherd's hook,
In her face Diana's look.
Her sheep grazed on the plains;
She had stolen from the swains
Under a cool silent shade,
By the streams she garlands made
Thus sat Phillis all alone.
Kiss'd she was by Coridon,
Chiefest swain of all the rest;
Lovely Phillis lik'd him best.
His face was like Phoebus' love
His neck white as Venus' dove;
A ruddy cheek, fill'd with smiles,
Such Love hath when he beguiles;
His locks brown, his eyes were grey,
Like Titan in a summer day:
A russet jacket, sleeves red;
A blue bonnet on his head;
A cloak of grey fenc'd the rain;
Thus `tired was this lovely swain;
A shepherd's hook, his dog tied;
Bag and bottle by his side:
Such was Paris, shepherds say,
When with Oenone he did play.
From his flock stray'd Coridon,
Spying Phillis all alone
By the stream he Phillis spied,
Braver than was Flora's pride.
Down the valley `gan he track,
Stole behind his true love's back
The sun shone, and shadow made,
Phillis rose and was afraid;
When she saw her lover there,
Smile she did, and left her fear.
Cupid, that disdain doth loath,
With desire strake them both.
The swain did woo; she was nice,
Following fashion, nay'd him twice:
Much ado, he kiss'd her then
Maidens blush when they kiss men
So did Phillis at that stowre;
Her face was like the rose flower.
Last they `greed, for love would so,
`Faith and troth they would no mo;
For shepherds ever held it sin,
To false the love they lived in.
The swain gave a girdle red
She set garlands on his head
Gifts were given; they kiss again
Both did smile, for both were fain.
Thus was love `mongst shepherds sold,
When fancy knew not what was gold:
They woo'd and vow'd, and that they keep,
And go contented to their sheep.
<POEM>
<11.  Philomela's Ode, from Philomela, 1615>
Sitting by a river's side,
Where a silent stream did glide,
Muse I did of many things,
That the mind in quiet brings.
I `gan think how some men deem
Gold their god; and some esteem
Honor is the chief content,
That to man in life is lent.
And some others do contend,
Quiet none, like to a friend.
Others hold, there is no wealth
Compared to a perfect health.
Some man's mind in quiet stands,
When he is lord of many lands:
But I did sigh, and said all this
Was but a shade of perfect bliss
And in my thoughts I did approve,
bought so sweet as is true love.
Love `twixt lovers passeth these,
When mouth kisseth and heart `grees,
With folded arms and lips meeting,
Each soul another sweetly greeting;
For by the breath the soul fleeteth,
And soul with soul in kissing meeteth.
If love be so sweet a thing,
That such happy bliss doth bring,
Happy is love's sugar'd thrall,
But unhappy maidens all,
Who esteem your virgin blisses
Sweeter than a wife's sweet kisses.
No such quiet to the mind,
As true love with kisses kind
But if a kiss prove unchaste,
Then is true love quite disgrac'd.
Though love be sweet, learn this of me,
No love sweet but honesty.
<POEM>
<12. PHILOMELA'S SECOND ODE. from Philomela, 1615>
IT was frosty winter season,
And fair Flora's wealth was geason.
Meads that erst with green were spread,
With choice flowers diap'red,
Had tawny veils, cold had scanted
What the springs and nature planted.
Leafless boughs there might you see,
All except fair Daphne's tree:
On their twigs no birds perch'd;
Warmer coverts now they search'd;
And by nature's secret reason,
Fram'd their voices to the season,
With their feeble tunes bewraying,
How they griev'd the spring's decaying.
Frosty winter thus had gloom'd
Each fair thing that summer bloom'd;
Fields were bare, and trees unclad,
Flowers wither'd, birds were sad:
When I saw a shepherd fold
Sheep in cote, to shun the cold.
Himself sitting on the grass,
That with frost wither'd was,
Sighing deeply, thus `gan say;
Love is folly when astray:
Like to love no passion such,
For `tis madness, if too much;
If too little, then despair
If too high, he beats the air
With bootless cries; if too low,
An eagle matcheth with a crow:
Thence grow jars.  Thus I find,
Love is folly, if unkind;
Yet do men most desire
To be heated with this fire,
Whose flame is so pleasing hot,
That they burn, yet feel it not.
Yet hath love another kind,
Worse than these unto the mind
That is, when a wanton's eye
Leads desire clean awry,
And with the bee doth rejoice
Every minute to change choice,
Counting he were then in bliss,
If that each fair fall were his.
Highly thus is love disgrac'd,
When the lover is unchaste,
And would taste of fruit forbidden,
`Cause the scape is easily hidden.
Though such love be sweet in brewing,
Bitter is the end ensuing;
For the humor of love he shameth,
And himself with lust defameth;
For a minute's pleasure gaining,
Fame and honor ever staining.
Gazing thus so far awry,
Last the chip falls in his eye;
Then it burns that erst but heat him,
And his own rod `gins to beat him
His choicest sweets turn to gall
He finds lust his sin's thrall
That wanton women in their eyes
Men's deceivings do comprise;
That homage done to fair faces
Doth dishonor other graces.
If lawless love be such a sin,
Curs'd is he that lives therein,
For the gain of Venus' game
Is the downfall unto shame.
Here he paus'd, and did stay;
Sigh'd and rose, and went away.
<POEM>
<12. SONNET, from Philomela, 1615.>
ON women nature did bestow two eyes,
Like heaven's bright lamps, in matchless beauty shining,
Whose beams do soonest captivate the wise,
And wary heads, made rare by art's refining.
But why did nature, in her choice combining,
Plant two fair eyes within a beauteous face,
That they might favor two with equal grace?
Venus did soothe up Vulcan with one eye,
With th' other granted Mars his wished glee:
If she did so whom Hymen did defy,
Think love no sin, but grant an eye to me;
In vain else nature gave two stars to thee:
If then two eyes may well two friends maintain,
Allow of two, and prove not nature vain.
<POEM>
<13. ANSWER, from Philomela, 1615.>
NATURE foreseeing how men would devise
More wiles than Proteus, women to entice,
Granted them two, and those bright-shining eyes,
To pierce into man's faults if they were wise;
For they with shew of virtue mask their vice:
Therefore to women's eyes belongs these gifts,
The one must love, the other see men's shifts.
<STANZA>
Both these await upon one simple heart,
And what they choose, it hides up without change.
The emerald will not with his portrait part,
Nor will a woman's thoughts delight to range;
They hold it bad to have so base exchange:  
One heart, one friend, though that two eyes do choose him,
No more but one, and heart will never lose him.
<POEM>
<14. AN ODE, from Philomela, 1615.>
What is love once disgrac'd,
But a wanton thought ill plac'd?
Which doth blemish whom it paineth,
And dishonors whom it deigneth
Seen in higher powers most,
Though some fools do fondly boast,
That whoso is high of kin
Sanctifies his lover's sin.
Jove could not hide Io's scape,
Nor conceal Calisto's rape:
Both did fault, and both were fram'd
Light of loves, whom lust had sham'd.
Let not women trust to men;
They can flatter now and then,
And tell them many wanton tales,
Which do breed their after bales.
Sin in kings is sin, we see,
And greater sin, `cause great of `gree:
Majus peccatum, this I read,
If he be high that doth the deed.
Mars, for all his deity,
Could not Venus dignify,
But Vulcan trapp'd her, and her blame
Was punish'd with an open shame
All the gods laugh'd them to scorn
For dubbing Vulcan with the horn.
Whereon may a woman boast,
If her chastity be lost?
Shame await'th upon her face,
Blushing cheeks and foul disgrace:
Report will blab, this is she
That with her lust wins infamy.
If lusting love be so disgrac'd,
Die before you live unchaste;
For better die with honest fame,
Than lead a wanton life with shame.
<POEM>
<13. VERSES AGAINST THE GENTLEWOMEN OF SICILIA, from Mamillia, 2,
1593.>
Since lady mild, too base in array, hath liv'd as an exile,
None of account but stout: if plain, stale slut, not a 
courtress.
Dames now a days, fie none, if not new guised in all points.
Fancies fine, sauced with conceits, quickwits very wily,
Words of a saint, but deeds guess how, feign'd faith to deceive
men,
Courtesies coy, no vail, but a vaunt, trick'd up like a     
Tuscan,
Pac'd in print, brave lofty looks, not us'd with the      
vestals,
In hearts too glorious, not a glance but fit for an      
empress,
As minds most valorous, so strange in array, marry,       
stately.
Up fro the waist like a man, new guise to be cas'd in a doublet,
Down to the foot perhaps like a maid, but hos'd to the kneestead,
Some close breech'd to the crotch for cold, tush, peace 'tis a
shame, sir.
Hairs by birth as black as jet; what? art can amend them;
A periwig frounc'd fast to the front, or curl'd with a     
bodkin,
Hats fro France, thick pearled for pride and plum'd like a
peacock,
Ruffs of a size, stiff-starch'd to the neck, of lawn, marry,
lawless,
Gowns of silk; `why those be too bad, side wide with a witness,
Small and gent i' the waist, but backs as broad as a burgess,
Needless noughts, as crisps and scarfs, worn a la morisco,
Fum'd with sweets, as sweet as chaste, no want but abundance.
<POEM>
<14. ORPHEUS' SONG FROM THE ORPHARION, 1599.>
HE that did sing the motions of the stars,
Pale-color'd Phoebe's borrowing of her light,
Aspects of planets oft oppos'd in jars,
Of Hesper, henchman to the day and night;
Sings now of love, as taught by proof to sing,
Women are false, and love a bitter thing.
I lov'd Eurydice, the brightest lass,
More fond to like so fair a nymph as she
In Thessaly so bright none ever was,
But fair and constant hardly may agree:
False-hearted wife to him that lov'd thee well,
To leave thy love, and choose the prince of hell
Theseus did help, and I in haste did hie
To Pluto, for the lass I loved so:
The god made grant, and who so glad as I?
I tun'd my harp, and she and I `gan go;
Glad that my love was left to me alone,
I looked back, Eurydice was gone:
She slipp'd aside, back to her latest love,
Unkind, she wrong'd her first and truest fere!
Thus `women's loves delight, as trial proves
By false Eurydice I lov'd so dear,
To change and fleet, and every way to shrink,
To take in love, and lose it with a wink.
<POEM>
<15. THE SONG OF ARION, from The Orpharion, 1599.>
SEATED upon the crooked dolphin's back,
Scudding amidst the purple-color'd waves,
Gazing aloof for land; Neptune in black,
Attended with the Tritons as his slaves,
Threw forth such storms as made the air thick,
For grief his lady Thetis was so sick.
Such plaints he throbb'd, as made the dolphin stay
Women, quoth he, are harbors of man's health,
Pleasures for night, and comforts for the day;
What are fair women but rich nature's wealth?
Thetis is such, and more if more may be;
Thetis is sick, then what may comfort me?
Women are sweets that salve men's sourest ills;
Women are saints, their virtues are so rare;
Obedient souls that seek to please men's wills;
Such love with faith, such jewels women are:
Thetis is such, and more if more may be;
Thetis is sick, then what may comfort me?
With that he div'd into the coral waves,
To see his love, with all his watery slaves
The dolphin swam; yet this I learned then,
Fair women are rich jewels unto men.
<POEM>
<16. Sonnet, from the Orpharion, 1599.>
CUPID abroad was lated in the night,
His wings were wet with ranging in the rain;
Harbor he sought, to me he took his flight,
To dry his plumes: I heard the boy complain;
I op'd the door, and granted his desire,
I rose myself, and made the wag a fire.
<STANZA>
Looking more narrow by the fire's flame,
I spied his quiver hanging by his back:
Doubting the boy might my misfortune frame,
I would have gone for fear of further wrack;
But what I drad, did me poor wretch betide,
For forth he drew an arrow from his side.
<STANZA>
He pierc'd the quick, and I began to start,
A pleasing wound, but that it was too high;
His shaft procur'd a sharp, yet sugar'd smart:
Away he flew, for why his wings were dry;
But left the arrow sticking in my breast,
That sore I griev'd I welcom'd such a guest.
<POEM>
<17. Sonnet from Ariosto, from Penelope's Web, 1601.>
The sweet content that quiets angry thought,
The pleasing sound of household harmony,
The physic that allays what fury wrought,
The huswife's means to make true melody,
Is not with simple, harp, or worldly pelf,
But smoothly by submitting of herself.
<STANZA>
Juno, the queen and mistress of the sky,
When angry Jove did threat her with a frown,
Caus'd Ganymede for nectar fast to hie,
With pleasing face to wash such choler down;
For angry husbands find the soonest ease,
When sweet submission choler doth appease.
<STANZA>
The laurel that impales the head with praise,
The gem that decks the breast of ivory,
The pearl that's orient in her silver rays,
The crown that honors dames `with dignity;
No sapphire, gold, green bays, nor margarite,
But due obedience worketh this delight.
<POEM>>
<18. BARMENlSSA'S SONG, fr. Penelope's Web, 1601.>
THE stately state that wise men count their good.
The chiefest bliss that lulls asleep desire,
Is not descent from kings and princely blood,
Ne stately crown ambition doth require;
For birth by fortune is abased down,
And perils are compris'd within a crown.
<STANZA>
The sceptre and the glittering pomp of mace,
The head impal'd with honor and renown,
The kingly throne, the seat and regal place,
Are toys that fade when angry fortune frown
Content is far from such delights as those,
Whom woe and danger do envy as foes.
<STANZA>
The cottage seated in the hollow dale,
That fortune never fears because so low,
The quiet mind that want doth set to sale,
Sleeps safe when princes seats do overthrow
Want smiles secure when princely thoughts do feel
That fear and danger tread upon their heel.
<STANZA>
Bless fortune thou whose frown hath wrought thy good,
Bid farewell to the crown that ends thy care;
The happy fates thy sorrows have withstood
By `signing want and poverty thy share
For now content, fond fortune to despite,
With patience `lows thee quiet and delight.
<POEM>
<19. Verses, from Penelope's Web, 1601.>
ASPIRING thoughts led Phaeton amiss
Proud Icarus did fall, he soar'd so high
Seek not to climb with fond Semiramis,
Lest son revenge the father's injury
Take heed, ambition is a sugar'd ill,
That fortune lays, presumptuous minds to spill.
<STANZA>
The bitter grief that frets the quiet mind,
The sting that pricks the froward man to woe,
Is envy, which in honor seld we find,
And yet to honor sworn a secret foe
Learn this of me, envy not others' state
The fruits of envy are envy and hate.
<STANZA>
The misty cloud that so eclipseth fame,
That gets reward a chaos of despite,
Is black revenge, which ever winneth shame,
A fury vild that's hatched in the night
Beware, seek not revenge against thy foe,
Lest once revenge thy fortune overgo.
<STANZA>
These blazing comets do foreshow mishap
Let not the flaming lights offend thine eye
Look ere thou leap, prevent an after clap;
These three forewarned well mayst thou fly
If now by choice thou aim'st at happy health,
Eschew self-love, choose for the common-wealth.
<POEM>
<20. Verses written under a picture of Venus. From Alcida, 1617.>
WHEN Nature forg'd the fair unhappy mould,
Wherein proud beauty took her matchless shape,
She over-slipp'd her cunning and her skill,
And aim'd too fair, but drew beyond the mark;
For thinking to have made a heavenly bliss,
For wanton gods to daily with in heaven,
And to have fram'd a precious gem for men,
To solace all their dumpish thoughts with glee,
She wrought a plague, a poison, and a hell
For gods, for men, thus no way wrought she well.
Venus was fair, fair was the queen of love,
Fairer than Pallas, or the wife of Jove;
Yet did the giglot's beauty grieve the smith,
For that she brav'd the creeple with a horn.
Mars said, her beauty was the star of heaven,
Yet did her beauty stain him with disgrace.
Paris, for fair,t gave her the golden ball,
And bought his and his father's ruin so.
Thus Nature making what should far excel,
Lent gods and men a poison and a hell.
<POEM>
<21. VERSES written under a picture of a peacock, fr. Alcida,
1617.>
THE bird of Juno glories in his plumes;
Pride makes the fowl to prune his feathers so.
His spotted train, fetch'd from old Argus' head,
With golden rays like to the brightest sun,
Inserteth self-love in a silly bird,
Till, midst his hot and glorious fumes,
He spies his feet, and then lets fall his plumes.
Beauty breeds pride, pride hatcheth forth disdain,
Disdain gets hate, and hate calls for revenge,
Revenge with bitter prayers urgeth still;
Thus self love, nursing up the pomp of pride,
Makes beauty wrack against an ebbing tide.
<POEM>
<22. Verses under a carving of Mercury, fr. Alcida, 1617.>
THE richest gift the wealthy heaven affords,
The pearl of price sent from immortal Jove,
The shape wherein we most resemble gods,
The fire Prometheus stole from lofty skies;
This gift, this pearl, this shape, this fire is it,
Which makes us men bold by the name of wit.
By wit we search divine aspect above,
By wit we learn what secret science yields,
By wit we speak, by wit the mind is rul'd,
By wit we govern all our actions:
Wit is the load-star of each human thought,
Wit is the tool by which all things are wrought.
The brightest jacinth hot becometh dark,
Of little `steem is crystal being crack'd,
Fine heads that can conceit no good but ill,
Forge oft that breedeth ruin to themselves
Ripe wits abus'd that build on bad desire,
Do burn themselves, like flies within the fire.
<POEM>
<23. VERSES  Written UNDER A CARVING OF CUPID, fr. Alcida, 1617.>
Love is a lock that linketh noble minds,
Faith is the key that shuts the spring of love,
Lightness a wrest that wringeth all awry,
Lightness a plague that fancy cannot brook
Lightness in love so bad and base a thing,
As foul disgrace to greatest states to bring.
<POEM>
<24. Verses written on two tables on a tomb, fr., Alcida, 1617.>
THE Graces in their glory never gave
A rich or greater good to womankind,
That more impales their honors with the palm
Of high renown, than matchless constancy.
Beauty is vain, accounted but a flower,
Whose painted hue fades with the summer sun
Wit oft hath wrack by self-conceit of pride
Riches are* trash that fortune boasteth on.
Constant in love who tries a woman's mind,
Wealth, beauty, wit, and all in her doth find.
<STANZA>
The fairest gem, oft blemish'd with a crack,
Loseth his beauty and his virtue too;
The fairest flower, nipp'd with the winter's frost,
In shew seems worser than the basest weed
Virtues are oft far over-stain'd with faults.
Were she as fair as Phoebe in her sphere,
Or brighter than the paramour of Mars,
Wiser than Pallas, daughter unto Jove,
Of greater majesty than Juno was,
More chaste than Vesta, goddess of the maids,
Of greater faith than fair Lucretia;
Be she a blab, and tattles what she hears,
Want to be secret gives far greater stains
Than virtue's glory which in her remains.
<POEM>
<25. Madrigal, from Alcida, 1617.>
Rest thee, desire, gaze not at such a star;
Sweet fancy, sleep; love, take a nap awhile;
My busy thoughts that reach and roam so far,
With pleasant dreams the length of time beguile;
Fair Venus, cool my over-heated breast,
And let my fancy take her wonted rest.
<STANZA>
Cupid abroad was lated in the night,
His wings were wet with ranging in the rain;
Harbor he sought, to me he took his flight,
To dry his plumes I heard the boy complain;
My door I op'd, to grant him his desire,
And rose myself to make the wag a fire.
<STANZA>
Looking more narrow by the fire's flame,
I spied his quiver hanging at his back:
I fear'd the child might my misfortune frame,
I would have gone for fear of further wrack;
And what I drad (poor man) did me betide,
For forth he drew an arrow from his side.
<STANZA>
He pierc'd the quick, that I began to start;
The wound was sweet, but that it was too high,
And yet the pleasure had a pleasing smart:
This done, he flies away, his wings were dry,
But left his arrow still within my breast,
That now I grieve I welcom'd such a guest.
<POEM>
<26. FRAGMENTS QUOTED IN ENGLAND'S PARNASSUS, 1600.>              
HE that will stop the brook, must then begin
When summer's heat hath dried up the spring
And when his pittering streams are low and thin;
For let the winter aid unto them bring,
He grows to be of watery floods the king;
And though you dam him up with lofty ranks,
Yet will he quickly overflow his banks.
<POEM>
<27 VERSES, fr. England's Parnassus, 1600.>
IT was the month, in which the righteous maid,
That for disdain of sinful world's upbraid,
Fled back to heaven, where she was first conceiv'd,
Into her silver bower the sun receiv'd;
And the hot Sirian dog, on him, awaiting,
After the chafed Lion's cruel baiting,
Corrupted had the air with noisome breath,
And pour'd on earth, plague, pestilence, and death.
<POEM>
<28, A Maiden's Dream, from Sh. Soc. 1844, elegy for Sir
Christopher Hatton, c. 1592>
Methought in slumber as I lay and dreamt,
I saw a silent spring rail'd in with jet,
From sunny shade or murmur quite exempt,
The glide whereof 'gainst weeping flints did beat;
And round about were leafless beeches set
So dark it seem'd night's mantle for to borrow,
And well to be the gloomy den of sorrow.
<STANZA>
About this Spring in mourning robes of black, 
Were sundry Nymphs or goddesses, me thought, 
That seemly sat in ranks, just back to back, 
On Mossy benches Nature there had wrought 
And cause the wind and Spring no murmur brought, 
They fill'd the air with such laments and groans, 
That Echo sigh'd out their heart-breaking moans.
<STANZA>
Elbow on knee, and head upon their hand, 
As mourners sit, So sat these ladies all. 
Garlands of Eben-bows, whereon did stand 
A golden crown, their mantles were of pall, 
And from their watery eyes warm tears did fall: 
With wringing hands they sat and sigh'd, like those 
That had more grief then well they could disclose.
<STANZA>
I look'd about, and by the fount I spied 
A Knight lie dead, yet all in armor clad,
Booted and spurr'd, a falchion by his side;
A Crown of Olives on his helm he had, 
As if in peace and war he were adrad:
A golden Hind was placed at his feet, 
Whose vailed ears bewray'd her inward greet.
<STANZA>
She seem'd wounded by her panting breath, 
Her beating breast with sighs did fall and rise 
Wounds was there none; it was her master's death 
That drew Electrum from her weeping eyes. 
Like scalding smoke her braying throbs out flies: 
As Dear do mourn when arrow hath them galled, 
So was this Hind with Heart-sick pains enthralled.
<STANZA>
Just at his head there sat a sumptuous Queen: 
I guess'd her so, for why, she wore a crown; 
Yet were her garments parted white and green, 
'Tir'd like unto the picture of renown. 
Upon her lap she laid his head a down; 
Unlike to all she smiled on his face, 
Which made me long to know this dead man's case.
<STANZA>
As thus I look'd, gan Justice to arise
I knew the Goddess by her equal beam;
And dewing on his face balm from her eyes,
She wet his visage with a yearnful stream.
Sad, mournful looks did from her arches gleam,
And like to one whom sorrow deep attaints,
With heaved hands she poureth forth these plaints.
<STANZA>
<The Complaint of Justice.>
Untoward Twins that tempers human fate, 
Who from your distaff draws the life of man, 
Parce, impartial to the highest state,
Too soon you cut what Clotho erst began 
Your fatal dooms this present age may ban, 
For you have robb'd the world of such a knight 
As best could skill to balance Justice right.
<STANZA>
His eyes were seats for mercy and for law, 
Favor in one, and Justice in the other: 
The poor he smooth'd, the proud he kept in awe; 
As just to strangers as into his brother. 
Bribes could not make him any wrong to smother, 
For to a Lord, or to the lowest groom, 
Still conscience and the cause set down the doom.
<STANZA>
Delaying law, that picks the clients purse, 
Ne could this Knight abide to hear debated 
From day to day (that claims the poor mans curse), 
Nor might the pleas be over-long dilated: 
Much shifts of law there was by him abated. 
With conscience carefully he heard the cause, 
Then gave his doom with short dispatch of laws.
<STANZA>
The poor man's cry he thought a holy knell:
No sooner gan their suits to pierce his ears
But fair-eyed pity in his heart did dwell,
And like a father that affection bears,
So tend'red he the poor with inward tears,
And did redress their wrongs when they did call;
But poor or rich he still was just to all.
<STANZA>
O! woe is me (saith Justice), he is dead; 
The Knight is dead that was so just a man, 
And in Astraea's lap low lies his head, 
Who whilom wonders in the world did scan. 
Justice hath lost her chiefest limb, what then?
At this her sighs and sorrows were so sore, 
And so she wept that she could speak no more.
<STANZA>
<The complaint of Prudence.>
A Wreath of Serpents 'bout her lily wrist 
Did seemly Prudence wear: she then arose. 
A silver Dove sat mourning on her fist, 
Tears on her cheeks like dew upon a rose, 
And thus began the Goddess' greeful glose. 
Let England mourn, for why?  his days are done 
Whom Prudence nursed like her dearest son.
(Hatton) at that I started in my dream, 
But not awoke: Hatton is dead, quoth she; 
O could I pour out tears like to a stream, 
A sea of them would not sufficient be: 
For why, our age had few more wise then he. 
Like oracles, as were Apollo's saws,
So were his words accordant to the laws.
<STANZA>
Wisdom sat watching in his wary eyes, 
His insight subtle if unto a foe 
He could with counsels Commonwealths comprise: 
No foreign wit could Hatton's overgo; 
Yet to a friend wise, simple, and no moe. 
His civil policy unto the state 
Scarce left behind him now a second mate.
<STANZA>
For Country's weal his counsel did exceed, 
And eagle-eyed he was to spy a fault: 
For wars or peace right wisely could he reed: 
'Twas hard for trechors 'fore his looks to halt; 
The smooth-fac'd traitor could not him assault.
As by his Country's love his 'grees did rise, 
So to his Country was he Simple-wise.
<STANZA>
This grave adviser of the Commonweal, 
This prudent Counsellor Unto his Prince, 
Whose wit was busied with his Mistress' heal, 
Secret conspiracies could well convince, 
Whose insight pierced the Sharp-eyed Lynx. 
Ne is dead at this her Sorrows were so sore, 
And so she wept that she could speak no more.
<STANZA>
<The Complaint of Fortitude.>
Next Fortitude arose unto this Knight, 
And by his side sat down with steadfast eyes: 
A broken Column 'twixt her arms was pight. 
She could not weep nor pour out yearnful cries: 
From Fortitude such base affects nil rise. 
Brass-renting Goddess, she cannot lament, 
Yet thus her plaints with breathing sighs were spent.
<STANZA>
Within the Maiden's Court, place of all places, 
I did advance a man of high degree, 
Whom Nature had made proud with all her graces,
Inserting courage in his noble heart: 
No perils dread could ever make him start, 
But like to Scaevola, for country's good 
He did not value for to spend his blood.
<STANZA>
His looks were stern, though in a life of peace; 
Though not in wars, yet war hung in his brows: 
His honor did by martial thoughts increase: 
To martial men living this Knight allows, 
And by his sword he Solemnly avowed 
Though not in war, yet if that war were here, 
As warriors do to value honor dear.
<STANZA>
Captains he kept and fostered them with fee; 
Soldiers were servants to this martial Knight; 
Men might his stable full of coursers see, 
Trotters, whose manag'd looks would some affright. 
His armory was rich and warlike digt, 
And he himself, if any need had craved, 
Would as stout Hector have himself behaved.
<STANZA>
I lost a friend when as I lost his life.
Thus plained Fortitude, and frown'd withal.
Cursed be Atropos, and curst her knife,
That made the Captain of my guard to fall,
Whose virtues did his honors high install.
At this she storm'd, and wrung out sighs so sore,
That what for grief her tongue could speak no more.
<STANZA>
<The complaint of Temperance.>
Then Temperance, with bridle in her hand,
Did mildly look upon this liveless Cord,
And like to weeping Niobe did stand:
Her sorrows and her tears did well accord;
Their Diapason was in self-same Lord.
Here lies the man (quoth she) that breath'd out this,
To shun fond pleasures is the sweetest bliss.
<STANZA>
No choice delight could draw his eyes awry; 
He was not bent to pleasure's fond conceits; 
Inveigling pride, nor world's sweet vanity, 
Love's luring follies with their strange deceits, 
Could wrap this Lord within their baleful sleights, 
But he, despising all, said, man was grass, 
His date a span, et omnia vanitas.
<STANZA>
Temperate he was, and tempered all his deeds 
He bridled those affects that might offend; 
He gave his will no more the reins then needs, 
He measured pleasures ever by the end. 
His thoughts on virtue's censures did depend: 
What booteth pleasures that so quickly pass, 
When such delights are fickle like to glass?
<STANZA>
First pride of life, that subtle branch of sin, 
And then the lusting humor of the eyes, 
And base concupiscence, which plies her gin 
These Sirens that do worldlings still entice, 
Could not allure his mind to think of vice; 
For he said still, pleasure's delight it is 
That holdeth man from heaven's delightful bliss.
<STANZA>
Temperate he was in every deep extreme, 
And could well bridle his affects with reason. 
What I have lost in losing him then deem. 
Base death, that took away a man so geason, 
That measur'd every thought by time and season. 
At this her sighs and sorrows were so sore; 
And so she wept that she could speak no more.
<STANZA>
<The complaint of Bounty.>
With open hands, and mourning looks dependant, 
Bounty stepp'd forth to wail the dead man's loss: 
On her was love and plenty both attendant 
Tears in her eyes, arms folded quite across,
Sitting by him upon a turf of moss,
<She sigh'd and said, here lies the knight deceased, 
Whose bounty Bounty's glory much increased.
<STANZA>
His looks were liberal, and in his face 
Sat frank Magnificence with arms display'd: 
His open hands discours'd his inward grace; 
The poor were never at their need denied. 
Hid careless scorn of gold his deeds bewray'd:
And this he crav'd, no longer for to live 
Then he had power, and mind, and will to give.
<STANZA>
No man went empty from his frank dispose;
He was a purse-bearer unto the poor: 
He well observ'd the meaning of this glose, 
None loose reward that giveth of their store. 
To all his bounty past.  Ay me, therefore, 
That he should die!  with that she sigh'd so sore, 
And so she wept that she could speak no more.
<STANZA>
<The complaint of Hospitality.>
Lame of a leg, as she had lost a limb, 
Start up kind Hospitality and wept. 
She silent sat awhile, and sigh'd by him; 
As one half maimed to this knight she crept: 
At last about his neck this Nymph she leapt, 
And with her Cornucopia in her fist, 
For very love his chilly lips she kiss'd.
<STANZA>
Ay me! quoth she, my love is lorn by death; 
My chiefest stay is crack'd, and I am lame: 
He that his alms frankly did bequeath, 
And fed the poor with store of food, the same, 
Even he, is dead, and vanish'd is his name, 
Whose gates were open, and whose alms' deed 
Supplied the fatherless and widow's need.
<STANZA>
He kept no Christmas house for once a year;
Each day his boards were fill'd with Lordly fare:
He fed a rout of yeomen with his cheer, 
Nor was his bread and beef kept in with care, 
His wine and beer to strangers were not spare; 
And yet beside to all that hunger grieved 
His gates were ope, and they were there relieved.
<STANZA>
Well could the poor tell where to fetch their bread,
As Baucis and Philemon were yblest
For feasting Jupiter in stranger's stead,
So happy be his high immortal rest,
That was to hospitality address'd;
For few such live: and then she sigh'd so sore,
And so she wept that she could speak no more.
<STANZA>
Then Courtesy, whose face was full of smiles, 
And friendship, with her hand upon her heart, 
And tender Charity, that loves no wiles, 
And Clemency her passions did impart; 
A thousand virtues there did Straight up start, 
And with their tears and sighs they did disclose 
For Hatton's death their hearts were full of woes.
<STANZA>
<The complaint of Religion.>
Next, from the farthest nook of all the place, 
Weeping full sore, there rose a nymph in black, 
Seemly and sober, with an Angel's face, 
And sigh'd as if her heart-strings straight should crack: 
Her outward woes bewray'd her inward wrack.
A golden book she carried in her hand: 
It was religion that thus meek did stand.
<STANZA>
God wot, her garments were full loosely tucked, 
As one that careless was in some despair 
To tatters were her robes and vestures pluck'd, 
Her naked limbs were open to the air 
Yet for all this her looks were blithe and fair; 
And wond'ring how religion grew forlorn 
I spied her robes by Heresy was torn.
<STANZA>
This holy creature sat her by this knight, 
And sigh'd out this: O! here he lies (quoth she) 
Liveless, that did religion's lamp still light; 
Devout without dissembling, meek and free, 
To such whose words and livings did agree 
Lip-holiness in Clergy men he could not brook, 
Ne such as counted gold above their book.
<STANZA>
Upright he liv'd, as holy writ him led: 
His faith was not in ceremonies old, 
Nor had he new found toys within his head, 
Ne was he luke-warm, neither hot nor cold, 
But in religion he was constant, bold, 
And still a sworn professed foe to all 
Whose looks were smooth, hearts pharisaical.
<STANZA>
The brainsick and illiterate surmisers, 
That like to Saints would holy be in looks, 
Of fond religion's fabulous devisers, 
Who scorn'd the Academies and their books, 
And yet could sin as others in close nooks: 
To such wild-headed mates he was a foe, 
That rent her robes, and wrong'd Religion so.
Ne was his faith in men's traditions;
He hated Antichrist and all his trash:
He was not led away by Superstitions,
Nor was he in religion over rash:
His hands from heresy he loved to wash.
Then, base report, ware what thy tongue doth spread.
'Tis sin and shame for to bely the dead.
<STANZA>
Heart-holy men he still kept at his table, 
Doctors that well could doom of holy writ:
By them he knew to sever faith from fable, 
And how the text with judgment for to hit; 
For Pharisees in Moses' chair did sit. 
At this Religion sigh'd and griev'd so sore, 
And so she wept that she could speak no more.
<STANZA>
<Primate.>
Next might I see a rout of Noble-men,
Earls, Barons, Lords, in mourning weeds attir'd:
I cannot paint their passions with my pen,
Nor write so quaintly as their woes requir'd.
Their tears and sighs some Homer's quill desir'd
But this I know their grief was for his death,
That there had yielded nature, life, and breath.
<STANZA>
<Milites>
Then came by soldiers trailing of their pikes, 
Like men dismay'd their beavers were adown; 
Their warlike hearts his death with sorrow strikes, 
Yea, war himself was in a sable gown; 
For grief you might perceive his Visage frown: 
And scholars came by with lamenting cries, 
Wetting their books with tears fell from their eyes.
<STANZA>
<Plebs.>
The common people they did throng in flocks, 
Dewing their bosoms with their yearnful tears. 
Their sighs were such as would have rent the rocks, 
Their faces full of grief, dismay, and fears. 
Their cries struck pity in my list'ning ears:
For why, the groans are less at hell's black gate 
Than Echo there did then reverberate.
<STANZA>
Some came with scrolls and papers in their hand: 
I guess'd them suitors that did rue his loss. 
Some with their children in their hand did stand; 
Some poor and hungry with their hands across. 
A thousand there sat wailing on the moss: 
O pater Patriae! still they cried thus,
Hatton is dead, what shall become of us?
<STANZA>
At all these cries my heart was sore amoved,
Which made me long to see the dead man's face;
What he should be that was so dear beloved,
Whose worth so deep had won the people's grace.
As I came pressing near unto the place,
I look'd, and though his face were pale and wan,
Yet by his visage did I know the man.
<STANZA>
No sooner did I cast mine eye on him, 
But in his face there flash'd a ruddy hue; 
And though before his looks by death were grim, 
Yet seem'd he smiling to my gazing view, 
(As if, though dead, my presence still he knew):
Seeing this change within a dead man's face, 
I could not stop my tears, but wept apace.
<STANZA>
I call'd to mind how that it was a knight 
That whilom liv'd in England's happy soil:
I thought upon his care and deep insight,
For countries weal his labor and his toil
He took, lest that the English state might foil;
And how his watchful thought from first had been
Vowed to the honor of the maiden Queen.
<STANZA>
I call'd to mind again he was my friend,
And held my quiet as his heart's content
What was so dear for me he would not spend?
Then thought I straight such friends are seldom hent.
Thus still from love to love my humor went,
That pondering of his loyalty so free,
I wept him dead that living honor'd me.
<STANZA>
At this Astraea, seeing me so sad,
Gan blithely comfort me with this reply.
Virgin (quoth she) no boot by tears is had,
Nor doth laments aught pleasure them that die.
Souls must have change from this mortality;
For living long sin hath the larger Space,
And dying well they find the greater grace.
<STANZA>
And sith thy tears bewrays thy love (quoth she) 
His soul with me shall wend unto the skies; 
His liveless body I will leave to thee: 
Let that be earth'd and tomb'd in gorgeous wise. 
I'll place his ghost amongst the Hierarchies; 
For as one star another far exceeds,
So souls in heaven are placed by their deeds.
<STANZA>
With that, methought, within her golden lap, 
(This Sun-bright Goddess smiling with her eye) 
The soul of Hatton curiously did wrap, 
And in a cloud was taken up on high.
Vain Dreams are fond, but thus as then dreamt I,
And more, methought I heard the Angels sing 
An Alleluia for to welcome him.
<STANZA>
As thus attendant fair Astraea flew, 
The Nobles, Commons, yea, and every wight. 
That living in his life time Hatton knew, 
Did deep lament the loss of that good knight. 
But when Astraea was quite out of sight, 
For grief the people shouted such a scream, 
That I awoke and start out of my dream.
<Finis.>
</FILE> 
<FILE Jonpoems.d>
<AUTH> Ben Jonson
<TITLE> Epigrams and The Forest
<NOTES> from Dutton, ed. 1984, proofed from scan, WEYE, 4/90>
<POEM>
<I   To the Reader> 
Pray thee, take care, that takes my book in hand,  
To read it well: that is, to understand.  
<POEM>  
<II  To My Book> 
It will be look'd for, book, when some but see  
Thy title, Epigrams, and nam'd of me,  
Thou should be bold, licentious, full of gall,  
Wormwood, and sulphur, sharp, and tooth'd withal;  
Become a petulant thing, hurl ink, and wit,  
As madmen stones: not caring whom they hit.   
Deceive their malice, who could wish it so.   
And by thy wiser temper, let men know  
Thou art not covetous of least self-fame,  
Made from the hazard of another's shame:            
Much less with lewd, profane, and beastly phrase,  
To catch the world's loose laughter, or vain gaze.  

He that departs with his own honesty  
For vulgar praise, doth it too dearly buy.  
<POEM>   
<III To My Bookseller> 
Thou, that mak'st gain thy end, and wisely well,  
Calls a book good, or bad, as it doth sell,  
Use mine so, too: I give thee leave. But crave  
For the luck's sake, it thus much favor have:  
To lie upon thy stall, till it be sought;  
Not offer'd, as it made suit to be bought;  
Nor have my title-leaf on posts, or walls,  
Or in cleft-sticks, advanced to make calls  
For termers, or some clerk-like serving-man,  
Who scarce can spell the hard name: whose knight less can. 
If, without these vile arts, it will not sell,  
Send it to Bucklersbury, there 'twill well.  
<POEM>  
<IV  To King James> 
How, best of kings, does thou a sceptre bear!  
How, best of poets, does thou laurel wear!  
But two things, rare, the Fates had in their store,  
And gave thee both, to show they could no more.  
For such a poet, while thy days were green,  
Thou were, as chief of them are said to have been.  
And such a prince thou are, we daily see,  
As chief of those still promise they will be.  
Whom should my muse then fly to, but the best  
Of kings for grace; of poets for my test?  
<POEM>  
<V   On the Union> 
When was there contract better driven by Fate?  
Or celebrated with more truth of state?  
The world the temple was, the priest a king,  
The spoused pair two realms, the sea the ring.  
<POEM>  
<VI  To Alchemists> 
If all you boast of your great art be true;  
Sure, willing poverty lives most in you.  
<POEM>  
<VII On the New Hot-Houses>   
Where lately harbor'd many a famous whore,  
A purging bill, now fix'd upon the door,   
Tells you it is a hothouse: so it may,  
And still be a whore-house. They're synonymous. 
<POEM>  
<VIII On a Robbery> 
Ridway robb'd Duncote of three hundred pound,  
Ridway was taken, arraign'd, condemn'd to die;  
But, for this money was a courtier found,  
Begg'd Ridway's pardon: Duncote, now, does cry;  
Robb'd both of money, and the law's relief,  
The courtier has become the greater thief.  
<POEM>  
<IX To All, To Whom I Write>     
May none, whose scattered names honor my book,  
For strict degrees of rank, or title look:  
It is against the manners of an epigram:  
And, I a poet here, no herald am.  
<POEM>  
<X To My Lord Ignorant> 
Thou calls me poet, as a term of shame:  
But I have my revenge made, in thy name.  
<POEM> 
<XI On Something, that Walks Somewhere> 
At court I met it, in clothes brave enough,  
To be a courtier; and looks grave enough,  
To seem a statesman: as I near it came,  
It made me a great face, I asked the name.  
A lord, it cried, buried in flesh, and blood,  
And such from whom let no man hope least good, 
For I will do none: and as little ill,  
For I will dare none. Good Lord, walk dead still.  
<POEM>   
<XII On Lieutenant Shift> 
Shift, here, in town, not meanest among squires,  
That haunt Pickthatch, Marshlambeth and Whitefriars,  
Keeps himself, with half a man, and defrays  
The charge of that state, with this charm, god pays.  
By that one spell he lives, eats, drinks, arrays  
Himself:his whole revenue is god pays.  
The quarter-day is come; the hostess says,  
She must have money: he returns, god pays.  
The tailor brings a suit home; he it assays,  
Looks over the bill, likes it: and says, god pays.  
He steals to ordinaries; there he plays  
At dice his borrow'd money: which, god pays.  
Then takes up fresh commodity, for days;  
Signs to new bond, forfeits: and cries, god pays.  
That lost, he keeps his chamber, reads essays,  
Takes physic, tears the papers: still god pays.  
Or else by water goes, and so to plays;  
Calls for his stool, adorns the stage: god pays.  
To every cause he meets, this voice he brays:  
His only answer is to all, god pays.                
Not his poor cockatrice but he betrays  
Thus:and for his lechery, scores, god pays.  
But see! The old bawd hath served him in his trim,  
Lent him a pocky whore. She hath paid him.  
<POEM>  
<XIII  To Doctor Empiric> 
When men a dangerous disease did escape,  
Of old, they gave a cock to Aesculape; 
Let me give two: that doubly am got free,  
From my disease's danger, and from thee.  
<POEM>  
<XIV   To William Camden> 
Camden, most reverend head, to whom I owe  
All that I am in arts, all that I know,  
(How nothing's that?) to whom my country owes  
The great renown, and name wherewith she goes.  
Than thee the age sees not that thing more grave,  
More high, more holy, that she more would crave.  
What name, what skill, what faith hast thou in things!  
What sight in searching the most antique springs!  
What weight, and what authority, in thy speech!  
Man scarce can make that doubt, but thou cannot teach.    
Pardon free truth, and let thy modesty,  
Which conquers all, be once overcome by thee.  
Many of thine this better could, than I,  
But for their powers, accept my piety.  
<POEM>  
<XV  On Court-Worm> 
All men are worms: but this no man. In silk  
It was brought to court first wrapp'd, and white as milk;  
Where, afterwards, it grew a butterfly:  
Which was a caterpillar. So it will die.  
<POEM>  
<XVI To Brain-Hardy> 
Hardy, thy brain is valiant, it is confess'd,  
Thou more; that with it every day, dares jest  
Thyself into fresh brawls: when, call'd upon,  
Scarce thy week's swearing brings thee off, of one. 
So, in short time, the art in arrearage grown  
Some hundred quarrels, yet does thou fight none;  
Nor needs thou: for those few, by oath releas'd,  
Make good what thou dares do in all the rest.  
Keep thyself there, and think thy valor right,  
He that dares damn himself, dares more than fight.  
<POEM>  
<XVII  To the Learned Critic> 
May others fear, fly, and traduce thy name,  
As guilty men do magistrates: glad I,  
That wish my poems a legitimate fame,  
Charge them, for crown, to thy sole censure high.  
And, but a sprig of bays given by thee,  
Shall outlive garlands, stol'n from the chaste tree.  
<POEM>  
<XVlII To My Mere English Censurer> 
To thee, my way in epigrams seems new,  
When both it is the old way, and the true.  
Thou says, that cannot be: for thou hast seen  
Davies, and Weever, and the best have been,  
And mine come nothing like. I hope so. Yet,  
As theirs did with thee, mine might credit get:  
If thou would but use thy faith, as thou did then,  
When thou were wont to admire, not censure men.  
Prithee believe still, and not judge so fast,  
The faith is all the knowledge that thou hast.  
<POEM>  
<XIX   On Sir Cod the Perfumed> 
That Cod can get no widow, yet a knight,  
I scent the cause: he woos with an ill sprite.  
<POEM>
<XX To the Same Sir Cod> 
The expense in odors is a most vain sin,  
Except thou could, Sir Cod, wear them within.  
<POEM>  
<XXI On Reformed Gamester> 
Lord, how is gamester chang'd! His hair close cut!  
His neck fenc'd round with ruff! His eyes half shut!  
His clothes two fashions off, and poor! His sword  
Forbid his side! And nothing, but the Word  
Quick in his lips! Who hath this wonder wrought?  
The late taken bastinado. So I thought.  
What several ways men to their calling have!  
The body's stripes, I see, the soul may save.  
<POEM> 
<XXII  On My First Daughter> 
Here lies to each her parents' ruth,  
Mary, the daughter of their youth:  
Yet, all heaven's gifts, being heaven's due,  
It makes the father, less to rue.  
At six months end, she parted hence  
With safety of her innocence;  
Whose soul heaven's queen, (whose name she bears)  
In comfort of her mother's tears,  
Hath placed amongst her virgin train:  
Where, while that sever'd doth remain,               
This grave partakes the fleshly birth.  
Which cover lightly, gentle earth. 
<POEM>
<XXIII To John Donne> 
Donne, the delight of Phoebus, and each muse,  
Who, to thy one, all other brains refuse;  
Whose every work, of thy most early wit,  
Came forth example, and remains so, yet:  
Longer a-knowing, than most wits do live.  
And which no affection praise enough can give!  
To it, thy language, letters, arts, best life,  
Which might with half mankind maintain a strife.  
All which I meant to praise, and, yet, I would;  
But leave, because I cannot as I should!  
<POEM>   
<XXIV  To the Parliament> 
There's reason good, that you good laws should make:  
Men's manners never were viler, for your sake.  
<POEM>  
<XXV   On Sir Voluptuous Beast> 
While Beast instructs his fair, and innocent wife,  
In the past pleasures of his sensual life,  
Telling the motions of each petticoat,  
And how his Ganymede moved, and how his goat,  
And now, her (hourly) own cucqueen makes,  
In varied shapes, which for his lust she takes:  
What doth he else, but say, leave to be chaste,  
Just wife, and, to change me, make woman's haste.  
<POEM>  
<XXVI  On the Same Beast> 
Than his chaste wife, though Beast now know no more,  
He adulters still: his thoughts lie with a whore.  
<POEM>
<XXI On Sir John Roe> 
In place of scutcheons, that should deck thy hearse,  
Take better ornaments, my tears, and verse.  
If any sword could save from Fate, Roe's could;  
If any muse outlive their spite, his can;  
If any friend's tears could restore, his would;  
If any pious life ever lifted man  
To heaven, his hath: O happy state! wherein  
We, sad for him, may glory, and not sin.  
<POEM>  
<XXII On Don Surly> 
Don Surly, to aspire the glorious name  
Of a great man, and to be thought the same,  
Makes serious use of all great trade he knows.  
He speaks to men with a rhinoceros' nose,  
Which he thinks great; and so reads verses, too:  
And, that is done, as he saw great men do.  
He has tympanies of business, in his face,  
And can forget men's names, with a great grace.  
He will both argue, and discourse in oaths,  
Both which are great. And laugh at ill-made clothes;   
That's greater, yet: to cry his own up neat.  
He doth, at meals, alone, his pheasant eat,  
Which is main greatness. And, at his still board,  
He drinks to no man: that's, too, like a lord.  
He keeps another's wife, which is a spice  
Of solemn greatness. And he dares, at dice,  
Blaspheme God, greatly. Or some poor hind beat,  
That breathes in his dog's way: and this is great.  
Nay more, for greatness' sake, he will be one  
May hear my Epigrams, but like of none.             
Surly, use other arts, these only can  
Style thee a most great fool, but no great man. 
<POEM>
<XXIX To Sir Annual Tilter> 
Tilter, the most may admire thee, though not I:  
And thou, right guiltless, may plead to it, why?  
For thy late sharp device. I say it is fit  
All brains, at times of triumph, should run with it.  
For then, our water-conduits do run wine;  
But that's put in, thou will say. Why, so is thine.  
<POEM>  
<XXX   To Person Guilty> 
Guilty, be wise; and though thou knows the crimes  
Be thine, I tax, yet do not own my rhymes:  
It was madness in thee, to betray thy fame,  
And person to the world; ere I thy name.  
<POEM>  
<XXXI On Bank the Usurer> 
Bank feels no lameness of his knotty gout,  
His moneys travel for him, in and out:  
And though the soundest legs go every day,  
He toils to be at hell, as soon as they.  
<POEM>  
<XXXII On Sir John Roe> 
What two brave perils of the private sword  
Could not effect, not all the furies do,  
That self-divided Belgia did afford;  
What not the envy of the seas reached to,  
The cold of Moscow, and fat Irish air,  
His often change of clime (though not of mind)  
What could not work; at home in his repair  
Was his blessed state, but our hard lot to find. 
Which shows, wherever death doth please to appear,  
Seas, serenes, swords, shot, sickness, all are there.  
<POEM>  
<XXXIII To the Same> 
I'll not offend thee with a vain tear more,  
Glad-mention'd Roe: thou are but gone before,  
Whither the world must follow. And I, now,  
Breath to expect my when, and make my how.  
Which if most gracious heaven grant like thine,  
Who wets my grave, can be no friend of mine.  
<POEM>  
<XXXIV  Of Death> 
He that fears death, or mourns it, in the just,  
Shows of the resurrection little trust.  
<POEM>  
<XXXV   To King James> 
Who would not be thy subject, James, to obey  
A prince, that rules by example, more than sway?  
Whose manners draw, more than thy powers constrain.  
And in this short time of thy happiest reign,  
Has purg'd thy realms, as we have now no cause  
Left us of fear, but first our crimes, then laws.  
Like aids against treasons who hath found before?  
And than, in them, how could we know God more?  
First thou preserved were, our king to be,  
And since, the whole land was preserv'd for thee. 
<POEM> 
<XL On Margaret Ratcliffe> 
Marble, weep, for thou does cover  
A dead beauty underneath thee,  
Rich, as nature could bequeath thee:  
Grant then, no rude hand remove her.  
All the gazers on the skies  
Read not in fair heaven's story,  
Expresser truth, or truer glory,  
Than they might in her bright eyes.  
Rare, as wonder, was her wit;  
And like nectar ever flowing:                       
Till time, strong by her bestowing,  
Conquered hath both life and it.  
Life, whose grief was out of fashion,  
In these times. Few so have rul'd  
Fate, in a brother. To conclude,  
For wit, feature, and true passion,  
Earth, thou has not such another.  
<POEM>  
<XLI On Gypsy> 
Gypsy, new bawd, is turn'd physician,  
And gets more gold, than all the college can:  
Such her quaint practice is, so it allures,  
For what she gave, a whore; a bawd, she cures.  
<POEM>  
<XLII On Giles and Joan> 
Who says that Giles and Joan at discord be?  
The observing neighbors no such mood can see.  
Indeed, poor Giles repents he married ever.  
But that his Joan doth too. And Giles would never, 
By his free will, be in Joan's company.  
No more would Joan he should. Giles rises early,  
And having got him out of doors is glad.  
The like is Joan. But turning home, is sad.  
And so is Joan. Oft-times, when Giles doth find  
Harsh sights at home, Giles wishes he were blind.       
All this doth Joan. Or that his long-yarn'd life  
Were quite out-spun. The like wish hath his wife.  
The children, that he keeps, Giles swears are none  
Of his begetting. And so swears his Joan.  
In all affections she conquers still.  
If, now, with man and wife, to will, and nill  
The self-same things, a note of concord be:  
I know no couple better can agree!  
<POEM>  
<XLIII To Robert, Earl of Salisbury> 
What need has thou of me? Or of my muse?  
Whose actions so themselves do celebrate?  
Which should thy country's love to speak refuse,  
Her foes enough would fame thee in their hate.  
Before, great men were glad of poets: now,  
I, not the worst, am covetous of thee.  
Yet dare not, to my thought, least hope allow  
Of adding to thy fame; thine may to me,  
When in my book, men read but Cecil's name,  
And what I write thereof find far, and free              
From servile flattery (common poets' shame)  
As thou stands clear of the necessity.  
<POEM>  
<XLIV On Chuff, Banks the Usurer's Kinsman> 
Chuff, lately rich in name, in chattels, goods,  
And rich in issue to inherit all,
Ere blacks were bought for his own funeral,  
Saw all his race approach the blacker floods:  
He meant they thither should make swift repair,  
When he made him executor, might be heir.  
<POEM>  
<XLV  On My First Son>  
Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;  
My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy,  
Seven years thou were lent to me, and I thee pay,  
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.  
O, could I lose all father, now. For why  
Will man lament the state he should envy?  
To have so soon escap'd world's, and flesh's rage,  
And if no other misery, yet age?  
Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say here doth lie  
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.  
For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such,  
As what he loves may never like too much.  
<POEM>  
<XLVI  To Sir Luckless Woo-All> 
Is this the sir, who, some waste wife to win,  
A knighthood bought, to go a-wooing in?  
It is Luckless he, that took up one on band                      

To pay at the day of marriage. By my hand  
The knight-wright's cheated then: he'll never pay.  
Yes, now he wears his knighthood every day.  
<POEM>  
<XLVII  To the Same> 
Sir Luckless, troth, for luck's sake pass by one:  
He that woos every widow, will get none. 
<POEM> 
<XLVIII On Mongrel Esquire> 
His bought arms Mongrel not lik'd; for his first day  
Of bearing them in field, he threw them away:  
And hath no honor lost, our duellists say.  
<POEM>  
<XLIX To Playwright>  
Playwright me reads, and still my verses damn,  
He says, I want the tongue of epigrams;  
I have no salt: no bawdry he doth mean.  
For witty, in his language, is obscene.  
Playwright, I loath to have thy manners known  
In my chaste book: profess them in thine own.  
<POEM>  
<L To Sir Cod> 
Leave Cod, tobacco-like, burnt gums to take,  
Or fumy clysters, thy moist lungs to bake:  
Arsenic would thee fit for society make.  
<POEM>  
<LI To King James>  
  
Upon the happy false rumor of his death, the twentieth  
day of March, 1607  
That we thy loss might know, and thou our love,  
Great heaven did well, to give ill fame free wing;  
Which though it did but panic terror prove,  
And far beneath least pause of such a king,  
Yet give thy jealous subjects leave to doubt:  
Who this thy escape from rumor gratulate,  
No less than if from peril; and devout,  
Do beg thy care unto thy after-state.  
For we, that have our eyes still in our ears,  
Look not upon thy dangers, but our fears.  
<POEM>  
<LII To Censorious Courtling> 
Courtling, rather thou should utterly  
Dispraise my work, than praise it frostily:  
When I am read, thou feigns a weak applause,  
As if thou were my friend, but lacks a cause.  
This but thy judgment fools: the other way  
Would both thy folly, and thy spite betray.  
<POEM>  
<LIII To Old-End Gatherer> 
Long gathering Old-End, I did fear thee wise,  
When having pill'd a book, which no man buys,  
Thou were content the author's name to lose:  
But when (in place) thou did the patron's choose,  
It was as if thou printed had an oath,  
To give the world assurance thou were both;  
And that, as puritans at baptism do,  
Thou are the father, and the witness too.  
For, but thyself, where, out of motley, so he  
Could save that line to dedicate to thee?           
<POEM>  
<LIV On Chev'ril> 
Chev'ril cries out, my verses libels are;  
And threatens the Star Chamber, and the bar:  
What are thy petulant pleadings, Chev'ry, then,  
That quits the cause so often, and rails at men? 
<POEM> 
<LV To Francis Beaumont> 
How I do love thee Beaumont, and thy muse,  
That unto me does such religion use!  
How I do fear myself, that am not worth  
The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth!  
At once thou makes me happy, and unmakes;  
And giving largely to me, more thou takes.  
What fate is mine, that so itself bereaves?  
What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives?  
When even there, where most thou praisest me,  
For writing better, I must envy thee.  
<POEM>  
<LVI On Poet-Ape>  
Poor Poet-Ape, that would be thought our chief,  
Whose works are even the frippery of wit,  
From brocage is become so bold a thief,  
As we, the robb'd, leave rage, and pity it.  
At first he made low shifts, would pick and glean,  
Buy the reversion of old plays; now grown  
To a little wealth, and credit in the scene,  
He takes up all, makes each man's wit his own.  
And, told of this, he slights it. Tut, such crimes  
The sluggish gaping auditor devours;                   
He marks not whose it was first: and after-times  
May judge it to be his, as well as ours.  
Fool, as if half eyes will not know a fleece  
From locks of wool, or shreds from the whole piece!  
<POEM>  
<LVII On Bawds, and Usurers> 
If, as their ends, their fruits were so, the same,  
Bawdry, and usury were one kind of game.  
<POEM>
<LV To Groom Idiot> 
Idiot, last night, I pray'd thee but forbear  
To read my verses; now I must to hear:  
For offering, with thy smiles, my wit to grace,  
Thy ignorance still laughs in the wrong place.  
And so my sharpness thou no less disjoints,  
Than thou did late my sense, losing my points.  
So have I seen at Christmas sports one lost,  
And, hood-wink'd, for a man, embrace a post.  
<POEM>  
<LIX On Spies> 
Spies, you are lights in state, but of base stuff,  
Who, when you have burnt yourselves down to the snuff,  
Stink, and are thrown away. End fair enough.  
<POEM>  
<LX To William, Lord Mounteagle> 
Lo, what my country should have done (have rais'd  
An obelisk, or column to thy name,  
Or, if she would but modestly have prais'd  
Thy fact, in brass or marble written the same)  
I, that am glad of thy great chance, here do!  
And proud, my work shall outlast common deeds,  
Durst think it great, and worthy wonder too,  
But thine, for which I do it, so much exceeds!  
My country's parents I have many known;  
But saver of my country thee alone.  
<POEM>
<LXI To Fool, or Knave> 
Thy praise, or dispraise is to me alike,  
One doth not stroke me, nor the other strike. 
<POEM> 
<LXII To Fine Lady Would-Be> 
Fine Madam Would-Be, wherefore should you fear,  
That love to make so well, a child to bear?  
The world reputes you batten: but I know  
Your `pothecary, and his drug says no.  
Is it the pain affrights? That's soon forgot.  
Or your complexion's loss? You have a pot  
That can restore that. Will it hurt your feature?  
To make amends, you're thought a wholesome creature.  
What should the cause be? O, you live at court:  
And there's both loss of time, and loss of sport         
In a great belly. Write, then on thy womb,  
Of the not born, yet buried, here's the tomb.  
<POEM>  
<LXIII To Robert, Earl of Salisbury> 
Who can consider thy right courses run;  
With what thy virtue on the times hath won,  
And not thy fortune; who can clearly see  
The judgment of the king so shine in thee;  
And that thou seeks reward of thy each act,  
Not from the public voice, but private fact;  
Who can behold all envy so decIin'd  
By constant suffering of thy equal mind;  
And can to these be silent, Salisbury,  
Without his, thine, and all times' injury?               
Curst be his muse, that could lie dumb, or hid  
To so true worth, though thou thyself forbid.  
<POEM>  
<LXIV To the Same>  
      (Upon the Accession of the Treasureship to him)  
Not glad, like those that have new hopes, or suits,  
With thy new place, bring I these early fruits 
Of love, and what the golden age did hold  
A treasure, art: contemn'd in the age of gold.  
Nor glad as those, that old dependants be,  
To see thy father's rights new laid on thee.  
Nor glad for fashion. Nor to show a fit  
Of flattery to thy titles. Nor of wit.  
But I am glad to see that time survive,  
Where merit is not sepulcher'd alive.               
Where good men's virtues them to honors bring,  
And not to dangers. When so wise a king  
Contends to have worth enjoy, from his regard,  
As her own conscience, still, the same reward.  
These (noblest Cecil) labor'd in my thought,  
Wherein what wonder seethy name hath wrought!  
That whilst I meant but thine to gratulate,  
I have sung the greater fortunes of our state.  
<POEM>  
<LXV To My Muse> 
Away, and leave me, thou thing most abhorr'd  
That has betray'd me to a worthless lord;  
Made me commit most fierce idolatry  
To a great image through thy luxury.  
Be thy next master's more unlucky muse,  
And, as thou has mine, his hours, and youth abuse.  
Get him the time's long grudge, the court's ill will;  
And, reconcil'd, keep him suspected still.  
Make him lose all his friends; and, which is worse,  
Almost all ways, to any better course.                    
With me thou leaves an happier muse than thee,  
And which thou brought me, welcome poverty.  
She shall instruct my after-thoughts to write  
Things manly, and not smelling parasite.  
But I repent me: stay. Whoever is rais'd,  
For worth he has not, he is tax'd, not prais'd. 
<POEM> 
<LXVI To Sir Henry Cary> 
That neither fame, nor love might wanting be  
To greatness, Cary, I sing that, and thee.  
Whose house, if it no other honor had,  
In only thee, might be both great, and glad.  
Who, to upbraid the sloth of this our time,  
Durst valor make, almost, but not a crime.  
Which deed I know not, whether were more high,  
Or thou more happy, it to justify  
Against thy fortune: when no foe, that day,  
Could conquer thee, but chance, who did betray.     
Love thy great loss, which a renown hath won,  
To live when Broeck not stands, nor Ruhr doth run.  
Love honors, which of best example be,  
When they cost dearest, and are done most free,  
Though every fortitude deserves applause;  
It may be much, or little, in the cause.  
He's valiant, that dares fight, and not for pay;  
That virtuous is, when the reward's away.  
<POEM>  
<LXVII To Thomas, Earl of Suffolk> 
Since man have left to do praise-worthy things,  
Most think all praises flattery. But truth brings  
That sound, and that authority with her name,  
As, to be rais'd by her, is only fame.                           
<STANZA>
Stand high, then, Howard, high in eyes of men,  
High in thy blood, thy place, but highest then,  
When, in men's wishes, so thy virtues wrought,  
As all thy honors were by them first sought:  
And thou design'd to be the same thou are,  
Before thou were it, in each good man's heart.  
Which, by no less confirm'd, than thy king's choice,  
Proves, that is God's, which was the people's voice. 
<POEM>
<LXVII On Playwright> 
Playwright convict of public wrongs to men,  
Takes private beatings, and begins again.  
Two kinds of valor he doth show at once;  
Active in his brain, and passive in his bones.  
<POEM>  
<LXIX To Pertinax Cob> 
  
Cob, thou nor soldier, thief, nor fencer are,  
Yet by thy weapon lives! Thy haste one good part.  
<POEM>  
<LXX To William Roe> 
When Nature bids us leave to live, it is late  
Then to begin, my Roe: he makes a state  
In life, that can employ it; and takes hold  
On the true causes, ere they grow too old.  
Delay is bad, doubt worse, depending worst;  
Each best day of our life escapes us, first.  
Then, since we (more than many) these truths know:  
Though life be short, let us not make it so.  
<POEM>  
<LXXI On Court-Parrot> 
To pluck down mine, Poll sets up new wits still,  
Still, it is his luck to praise me against his will.  
<POEM>  
<LXXII To Courtling> 
I grieve not, Courtling, thou are started up  
A chamber-critic, and does dine and sup 
At madam's table, where thou makes all wit  
Go high, or low, as thou wilt value it.  
It is not thy judgment breeds the prejudice,  
Thy person only, Courtling, is the vice.  
<POEM>  
<LXIII To Fine Grand> 
What is it, fine Grand, makes thee my friendship fly,  
Or take an epigram so fearfully:  
As it were a challenge, or a borrower's letter?  
The world must know your greatness is my debtor.  
In primis, Grand, you owe me for a jest;  
I lent you, on mere acquaintance, at a feast.  
Item, a tale or two, some fortnight after,  
That yet maintains you, and your house in laughter.  
Item, the Babylonian song you sing;  
Item, a fair Greek posy for a ring:                     
With which a learned madam you belie.  
Item, a charm surrounding fearfully,  
Your party-per-pale picture, one half drawn  
In solemn cypress, the other cobweb lawn.  
Item, a gulling impress for you, at tilt.  
Item, your mistress' anagram, in your hilt.  
Item, your own, sew'd in your mistress' smock.  
Item, an epitaph on my lord's cock,  
In most vile verses, and cost me more pain,  
Than had I made them good, to fit your vein.           
Forty things more, dear Grand, which you know true,  
For which, or pay me quickly, or I'll pay you.  
<POEM>  
<LXXIV To Thomas, Lord Chancellor> 
While thy weigh'd judgments, Egerton, I hear,  
And know thee, then, a judge not of one year; 
While I behold thee live with purest hands;  
That no affection in thy voice commands;  
That still they are present to the better cause;  
And no less wise, than skillful in the laws;  
While thou are certain to thy words, once gone,  
As is thy conscience, which is always one:  
The virgin, long-since fled from earth, I see,  
To our times return'd, hath made her heaven in thee.    
<POEM>  
<LXXV On Lip, the Teacher> 
I cannot think there's that antipathy  
Between puritans, and players, as some cry;  
Though Lip, at Paul's, ran from his text away,  
The envy against plays: what did he then but play?  
<POEM>  
<LXXVI On Lucy, Countess of Bedford> 
This morning, timely rapt with holy fire,  
I thought to form unto my zealous muse,  
What kind of creature I could most desire,  
To honor, serve, and love; as poets use.  
I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise,  
Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great;  
I meant the day-star should not brighter rise,  
Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat.  
I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet,  
Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride;       
I meant each softest virtue, there should meet,  
Fit in that softer bosom to reside.  
Only a learned, and a manly soul  
I purpos'd her; that should, with even powers,  
The rock, the spindle, and the shears control  
Of destiny, and spin her own free hours. 
Such when I meant to feign, and wish'd to see,  
My muse bad, Bedford write, and that was she.  
<POEM>
<LXXVII To One that Desired Me Not to Name Him> 
Be safe, nor fear thyself so good a fame,  
That, any way, my book should speak thy name:  
For, if thou shame, rank'd with my friends, to go,  
I'm more asham'd to have thee thought my foe.  
<POEM>
<LXXVIII To Hornet> 
Hornet, thou has thy wife dress'd, for the stall,  
To draw the custom: but herself gets all.  
<POEM>  
<LXXIX To Elizabeth, Countess of Rutland> 
That poets are far rarer births than kings,  
Your noblest father prov'd: like whom, before,  
Or then, or since, about our muses springs,  
Came not that soul exhausted so their store.  
Hence was it, that the destinies decreed  
(Save that most masculine issue of his brain)  
No male unto him: who could so exceed  
Nature, they thought, in all, that he would feign.  
At which, she happily displeas'd, made you:  
On whom, if he were living now, to look,               
He should those rare, and absolute numbers view,  
As he would burn, or better far his book. 
<POEM>
<LXXX Of Life, and Death> 
The ports of death are sins; of life, good deeds:  
Through which, our merit leads us to our meeds.  
How willful blind is he then, that would stray,  
And hath it, in his powers, to make his way!  
This world death's region is, the other life's:  
And here, it should be one of our first strifes,  
So to front death, as men might judge us past it.  
For good men but see death, the wicked taste it.  
<POEM>  
<LXXXI To Prowl the Plagiary> 
Forbear to tempt, Prowl, I will not show  
A line unto thee, till the world it know;  
Or that I have by two good sufficient men,  
To be the wealthy witness of my pen:  
For all thou hears, thou swears thyself did do.  
Thy wit lives by it, Prowl, and belly too.  
Which, if thou leave not soon (though I am loath)  
I must a libel make, and cozen both.  
<POEM>
<LXXXII On Cashiered Captain Surly> 
Surly's old whore in her new silks doth swim:  
He cast, yet keeps her well! No, she keeps him.  
<POEM>
<LXXXIII To a Friend> 
To put out the word, whore, thou does me woo,  
Throughout my book. Froth put out woman too. 
<POEM>
<LXXXIV To Lucy, Countess of Bedford> 
Madam, I told you late how I repented,  
I ask'd a lord a buck, and he denied me;  
And, before I could ask you, I was prevented:  
For your most noble offer had suppli'd me.  
Straight went I home; and there most like a poet,  
I fancied to myself, what wine, what wit  
I would have spent: how every muse should know it,  
And Phoebus' self should be at eating it.  
O madam, if your grant did thus transfer me,  
Make it your gift. See whether that will bear me.   
<POEM>
<LXXXV To Sir Henry Goodyere> 
Goodyere, I am glad, and grateful to report,  
Myself a witness of thy few days' sport:  
Where I both learn'd, why wise men hawking follow,  
And why that bird was sacred to Apollo;  
She doth instruct men by her gallant flight,  
That they to knowledge so should tower upright,  
And never stoop, but to strike ignorance:  
Which if they miss, they yet should re-advance  
To former height, and there in circle tarry,  
Till they be sure to make the fool their quarry.         
Now, in whose pleasures I have this discerned,  
What would his serious actions me have learned?  
<POEM>
<LXXXVI To the Same> 
When I would know thee Goodyere, my thought looks  
Upon thy well-made choice of friends, and books;  
Then do I love thee, and behold thy ends  
In making thy friends books, and thy books friends: 
Now, I must give thy life, and deed, the voice  
Attending such a study, such a choice.  
Where, thought be love, that to thy praise do move,  
It was a knowledge, that begat that love.  
<POEM>
<LXXXVII On Captain Hazard the Cheater> 
Touch'd with the sin of false play, in his punk,  
Hazard a month foreswore his; and grew drunk,  
Each night, to drown his cares: but when the gain  
Of what she had wrought came in, and wak'd his brain,  
Upon the account, hers grew the quicker trade.  
Since when, he's sober again, and all play's made.  
<POEM>
<LXXXVIII On English Monsieur> 
Would you believe, when you this Monsieur see,  
That his whole body should speak French, not he?  
That so much scan of France, and hat, and feather,  
And shoe, and tie, and garter should come hither,  
And land on one, whose face durst never be  
Toward the sea, farther than half-way tree?  
That he, untravell'd, should be French so much,  
As Frenchmen in his company, should seem Dutch?  
Or had his father, when he did him get,  
The French disease, with which he labors yet?     
Or hung some Monsieur's picture on the wall,  
By which his dam conceiv'd him clothes and all?  
Or is it some French statue? No: it doth move,  
And stoop, and cringe. O then, it needs must prove  
The new French tailor's motion, monthly made,  
Daily to turn in Paul's, and help the trade. 
<POEM>  
<LXXXIX To Edward Alleyn> 
If Rome so great, and in her wisest age,  
Fear'd not to boast the glories of her stage,  
As skillful Roscius, and grave Aesop, men,  
Yet crown'd with honors as with riches, then;  
Who had no less a trumpet of their name,  
Than Cicero, whose every breath was fame:  
How can so great example die in me,  
That, Alleyn, I should pause to publish thee?  
Who both their graces in thyself has more  
Outstripp'd, than they did all that went before:  
And present worth in all does so contract,  
As others speak, but only thou does act.  
Wear this renown. It is just, that who did give  
So many poets life, by one should live.  
<POEM>
<XC On Mill, My Lady's Woman> 
When Mill first came to court, the unprofiting fool,  
Unworthy such a mistress, such a school,  
Was dull, and long, ere she would go to man:  
At last, ease, appetite, and example wane  
The nicer thing to taste her lady's page;  
And, finding good security in his age,  
Went on: and proving him still, day by day, 
Discern'd no difference of his years, or play.   
Not though that hair grew brown, which once was amber,  
And he grown youth, was called to his lady's chamber.   
Still Mill continu'd: nay, his face growing worse,  
And he remov'd to gent'man of the horse,  
Mill was the same. Since, both his body and face  
Blown up; and he (too unwieldy for that place)  
Hath got the Steward's chair; he will not tarry  
Longer a day, but with his Mill will marry. 
And it is hoped, that she, like Milo, will  
First bearing him a calf, bear him a bull.  
<POEM>
<XCI To Sir Horace Vere>  
Which of thy names I take, not only bears  
A Roman sound, but Roman virtue wears,  
Illustrious Vere, or Horace; fit to be  
Sung by a Horace, or a muse as free;  
Which thou are to thyself: whose fame was won  
In the eye of Europe, where thy deeds were done,  
When on thy trumpet she did sound a blast,  
Whose relish to eternity shall last.  
I leave thy acts, which should I prosecute  
Throughout, might flattery seem; and to be mute     
To any one, were envy: which would live  
Against my grave, and time could not forgive.  
I speak thy other graces, not less shown,  
Nor less in practice; but less marked, less known:  
Humanity, and piety, which are  
As noble in great chiefs, as they are rare.  
And best become the valiant man to wear,  
Who more should seek men's reverence, than fear.  
<POEM>
<XCII The New Cry> 
Ere cherries ripe, and strawberries be gone,  
Unto the cries of London I'll add one;  
Ripe statesmen, ripe: they grow in every street.  
At six and twenty, ripe. You shall them meet,  
And have them yield no savor, but of state.  
Ripe are their ruffs, their cuffs, their beard, their gait,  
And grave as ripe, like mellow as their faces,  
They know the states of Christendom, not the places: 
Yet have they seen the maps, and bought them too,  
And understand them, as most chapmen do.            
The councils, projects, practices they know,  
And what each prince doth for intelligence owe,  
And unto whom: they are the almanacs  
For twelve years yet to come, what each state lacks.  
They carry in their pockets Tacitus,  
And the gazetti, or Gallo-BeIgicus:  
And talk reserv'd, lock'd up, and full of fear,  
Nay, ask you, how the day goes, in your ear.  
Keep a Star Chamber sentence close, twelve days:  
And whisper what a proclamation says.               
They meet in sixes, and at every mart,  
Are sure to con the catalogue by heart;  
Or, every day, some one at Rimee's looks,  
Or Bill's, and there he buys the names of books.  
They all get Porta, for the sundry ways  
To write in cipher, and the several keys,  
To open the character. They have found the sleight  
With juice of lemons, onions, piss, to write.  
To break up seals, and close them. And they know,  
If the States make peace, how it will go            
With England. All forbidden books they get.  
And of the powder plot, they will talk yet.  
At naming the French king, their heads they shake,  
And at the Pope, and Spain slight faces make.  
Or against the bishops, for the Brethren, rail,  
Much like those Brethren; thinking to prevail  
With ignorance on us, as they have done  
On them: and therefore do not only shun  
Others more modest, but contemn us too,  
That know not so much state, wrong, as they do.  
<POEM>   
<XCIII To Sir John Radcliffe> 
How like a column, Radcliffe, left alone  
For the great mark of virtue, those being gone  
Who did, alike with thee, thy house up-bear,  
Stands thou, to show the times what you all were!  
Two bravely in the battle fell, and died,  
Upbraiding rebels' arms, and barbarous pride:  
And two, that would have fallen as great, as they,  
The Belgic fever ravished away.  
Thou, that are all their valor, all their spirit,  
And thine own goodness to increase thy merit,            
Than whose I do not know a whiter soul,  
Nor could I, had I seen all Nature's roll,  
Thou yet remains, unhurt in peace, or war,  
Though not unprov'd: which shows, thy fortunes are  
Willing to expiate the fault in thee,  
Wherewith, against thy blood, they offenders be.  
<POEM>
<XCN To Lucy, Countess of Bedford, with Mr Donne's Satires>  
Lucy, you brightness of our sphere, who are  
Life of the muse's day, their morning star!  
If works (not the authors) their own grace should look,  
Whose poems would not wish to be you book?  
But these, desir'd be you, the maker's ends  
Crown with their own. Rare poems ask rare friends.  
Yet, satires, since the most of mankind be  
Their unavoided subject, fewest see:  
For none ever took that pleasure in sin's sense,  
But, when they heard it tax'd, took more offense.        
They, then, that living where the matter is bred,  
Dare for these poems, yet, both ask, and read,  
And like them too; must needfully, though few,  
Be of the best: and amongst those, best are you. 
Lucy, you brightness of our sphere, who are  
The muses' evening, as their morning star.  
<POEM>  
<XCV To Sir Henry Savile> 
If, my religion safe, I durst embrace  
That stranger doctrine of Pythagoras,  
I should believe, the soul of Tacitus  
In thee, most weighty Savile, lived to us:  
So has thou render'd him in all his bounds,  
And all his numbers, both of sense, and sounds.  
But when I read that special piece, restor'd,  
Where Nero falls, and Galba is ador'd,  
To thine own proper I ascribe then more;  
And gratulate the breach,I griev'd before.               
Which Fate (it seems) caused in the history,  
Only to boast thy merit in supply.  
O, would thou add like hand, to all the rest!  
Or, better work! Were thy glad country bless'd,  
To have her story woven in thy thread;  
Minerva's loom was never richer spread.  
For who can master those great parts like thee,  
That lives from hope; from fear, from faction free;  
That has thy breast so clear of present crimes,  
Thou needs not shrink at voice of after-times,    
Whose knowledge claims at the helm to stand;  
But, wisely, thrusts not forth a forward hand,  
No more than Sallust in the Roman state!  
As, then, his cause, his glory emulate.  
Although to write be lesser than to do,  
It is the next deed, and a great one too.  
We need a man that knows the several graces  
Of history, and how to apt their places;  
Where brevity, where splendor, and where height,  
Where sweetness is requir'd, and where weight;      
We need a man, can speak of the intents,  
The councils, actions, orders, and events  
Of state, and censure them: we need his pen  
Can write these things, the causes, and the men.  
But most we need his faith (and all have you)  
That dares not write things false, nor hide things true.  
<POEM>
<XCVI To John Donne>  
Who shall doubt, Donne, where I a poet be,  
When I dare send my epigrams to thee?  
That so alone cannot judge, so alone does make:  
And, in thy censures, evenly, does take  
As free simplicity, to dis-avow,  
As thou has best authority, to allow.  
Read all I send: and if I find but one  
Mark'd by thy hand, and with the better stone,  
My title's seal'd. Those that for claps do write,  
Let puisnees', porters', players' praise delight,        
And, till they burst, their backs, like asses, load:  
A man should seek great glory, and not broad.  
<POEM>
<XCVII On the New Motion>  
See you yonder motion? Not the old fading,  
Nor Captain Pod, nor yet the Eltham thing;  
But one more rare, and in the case so new:  
His cloak with orient velvet quite lin'd through,  
His rosy ties and garters so over-blown,  
By his each glorious parcel to be known!  
He wont was to encounter me, aloud,  
Where ever he met me; now he's dumb, or proud.  
Know you the cause? He has neither land, nor lease,  
Nor bawdy stock, that travels for increase,             
Nor office in the town, nor place in court,  
Nor about the bears, nor noise to make lords sport.  
He is no favorite's favorite, no dear trust  
Of any madams hath need squires, and must.  
Nor did the King of Denmark him salute,  
When he was here. Nor hath he got a suit,  
Since he was gone, more than the one he wears.  
Nor are the Queen's most honored maids by the ears  
About his form. What then so swells each limb?  
Only his clothes have over-leaven'd him.          
<POEMS>  
<XCVIII To Sir Thomas Roe>  
Thou has begun well, Roe, which stand well too,  
And I know nothing more thou has to do.  
He that is round within himself, and straight,  
Need seek no other strength, no other height;  
Fortune upon him breaks herself, if ill,  
And what would hurt his virtue makes it still.  
That thou at once, then, nobly may defend  
With thine own course the judgment of thy friend,  
Be always to thy gather'd self the same:  
And study conscience, more than thou would fame.   
Though both be good, the latter yet is worst,  
And ever is ill got without the first.  
<POEM>
<XCIX To the Same>  
That thou has kept thy love, increas'd thy will,  
Better'd thy trust to letters; that thy skill;  
Has taught thyself worthy thy pen to tread,  
And that to write things worthy to be read: 
How much of great example were thou, Roe,  
If time to facts, as unto men would owe?  
But much of it now avails, what's done, of whom:  
The self-same deeds, as diversely they come,  
From place, or fortune, are made high, or low,  
And even the praiser's judgment suffers so.        
Well, though thy name less than our great ones' be,  
Thy fact is more: let truth encourage thee.  
<POEM>
<C On Playwright> 
Playwright, by chance, hearing some toys I had written,  
Cried to my face, they were the elixir of wit:  
And I must now believe him: for, today,  
Five of my jests, then stolen, pass'd him a play.  
<POEM>  
<CI Inviting a Friend to Supper>  
Tonight, grave sir, both my poor house, and I  
Do equally desire your company:  
Not that we think us worthy such a guest,  
But that your worth will dignify our feast,  
With those that come; whose grace may make that seem  
Something, which, else, could hope for no esteem.  
It is the fair acceptance, sir, creates  
The entertainment perfect: not the cates.  
Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate,  
An olive, capers, or some better salad                   
Ush'ring the mutton; with a short-legg'd hen,  
If we can get her, full of eggs, and then,  
Lemons, and wine for sauce: to these, a coney  
Is not to be despair'd of, for our money;  
And, though fowl, now, be scarce, yet there are clerks,  
The sky not falling, think we may have larks. 
I'll tell you of more, and lie, so you will come:  
Of partridge, pheasant, wood-cock, of which some  
May yet be there; and god wit, if we can:  
Knat, rail, and ruff too. How so ever, my man       
Shall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus,  
Livy, or of some better book to us,  
Of which we'll speak our minds, amid our meat;  
And I'll profess no verses to repeat:  
To this, if aught appear, which I know not of,  
That will the pastry, not my paper, show of.  
Digestive cheese, and fruit there sure will be;  
But that, which most doth take my muse, and me,  
Is a pure cup of rich canary wine,  
Which is the Mermaid's, now, but shall be mine:    
Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted,  
Their lives, as do their lines, till now had lasted.  
Tobacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring,  
Are all but Luther's beer, to this I sing.  
Of this we will sup free, but moderately,  
And we will have no Pooly, or Parrot by;  
Nor shall our cups make any guilty men:  
But at our parting, we will be, as when  
We innocently met. No simple word,  
That shall be utter'd at our mirthful board,        
Shall make us sad next morning: or affright  
The liberty, that we'll enjoy tonight.  
<POEM>
<CII To William, Earl of Pembroke>  
I do but name thee Pembroke, and I find  
It is an epigram, on all mankind;  
Against the bad, but of, and to be good:  
Both which are ask'd, to have thee understood.  
Nor could the age have miss'd thee in this strife  
Of vice, and virtue; wherein all great life 
Almost, is exercis'd: and scarce one knows,  
To which, yet, of the sides himself he owes.  
They follow virtue, for reward, today;  
Tomorrow vice, if she give better pay:              
And are so good, and bad, just at a price,  
As nothing else discerns the virtue or vice.  
But thou, whose noblesse keeps one stature still,  
And one true posture, though besieg'd with ill  
Of what ambition, faction, pride, can raise;  
Whose life, even they, that envy it, must praise;  
That are so reverenc'd, as thy coming in,  
But in the view, doth interrupt their sin;  
Thou must draw more: and they, that hope to see  
The commonwealth still safe, must study thee.       
<POEM>
<CIII To Mary, Lady Wroth>  
How well, fair crown of your fair sex, might he,  
That but the twilight of your sprite did see,  
And noted for what flesh such souls were fram'd,  
Know you to be a Sidney, though un-nam'd?  
And, being nam'd, how little doth that name  
Need any muse's praise to give it fame?  
Which is, itself, the impress of the great,  
And glory of them all, but to repeat!  
Forgive me then, if mine but say you are  
A Sidney: but in that extend as far                    
As loudest praisers, who perhaps would find  
For every part a character assign'd.  
My praise is plain, and where so ever profess'd,  
Becomes none more than you, who need it least.  
<POEM>
<CIV To Susan, Countess of Montgomery>  
Were they that nam'd you, prophets? Did they see!  
Even in the dew of grace, what you would be?  
Or did our times require it, to behold  
A new Susanna, equal to that old?  
Or, because some scarce think that story true,  
To make those faithful, did the Fates send you?  
And to your scene lent no less dignity  
Of birth, of match, of form, of chastity?  
Or, more than born for the comparison  
Of former age, or glory of our one,                    
Were you advanced, past those times, to be  
The light, and mark unto posterity?  
Judge they, that can: here I have rais'd to show  
A picture, which the world for yours must know,  
And like it too; if they look equally:  
If not, it is fit for you, some should envy.  
<POEM>
<CV To Mary, Lady Wroth> 
Madam, had all antiquity been lost,  
All history seal'd up, and fables cross'd;  
That we had left us, nor by time, nor place,  
Least mention of a nymph, a muse, a grace,  
But even their names were to be made anew,  
Who could not but create them all, from you?  
He that but saw you wear the wheaten hat,  
Would call you more than Ceres, if not that:  
And, dress'd in shepherd's attire, who would not say:  
You were the bright Oenone, Flora, or May?              
If dancing, all would cry the Idalian Queen,  
Were leading forth the graces on the green:  
And, armed to the chase, so bare her bow  
Diana's alone, so hit, and hunted so. 
There's none so dull, that for your stile would ask,  
That saw you put on Pallas' plumed casque:  
Or, keeping your due state, that would not cry,  
There Juno sat, and yet no Peacock by  
So you are Nature's index, and restore,  
In yourself, all treasure lost of the age before.   
<POEM>
<CVI To Sir Edward Herbert> 
If men get name, for some one virtue: then,  
What man are thou, that are so many men,  
All-virtuous Herbert- On whose every part  
Truth might spend all her voice, fame all her art.  
Whether thy learning they would take, or wit,  
Or valor, or thy judge seasoning it,  
Thy standing upright to thyself, thy ends  
Like straight thy piety to God, and friends:  
Their latter praise would still the greatest be,  
And yet, they, altogether, less than thee.        
<POEM>
<CVII To Captain Hungry> 
Do what you come for, captain, with your news;  
That's, sat, and eat: do not my ears abuse.  
I often look on false coin, to know it from true:  
Not that I love it, more than I will you. 
Tell the gross Dutch those grosser tales of yours,  
How great you were with their two emperors;  
And yet are with their Princes: fill them full  
Of your Moravian hob, Venetian bull.  
Tell them, what carts you've taken, whence run away,  
What states you've gull's, and which yet keeps you in pay.   
Give them your Services, and embassies  
In Ireland, Holland, Sweden, Pompous lies, 
In Hungary, and Poland, Turkey too;  
What at Ligorne, Rome, Florence you did do:  
And, in some year, all these together heap'd,  
For which there must more sea, and land be leap'd,  
If but to be believ'd you have the hap,  
Than can a flea at twice skip in the map.  
Give your young statesmen, (that first make you drunk,  
And then lie with you, closer, than a punk,             
For news) your Villeroys, and Silleries,  
Janins, your nuncios, and your Tuilleries,  
Your Arch-Dukes' agents, and your Beringhams,  
That are your words of credit. Keep your names  
Of Hanou, Shieter-Huissen, Popenheim,  
Hans-spiegle, Rotteinberg, Boutersheim,  
For your next meal: this you are sure of. Why  
Will you part with them, here, unthriftily?  
Nay, now you puff, tusk, and draw up your chin,  
Twirl the poor chain you run a-feasting in.         
Come, be not angry, you are Hungry; eat;  
Do what you come for, captain, there's your meat.  
<POEM>
<CVIII To True Soldiers> 
Strength of my country, while I bring to view  
Such as are miscall'd captains, and wrong you;  
And your high names: I do desire, that thence  
I be nor put on you, nor you take offense.  
Swear by your true friend, my muse, I love  
Your great profession; which I once, did prove:  
And did not shame it with my actions, then,  
No more, than I dare do now, with my pen.  
He that not trusts me, having vow'd thus much,  
But's angry for the captain, still: is such.   
<POEM>     
<CIX To Sir Henry Nevil>  
Who now calls on thee, Nevil, is a muse,  
That serves nor fame, nor titles; but doth choose  
Where virtue make them both, and that's in thee:  
Where all is fair, beside thy pedigree.  
Thou are not one, seeks miseries with hope,  
Wrestles with dignities, or feigns a scope  
Of service to the public, when the end  
Is private gain, which hath long guilt to friend.  
Thou rather strives the matter to possess,  
And elements of honor, than the dress;             
To make thy lent life, good against the Fates:  
And first to know thine own state, then the State's.  
To be the same in root, thou are in height;  
And that thy soul should give thy flesh her weight.  
Go on, and doubt not, what posterity,  
Now I have sung thee thus, shall judge of thee.  
Thy deeds, unto thy name, will prove new wombs,  
While others toil for titles to their tombs.  
<POEM>  
<CX To Clement Edmonds, on his CAESAR'S COMMENTARtES>  
<observed, and translated>  
Not Caesar's deeds, not all his honors won,  
In these west parts, nor when that war was done,  
The name of Pompey for an enemy,  
Cato's to boot, Rome, and her liberty,  
All yielding to his fortune, nor, the while,  
To have engrav'd these acts, with his own stile,  
And that so strong and deep, as it might be thought,  
He wrote, with the same spirit that he fought,  
Nor that his works lived in the hands of foes,  
Un-argued then, and yet hath fame from those;  
Not all these, Edmonds, or what else put to,  
Can so speak Caesar, as thy labors do. 
For, where his person liv'd scarce one just age,  
And that, amid envy, and parts; then fell by rage:  
His deeds too dying, but in books (whose good  
How few have read! How few understood?)  
Thy learned hand, and true Promethean art  
(As by a new creation) part by part,  
In every council, stratagem, design,  
Action, or engine, worth a note of thine,           
To all future time, not only doth restore  
His life, but makes, that he can die no more.  
<POEM>
<CXI To the Same, on the Same>  
Who Edmonds, reads thy book, and doth not see  
What the antique soldiers were, the modern be?  
Wherein thou shows, how much the latter are  
Beholding, to this master of the war;  
And that, in action, there is nothing new,  
More, than to vary what our elders knew:  
Which all, but ignorant captains will confess:  
Nor to give Caesar this, makes ours the less.  
Yet thou, perhaps, shall meet some tongues will grutch,  
That to the world thou should reveal so much,          
And thence, deprave thee, and thy work. To those  
Caesar stands up, as from his urn late rose,  
By thy great help: and doth proclaim by me,  
They murder him again, that envy thee.  
<POEM>  
<CXII To a Weak Gamester in Poetry> 
With thy small stock, why are thou vent'ring still,  
At this so subtle sport: and plays soil?  
Thinks thou it is mere fortune, that can win?  
Or thy rank setting? That thou dares put in 
Thy all, at all: and what so ever I do,  
Are still at that, and thinks to blow me up too?  
I cannot for the stage a drama lay,  
Tragic, or comic; but thou writes the play.  
I leave thee there, and giving way, intend  
An epic poem; thou has the same end.               
I modestly quit that, and think to write,  
Next morning, an ode: thou makes a song ere night.  
I pass to elegies; thou meets me there:  
To satires; and thou does pursue me. Where,  
Where shall I escape thee? In an epigram?  
O, (thou cri'st out) that is thy proper game.  
Troth, if it be, I pity thy ill luck;  
That both for wit, and sense, so often does pluck,  
And never are encounter'd, I confess:  
Nor scarce does color for it, which is less.       
Prithee, yet save thy rest; give over in time:  
There's no vexation, that can make thee prime.  
<POEM>
<CXIII To Sir Thomas Overbury> 
So Phoebus makes me worthy of his bays,  
As but to speak thee, Overbury, is praise:  
So, where thou lives, thou makes life understood!  
Where, what makes others great, does keep thee good!  
I think, the Fate of court thy coming crav'd,  
That the wit there, and manners might be sav'd:  
For since, what ignorance, what pride is fled!  
And letters, and humanity in the stead!  
Repent thee not of thy fair precedent,  
Could make such men, and such a place repent:            
Nor may any fear, to lose of their degree,  
Who in such ambition can but follow thee. 
<POEM> 
<CXIV To Mrs Philip Sidney> 
I must believe some miracles still be  
When Sidney's name I hear, or face I see:  
For Cupid, who (at first) took vain delight,  
In mere out-forms, until he lost his sight,  
Hath chang'd his soul, and made his object you:  
Where finding so much beauty met with virtue,  
He hath not only gained himself his eyes,  
But, in your love, made all his servants wise.  
<POEM>  
<CXV On the Town's Honest Man> 
You wonder, who this is! And, why I name  
Him not, aloud, that boasts so good a fame:  
Naming so many, too! But, this is one,  
Suffers no name, but a description:  
Being no vicious person, but the vice  
About the town; and known too, at that price.  
A subtle thing, that doth affections win  
By speaking well of the company it's in.  
Talks loud, and bawdy, has a gather'd deal  
Of news, and noise, to sow out a long meal.                
Can come from Tripoli, leap stools, and wink,  
Do all, that `longs to the anarchy of drink,  
Except the duel. Can sing songs, and catches;  
Give everyone his dose of mirth: and watches  
Whose name's unwelcome to the present ear,  
And him it lays on; if he be not there.  
Tells of him, all the tales, itself then makes;  
But, if it shall be question'd, undertakes,  
It will deny all; and forswear it too:  
Not that it fears, but will not have to do               
With such a one. And therein keeps its word.  
It will see its sister naked, ere a sword. 
At every meal, where it doth dine, or sup,  
The cloth's no sooner gone, but it gets up  
And, shifting of its faces, doth play more  
Parts, than the Italian could do, with his dore.  
Acts old Iniquity, and in the fit  
Of miming, gets the opinion of a wit.  
Executes men in picture. By defect,  
From friendship, is its own fame's architect.       
An engineer, in slanders, of all fashions,  
That seeming praises, are, yet accusations.  
Describ'd, its thus: defin'd would you it have?  
Then, the town's honest man's her errant's knave.  
<POEM>
<CXVI To Sir William Jephson> 
Jephson, thou man of men, to whose lov'd name  
All gentry, yet, owe part of their best flame!  
So did thy virtue inform, thy wit sustain  
That age, when thou stood up the master-brain:  
Thou were the first, made merit know her strength,  
And those that lack'd it, to suspect at length,  
It was not entail'd on title. That some word  
Might be found out as good, and not `my lord'.  
That Nature no such difference had impress'd  
In men, but every bravest was the best:             
That blood not minds, but minds did blood adorn:  
And to live great, was better, than great born.  
These were thy knowing arts: which who does now  
Virtuously practice must at least allow  
Them in, if not, from thee; or must commit  
A desperate solecism in truth and wit. 
<POEM>  
<CXVII On Groin> 
Groin, come of age, his state sold out of hand  
For his whore: Groin does still occupy his land.  
<POEM>  
<CXVIII On Gut> 
Gut eats all day, and lechers all the night,  
So all his meat he tasteth over, twice:  
And, striving so to double his delight,  
He makes himself a thoroughfare of vice.  
Thus, in his belly, can he change a sin,  
Lust it comes out, that gluttony went in.  
<POEM>
<CXIX To Sir Ralph Shelton> 
Not he that flies the court for want of clothes,  
At hunting rails, having no gift in oaths,  
Cries out against cocking, since he cannot bet,  
Shuns prease, for two main causes, pox, and debt,  
With me can merit more, than that good man,  
Whose dice not doing well, lo a pulpit ran.  
No, Shelton, give me thee, cannot want all these,  
But does it out of judgment, not disease;  
Dares breath in any air; and with safe skill,  
Till thou cannot find the best, choose the least ill.     
That to the vulgar cannot thyself apply,  
Treading a better path, not contrary;  
And, in their errors' maze, thine own way know:  
Which is to live to conscience, not to show.  
He, that, but living half his age, dies such;  
Makes the whole longer, than it was given him, much. 
<POEM> 
<CXX Epitaph on SP., a Child of Q. Elizabeth's Chapel> 
Weep with me all you that read  
This little story:  
And know, for whom a tear you shed,  
Death's self is sorry  
It was a child, that so did thrive  
In grace, and feature,  
As Heaven and Nature seem'd to strive  
Which own'd the creature.  
Years he number'd scarce thirteen 
When Fates turn'd cruel,  
Yet three fill'd zodiacs had he been  
The stage's jewel;  
And did act (what now we moan)  
Old men so duly,  
As, sooth, the Parcae thought him one,  
He play'd so truly.  
So, by error, to his fate  
They all consented;  
But viewing him since (alas, too late)  
They have repented.  
And have sought (to give new birth)  
In baths to steep him;  
But, being so much too good for earth,  
Heaven vows to keep him.  
<POEM>  
<CXXI To Benjamin Rudyerd> 
Rudyerd, as lesser dames, to great ones use,  
My lighter comes, to kiss thy learned muse;  
Whose better studies while she emulates,  
She learns to know long difference of their states.  
Yet is the office not to be despis'd,  
If only love should make the action priz'd:
Nor he, for friendship, to be thought unfit,  
That strives, his manners should proceed his wit.  
<POEM>
<CXXII   To the Same>  
If I would wish, for truth, and not for show,  
The aged Saturn's age, and rites to know;  
If I would strive to bring back times, and try  
The world's pure gold, and wise simplicity;  
If I would virtue set, as she was young,  
And hear her speak with one, and her first tongue;  
If holiest friendship, naked to the touch,  
I would restore, and keep it ever such,  
I need no other arts, but study thee:  
Who proves, all these were, and again may be.      
<POEM>
<CXXIII To the Same> 
Writing thyself, or judging others' writing,  
I know not which thou has most, candor, or wit:  
But both thou has so, as who affects the state  
Of the best writer, and judge, should emulate.  
<POEM>  
<CXXIV Epitaph on Elizabeth, L.H.> 
Would thou hear, what man can say  
In a little? Reader, stay.  
Underneath this stone doth lie  
As much beauty, as could die:  
Which in life did harbor give  
To more virtue, than doth live.  
If, at all, she had a fault,  
Leave it buried in this vault. 
One name was Elizabeth,  
The other let it sleep with death:  
Fitter, where it died, to tell,  
Than that it liv'd at all. Farewell.  
<POEM>
<CXXV To Sir William Uvedale> 
Uvedale, thou piece of the first times, a man  
Made for what Nature could, or virtue can;  
Both whose dimensions, lost, the world might find  
Restored in thy body, and thy mind!  
Who sees a soul, in such a body set,  
Might love the treasure for the cabinet.  
But I, no child, no fool, respect the kind,  
The flowing graces there enshrin'd;  
Which (would the world not miscall'd flattery)  
I could adore, almost the idolatry.                   
<POEM>  
<CXXVI To His Lady, then Mrs Cary> 
Retir'd, with purpose your fair worth to praise,  
Among Hampton shades, and Phoebus' grove of bays,  
I pluck'd a branch; the jealous god did frown,  
And bade me lay the usurped laurel down:  
Said I wrong'd him, and (which was more) his love.  
I answer'd, `Daphne now no pain can prove.'  
Phoebus replied. `Bold head, it is not she:  
Cary my love is, Daphne but my tree.'  
<POEM>
<CXXVII To Esme, Lord Aubigny> 
Is there hope, that man would thankful be,  
If I should fail, in gratitude, to thee 
To whom I am so bound, lov'd Aubigny?  
No, I do, therefore, call posterity  
Into the debt; and reckon on her head,  
Now full of want, how swallow'd up, how dead  
I, and this muse had been, if thou had not  
Lent timely succors, and new life begot:  
So, all reward, or name, that grows to me  
By her attempt, shall still be owing thee.          
And, than this same, I know no abler way  
To thank thy benefits: which is, to pay.  
<POEM>
<CXXVIII To William Roe> 
Roe (and my joy to name) thou are now, to go  
Countries, and climes, manners, and men to know,  
To extract, and choose the best of all these known,  
And those to turn to blood, and make thine own:  
May winds as soft as breath of kissing friends,  
Attend thee hence; and there, may all thy ends,  
As the beginnings here, prove purely sweet,  
And perfect in a circle always meet.  
So, when we, bless'd with thy return, shall see  
Thyself, with thy first thoughts, brought home by thee,   
We each to other may this voice inspire;  
This is that good Aeneas, passed through fire,  
Through seas, storms, tempests: and embark'd for hell,  
Came back untouch'd. This man hath travell'd well.  
<POEM>
<CXXIX To Mime> 
That, not a pair of friends each other see,  
But the first question is, when one saw thee?  
That there's no journey set, or thought upon,  
To Brainford, Hackney, Bow, but thou makes one;
That scarce the town designeth any feast  
To which the art not a week, bespoke a guest;  
That still the art made the supper's flag, the drum,  
The very call, to make all others come:  
Thinks thou, Mime, this is great? Or, that they strive  
Whose noise shall keep thy miming most alive,       
While thou does raise some player, from the grave,  
Outdance the babion, or out-boast the brave;  
Or (mounted on a stool) thy face doth hit  
On some new gesture, that's imputed wit?  
O, run not proud of this. Yet, take thy due.  
Thou does out-zany Cokely, Pod; nay, Gue:  
And thine own Coriat too. But (would thou see)  
Men love thee not for this: they laugh at thee.  
<POEM>  
<CXXX To Alphonso Ferrabosco, on his Book> 
To urge, my lov'd Alphonso, that bold fame,  
Of building towns, and making wild beasts tame,  
Which music had; or speak her known effects,  
That she removes cares, sadness ejects,  
Declineth anger, persuades clemency,  
Doth sweeten mirth, and heighten piety,  
And as to a body, often, ill inclin'd,  
No less a sovereign cure, than to the mind;  
To allege, that greatest men were not asham'd,  
Of old, even by her practice to be fam'd;           
To say, indeed, she were the soul of heaven,  
That the eight spheres, no less, than planets seven,  
Mov'd by her order, and the ninth more high,  
Including all, were thence called harmony:  
I, yet, had utter'd nothing on thy part,  
When these were but the praises of the art.  
But when I have said, the proofs of all these be  
Shed in thy songs; it is true: but short of thee. 
<POEM> 
<CXXXI   To the Same> 
When we do give, Alphonso, to the light,  
A work of ours, we part with our own right;  
For, then, all mouths will judge, and their own way:  
The learn'd have no more privilege, than the lay.  
And though we could all men, all censures hear,  
We ought not give them taste, we had an ear.  
For, if the humorous world will talk at large,  
They should be fools, for me, at their own charge.  
Say, this, or that man they to thee prefer;  
Even those for whom they do this, know they err:         
And would (being ask'd the truth) ashamed say,  
They were not to be nam'd on the same day.  
Then stand unto thyself, not seek without  
For fame, with breath soon kindled, soon blown out.  
<POEM>  
<CXXXII To Mr Joshua Sylvester> 
If to admire were to commend, my praise  
Might then both thee, thy work and merit raise:  
But, as it is (the child of ignorance,  
And utter stranger to all airs of France)  
How can I speak of thy great pains, but err?  
Since they can only judge, that can confer.  
Behold! The reverend shade of Bartas stands  
Before my thought, and (in thy right) commands  
That to the world I publish, for him, this;  
Bartas does wish thy English now were his.               
So well in that are his inventions wrought,  
As his will now be the translation thought,  
Thine the original; and France shall boast,  
No more, those maiden glories she hath lost. 
<POEM> 
<CXXXIII On The Famous Voyage> 
No more let Greece her bolder fables tell  
Of Hercules, or Theseus going to hell,  
Orpheus, Ulysses: or the Latin muse,  
With tales of Troy's just knight, our faith's abuse:  
We have a Shelton, and a Heyden got,  
Had power to act, what they to feign had not.  
All, that they boast of Styx, of Acheron,  
Cocytus, Phlegeton, our have prov'd in one;  
The filth, stench, noise: save only what was there  
Subtly distinguish'd, was confused here.                 
Their wherry had no sail, too; ours had none:  
And in it, two more horrid knaves, than Charon.  
Arses were heard to croak, instead of frogs;  
And for one Cerberus, the whole coast was dogs.  
Furies there wanted not: each scold was ten.  
And, for the cries of ghosts, women, and men,  
Laden with plague-sores, and their sins, were heard,  
Lash'd by their consciences, to die, afraid.  
Then let the former age, with this content her,  
She brought the poets forth, but ours the adventer.    
<POEM>  
<The Voyage Itself> 
I sing the brave adventure of two wights  
And pity `tis, I cannot call 'em knights:  
One was; and he, for brawn, and brain, right able  
To have been styled of King Arthur's table.  
The other was a squire, of fair degree;  
But, in the action, greater man than he:  
Who gave, to take at his return from Hell,  
His three for one. Now, lordings,listen,  
It was the day, what time the powerful moon  
Makes the poor Bankside creature wet its shoon,   
In its own hall; when these (in worthy scorn  
Of those, that put out moneys, on return  
From Venice, Paris, or some inland passage  
Of six times to, and fro, without embassage,  
Or him that backward went to Berwick, or which  
Did dance the famous Morris, unto Norwich)  
At Bread Street's Mermaid, having din'd, and merry,  
Propos'd to go to Holborn in a wherry:  
A harder task, than either his to Bristo',  
Or his to Antwerp. Therefore, once more, list ho.        
A dock there is, that called is Avernus,  
Of some Bridewell, and may, in time, concern us  
All, that are readers: but, I think it is odd,  
That all this while I have forgot some god,  
Or goddess to invoke, to stuff my verse;  
And with both bombard style, and phrase, rehearse  
The many perils of this port, and how  
Sans help of Sybil, or a golden bough,  
Or magic sacrifice, they pass'd along!  
Alcides, be thou succoring to my song.                
Thou has seen hell (some say) and knows all nooks there,  
Cannot tell me best, how every Fury looks there,  
And art a god, if Fame thee not abuses,  
Always at hand, to aid the merry muses.  
Great club-fist, though my back, and bones be sore,  
Still, with thy former labors; yet, once more,  
Act a brave work, call it thy last adventry:  
But hold my torch, while I describe the entry  
To this dire passage. Say, thou stop thy nose:  
It is but light pains: indeed this dock's no rose.        
In the first jaws appear'd that ugly monster,  
Ycliped Mud, which, when their oars did once stir,  
Belch'd forth an air, as hot, as at the muster  
Of all your night-tubs, when the carts do cluster,  
Who shall discharge first his merd-urionous load:  
Thorough her womb they make their famous road,
Between two walls; where, on one side, to scar men,  
Were seen your ugly centaurs, you call car-men,  
Gorgonian scolds, and harpies: on the other  
Hung stench, diseases, and old filth, their mother,   
With famine, wants, and sorrows many a dozen,  
The least of which was to the plague a cousin.  
But they unfrighted pass, though many a privy  
Spoke to them louder, than the ox in Livy;  
And many a sink pour'd out her rage anenst them;  
But still their valor, and their virtue fenc'd them,  
And, on they went, like Castor brave and Pollux:  
Ploughing the main. When, see (the worst of all lucks)  
They met the second prodigy, would fear a  
Man, that had never heard of a Chimera.               
One said, it was bold Briareus, or the beadle,  
(Who hath the hundred hands when he doth meddle)  
The other thought it Hydra, or the rock  
Made of the trull, that cut her father's lock:  
But, coming near, they found it but a lighter,  
So huge, it seem'd, they could by no means quit her.  
`Back,' cried their brace of Charons: they cried, `No,  
No going back; on still you rogues, and row.'  
`How hight the place?' A voice was heard, `Cocycus.'  
`Row close then slaves.' `Alas, they will beshite us.'  
`No matter, stinkards, row.' `What croaking sound  
Is this we hear. Of frogs?' `No, guts wind-bound,  
Over your heads: well, row.' At this a loud  
Crack did report itself, as if a cloud  
Had burst with storm, and down fell, ab excelsis,  
Poor Mercury, crying out on Paracelsus,  
And all his followers, that had so abus'd him:  
And in so shitten sort, so long had us'd him:  
For (where he was the god of eloquence,  
And subtlety of metals) they dispense                 
His spirits, now, in pills, and eek in potions,  
Suppositories, cataplasms, and lotions. 
But many moons there shall not wane (quote he)  
(In the meantime, let them imprison me)  
But I will speak (and know I shall be heard)  
Touching this cause, where they will be afraid  
To answer me. And sure, it was the intent  
Of the great fart, late let in parliament,  
Had it been seconded, and not in fume  
Vanish'd away: as you must all presume                
Their Mercury did now. By this, the stem  
Of the hulk touch'd, and, as by Polypheme  
The sly Ulysses stole in a sheepskin,  
The well-greas'd wherry now had got between,  
And bade her farewell sough, unto the lurden:  
Never did bottom more betray her burden;  
The meat-boat of Bear's college, Paris garden,  
Stunk not soil; nor, when she kiss'd, Kate Arden.  
Yet, one day in the year, for sweet it is voic'd,  
And that is when it is the Lord Mayor's foist.        
By this time had they reach'd the Stygian pool,  
By which the masters swear, when, on the stool  
Of worship, they their nodding chins do hit  
Against their breasts. Here, several ghosts did flit  
About the shore, of farts, but late departed,  
White, black, blue, green, and in more forms out-started,  
Than all those atomi ridiculous,  
Whereof old Democrite, and Hill Nicholas,  
One said, the other swore, the world consists.  
These be the cause of those thick frequent mists      
Arising in that place, through which, who goes,  
Must try the unused valor of a nose:  
And that ours did. For, yet, no nare was tainted,  
Nor thumb, nor finger to the stop acquainted,  
But open, and unarm'd encounter'd all:  
Whether it languishing stuck upon the wall,  
Or were precipitated down the jakes,  
And, after, sworn abroad in ample flakes, 
Or, that it lay, heap'd like an usurer's mass,  
All was to them the same, they were to pass,          
And so they did, from Styx, to Acheron:  
The ever-boiling flood. Whose banks upon  
Your Fleet Lane Furies; and hot cooks do dwell,  
That, with still-scalding steams, make the place hell.  
The sinks ran grease, and hair of measled hogs,  
The heads, houghs, entrails, and the hides of dogs:  
For, to say truth, what scullion is so nasty,  
To put the skins, and of all in a pasty?  
Cats there lay diverse had been flay'd, and roasted,  
And, after mouldy grown, again were toasted,          
Then, selling not, a dish was taken to mince them,  
But still, it seem'd, the rankness did convince them.  
For, here they were thrown in with the melted pewter,  
Yet drown'd they not. They had five lives in future.  
But among these Tiberts, who do you think there was?  
Old Banks the juggler, our Pythagoras,  
Grave tutor to the learned horse. Both which,  
Being, beyond sea, burned for one witch:  
Their spirits transmigrated to a cat:  
And, now, above the pool, a face right fat            
With great grey eyes, are lifted up, and mew'd;  
Thrice did it spit: thrice div'd. At last, it view'd  
Our brave heroes with a milder glare,  
And, in a piteous tune, began. `How dare  
Your dainty nostrils (in so hot a season,  
When every clerk eats artichoke, and peason,  
Laxative lettuce, and such windy meat)  
Attempt such a passage? When each privy's seat  
Is fill'd with buttock? And the walls to sweat  
Urine, and plasters? When the noise doth beat         
Upon your ears, of discords so unsweet?  
And outcries of the damned in the Fleet?  
Cannot the plague-bill keep you back? Nor bells  
Of loud sepulchres with their hourly knells, 
But you will visit grisly Pluto's hall?  
Behold where Cerberus, rear'd on the wall  
Of Holborn (three sergeants' heads) looks over,  
And stays but till you come unto the door!  
Tempt not his fury, Pluto is away:  
And Madam Caesar, great Proserpina,                              
<STANZA>
Is now from home. You lose your labors quite,  
Were you Jove's sons, or had Alcides' might.'  
They cried out Puss. He told them he was Banks,  
That had, so often, show'd 'em merry pranks.  
They laugh'd, at his laugh-worthy fate. And pass'd  
The triple head without a sop. At last,  
Calling for Radamanthus, that dwelt by,  
A soap-boiler; and Aeacus him nigh,  
Who kept an ale-house; with my little Minos,  
An ancient purblind fletcher, with a high nose;                  
<STANZA>
They took them all to witness of their action:  
And so went bravely back, without protraction.  
In memory of which most liquid deed,  
The city since hath rais'd a pyramid.  
And I could wish for their eterniz'd sakes,  
My muse had plough'd with his, that sung A-JAX. 
<STANZA>
                       <The Forest> 
  
<I Why I write not of Love> 
  
Some act of Love's bound to rehearse,  
I thought to bind him, in my verse:  
Which when he felt, Away (quote he)  
Can poets hope to fetter me?  
It is enough, they once did get  
Mars, and my mother, in their net:  
I wear not these my wings in vain.  
With which he fled me: and again,  
Into my rhymes could never be got  
By any art. Then wonder not,                          
That since, my numbers are so cold,  
When Love is fled, and I grow old.  
<STANZA>  
<II  To Penshurst> 
Thou are not, Penshurst, built to envious show,  
Of touch, or marble; nor cannot boast a row  
Of polish'd pillars, or a roof of gold:  
Thou has no lantern, whereof tales are told;  
Or stair, or courts; but stands an ancient pile,  
And these grudg'd at, are reverenc'd the while.  
Thou joys in better marks, of soil, of air,  
Of wood, of water: therein thou are fair.  
Thou has thy walks for health, as well as sport:  
Thy Mount, to which the dryads do resort,                
Where Pan, and Bacchus their high feasts have made,  
Beneath the broad beach, and the chestnut shade;  
That taller tree, which of a nut was set,  
At his great birth, where all the muses met.  
There in the writhed bark, are cut the names  
Of many a sylvan, taken with his flames.  
And thence, the ruddy satyrs often provoke  
The lighter fauns, to reach thy Lady's Oak. 
Thy copse, too, nam'd of Gamage, thou has there,  
That never fails to serve thee season'd deer,       
When thou would feast, or exercise thy friends.  
The lower land, that to the river bends,  
Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed:  
The middle grounds thy mares, and horses breed.  
Each bank doth yield thee conies; and the tops  
Fertile of wood, Ashore, and Sidney's corpse,  
To crown thy open table, doth provide  
The purpled pheasant, with the speckled side:  
The painted partridge lies in every field,  
And, for thy mess, is willing to be kill'd.         
And if the highswoll'd Medway fail thy dish,  
Thou has thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fish,  
Fat, aged carps, that run into thy net.  
And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat,  
As loath, the second draught, or cast to stay,  
Officiously, at first, themselves betray.  
Bright eels, that emulate them, and leap on land,  
Before the fisher, or into his hand.  
Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers,  
Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours.         
The early cherry, with the later plum,  
Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come:  
The blushing apricot, and woolly peach  
Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach.  
And though thy walls be of the country stone,  
They're rear'd with no man's ruin, no man's groan,  
There's none, that dwell about them, wish them down;  
But all come in, the farmer, and the clown:  
And no one empty hand, to salute  
Thy lord, and lady, though they have no suit.       
Some bring a capon, some a rural cake,  
Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make  
The better cheeses, bring them; or else send  
By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend 
This way to husbands; and whose baskets bear  
An emblem of themselves, in plum, or pear.  
But what can this (more than express their love)  
Add to thy free provisions, far above  
The need of such? Whose liberal board doth flow,  
With all, that hospitality doth know!               
Where comes no guest, but is allow'd to eat,  
Without his fear, and of the lord's own meat:  
Where the same beer, and bread, and self-same wine,  
That is his lordship's, shall be also mine.  
And I not fain to sit (as some, this day,  
At great men's tables) and yet dine away.  
Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by,  
A waiter, does my gluttony envy:  
But gives me what I call, and lets me eat,  
He knows, below, he shall find plenty of meat,      
Thy tables hoard not up for the next day,  
Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray   
For fire, or lights, or livery: all is there;  
As if thou, then, were mine, or I reign'd here:  
There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay.  
That found King James, when hunting late, this way,  
With his brave son, the prince, they saw thy fires  
Shine bright on every hearth as the desires  
Of thy Penates had been set on flame,  
To entertain them; or the country came,             
With all their zeal, to warm their welcome here.  
What (great, I will not say, but) sudden cheer  
Did thou, then, make 'em! and what praise was heap'd  
On thy good lady, then! who therein reap'd  
The just reward of her high huswifery;  
To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh,  
When she was far: and not a room, but dress'd,  
As if it had expected such a guest!  
These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all.  
Thy lady's noble, fruitful, chaste withal.
His children thy great lord may call his own:  
A fortune in this age, but rarely known.  
They are, and have been taught religion: thence  
Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence.  
Each morn, and even, they are taught to pray,  
With the whole household, and may, every day,  
Read, in their virtuous parents' noble parts,  
The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts.  
Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee  
With other edifices, when they see                  
Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else,  
May say, their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.  
<STANZA>   
<III To Sir Herbert Wroth> 
How blest art thou, can love the country, Wroth,  
Whether by choice, or fate, or both;  
And, though near the city, and the court,  
Art taken with neither's vice, nor sport:  
That at great times, art no ambitious guest  
Of sheriff's dinner, or mayor's feast.  
Nor comes to view the better cloth of state;  
The richer hangings, of crown plate;  
Nor throngs (when masquing is) to have a sight  
Of the short bravery of the night;                       
To view the jewels, stuffs, the pains, the wit  
There wasted, some not paid for yet!  
But can, at home, in thy securer rest,  
Free from proud porches, or their gilded roofs,  
Among lowing herds, and solid hoofs:  
Along the curled woods, and painted meads,  
Through which a Serpent river leads  
To some cool, courteous shade, which he calls his,  
And makes sleep softer than it is!
Or, if thou list the night in watch to break,  
A-bed cannot hear the loud stag speak,  
In spring, of troused for thy master's sport,  
Who, for it, makes thy house his Court;  
Or with, thy friends; the heart of all the year,  
Divid'st, upon the lesser deer;  
In autumn, at the partridge makes a flight,  
And gives thy gladder guests the sight;  
And, in the winter, hunts the flying hare,  
More for thy exercise, than fare;                   
While all, that follow, their glad ears apply  
To the full greatness of the cry:  
Or hawking at the river, or the bush,  
Or shooting at the greedy thrush,  
Thou does with some delight the day out-wear  
Although the coldest of the year!  
The while, the several seasons thou has seen  
Of flowery fields, of Copses green,  
The mowed meadows, with the fleeced sheep,  
And feasts, that either shearers keep;              
The ripened ears, yet humble in their height,  
And furrows laden with their weight;  
The apple-harvest, that do longer last;  
The hogs return'd home fat from mast;  
The trees cut out in log; and those boughs made  
A fire now, that lent a shade!  
Thus Pan, and Sylvan, having had their rites,  
Comus puts in, for new delights;  
And fills thy open hall with mirth, and cheer,  
As if in Saturn's reign it were;                    
Apollo's harp, and Hermes' lyre resound,  
Nor are the muses strangers found:  
The rout of rural folk come thronging in,  
(Their rudeness then is thought no sin)  
Thy noblest spouse affords them welcome grace;  
And the great heroes, of her race,
Sit mix'd with loss of state, or reverence.  
Freedom does with degree dispense.  
The jolly wassail walks the often round,  
And in their cups, their cares are drown'd:         
They think not, then, which side the cause shall leese,  
Nor how to get the lawyer fees.  
Such, and no other was that age, of old,  
Which boasts to have had the head of gold.  
And such since thou cannot make thine own content,  
Strive, Wroth, to live long innocent.  
Let others watch in guilty arms, and stand  
The fury of a rash command,  
Go enter breaches, meet the cannon's rage,  
That they may sleep with scars in age.              
And show their feathers shot, and colors torn,  
And brag, that they were therefore born.  
Let this man sweat, and wrangle at the bar,  
For every price, in every jar,  
And change possessions, more often with his breath,  
Than either money, war, or death:  
Let him, than hardest sires, more disinherit,  
And each where boast it as his merit,  
To blow up orphans, widows, and their states;  
And think his power does equal Fate's.              
Let that go heap a mass of wretched wealth,  
Purchas'd by rapine, worse than stealth,  
And brooding over it sit, with broadest eyes,  
Not doing good, scarce when he dies.  
Let thousands more go flatter vice, and win,                  ~ 
<STANZA>
By being organs to great sin,  
Get place, and honor, and be glad to keep  
The secrets, that shall break their sleep:  
And, so they ride in purple, eat in plate,  
Though poison, think it a great fate.               
But thou, my Wroth, if I can truth apply,  
Shalt neither that, nor this envy.
Thy peace is made; and, when man's state is well,  
It is better, if he there can dwell.  
God wishes, none should wrack on a strange shelf:  
To him, man's dearer, than to himself.  
And, howsoever we may think things sweet,  
He always gives what he knows meet;  
Which who can use is happy: such be thou.  
Thy morning's, and thy evening's vow                
Be thanks to him, and earnest prayer, to find  
A body sound, with sounder mind  
To do thy country service, thyself right;  
That neither want do thee affright,  
Nor death; but when thy latest sand is spent,  
Thou may think life, a thing but lent. 
<STANZA>   
<IV To the World: a farewell for a gentlewoman, virtous and
noble> 
False world, goodnight: since thou has brought  
That hour upon my morn of age,  
Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,  
My part is ended on thy stage.  
Do not once hope, that thou cannot tempt  
A spirit so resolv'd to tread  
Upon thy throat, and live exempt  
From all the nets that thou cannot spread.  
I know thy forms are studied arts,  
Thy subtle ways, be narrow straits;                      
Thy courtesy but sudden starts,  
And what thou calls thy gifts are baits.  
I know too though thou strut and paint,  
Yet are thou both shrunk up, and old,  
That only fools make thee a saint,  
And all thy good is to be sold.  
I know thou whole are but a shop  
Of toys, and trifles, traps, and snares,
To take the weak, or make them stop:  
Yet are thou falser than thy wares.                 
And, knowing this, should I yet stay,  
Like such as blow away their lives,  
And never will redeem a day,  
Enamor'd of their golden gyves?  
Or, having escap'd, shall I return,  
And thrust my neck into the noose,  
From whence, so lately, I did burn,  
With all my powers, myself to loose?  
What bird, or beast, is known so dull,  
That fled his cage, or broke his chain,             
And tasting air, and freedom, will  
Render his head in there again?  
If these, who have but sense, can shun  
The engines, that have them annoy'd;  
Little, for me, had reason done,  
If I could not thy gins avoid.  
Yes, threaten, do. Alas I fear  
As little, as I hope from thee:  
I know thou cannot show, nor bear  
More hatred, than thou has to me.  
My tender, first, and simple years  
Thou did abuse, and then betray;  
Since stirred up jealousies and fears,  
When all the causes were away.  
Then, in a soil has planted me,  
Where breath the basest of thy fools;  
Where envious arts professed be,  
And pride, and ignorance the schools,  
Where nothing is examin'd, weigh'd,  
But, as it is rumor'd, so believ'd:                 
Where every freedom is betray'd,  
And every goodness tax'd, or griev'd.  
But, what we're born for, we must bear:  
Our frail condition it is such,
That, what to all may happen here,  
If it chance to me, I must not grutch.  
Else, I my state should much mistake,  
To harbor a divided thought  
From all my kind: that, for my sake,  
There should a miracle be wrought.                       
No, I do not know, that I was born  
To age, misfortune, sickness, grief:  
But I will bear these, with that scorn,  
As shall not need thy false relief.  
Nor for my peace will I go far,  
As wand'rers do, that still do roam,  
But make my strengths, such as they are,  
Here in my bosom, and at home.  
<STANZA> 
<V   Song: To Celia> 
Come my Celia, let us prove,  
While we may, the sports of love;  
Time will not be ours, forever:  
He, at length, our good will sever.  
Spend not then his gifts in vain.  
Suns, that set, may rise again:  
But if once we lose this light,  
It is, with us, perpetual night.  
Why should we defer our joys?  
Fame, and rumor are but toys.                        
Cannot we delude the eyes  
Of a few poor household spies?  
Or his easier ears beguile,  
So removed by our wile?  
It is no sin, love's fruit to steal,  
But the sweet theft to reveal:  
To be taken, to be seen,  
These have crimes accounted been.  
<STANZA>                          
<VI To the Same> 
Kiss me, sweet: the wary lover,  
Can your favors keep, and cover,  
When the common courting jay  
All your bounties will betray.  
Kiss again: no creature comes.  
Kiss, and score up wealthy sums  
On my lips, thus hardly sund'red,  
While you breath. First give a hundred,  
Then a thousand, then another  
Hundred, then unto the other                         
Add a thousand, and so more:  
Till you equal with the store,  
All the grass that Romney yields,  
Or the sands in Chelsea fields,  
Or the drops in silver Thames,  
Or the stars, that gild his streams,  
In the silent summer nights,  
When youths ply their stol'n delights.  
That the curious may not know  
How to tell 'em, as they flow,                         
And the envious, when they find  
What their number is, be pin'd.  
<STANZA> 
<VlI Song: That Women Are But Men's Shadows> 
Follow a shadow, it still flies you;  
Seem to fly it, it will pursue:  
So court a mistress, she denies you;  
Let her alone, she will court you.  
Say, are not women truly, then,  
Styl'd but the shadows of us men?  
At morning, and evening, shades are longest;  
At noon, they are short or none.
So men at weakest, they are strongest,  
But grant us perfect, they're not known.            
Say, are not women truly, then,  
Styl'd but the shadows of us men?  
<STANZA>   
<VIII To Sickness> 
Why, Disease does thou molest  
Ladies? and of them the best?  
Do not men, enow of rites  
To thy altars, by their nights  
Spent in surfeits: and their days,  
And nights too, in worser ways?  
Take heed, Sickness, what you do,  
I shall fear, you'll surfeit too.  
Live not we, as, all thy stalls,  
Spittles, pest-house, hospitals,                      
Scarce will take our present store?  
And this age will build no more:  
`Pray thee, feed contented, then,  
Sickness; only on us men.  
Or if needs thy lust will taste                        
Womankind; devour the waste                                      
<STANZA>
Livers, round about the town.  
But, forgive me, with thy crown  
They maintain the truest trade,  
And have more diseases made.                          
What should, yet, thy palate please?  
Daintiness, and softer ease,  
Sleeked limbs, and finest blood?  
If thy leanness love such food,  
There are those, that, for thy sake,  
Do enough; and who would take  
Any pains; yea, think it price,  
To become thy sacrifice. 
That distill their husbands' land  
In decoctions; and are mann'd                       
With ten emp'rics, in their chamber,  
Lying for the spirit of amber.  
That for the oil of Talc, dare spend  
More than citizens dare lend  
Them, and all their officers.  
That, to make all pleasures theirs,  
Will by coach, and water go,  
Every stew in town to know;  
Dare entail their loves on any,  
Bald, or blind, or never so many:                   
And, for thee, at common game,  
Play away, health, wealth, and fame.  
These, Disease, will thee deserve:  
And will, long err thou should starve  
On their beds, most prostitute,  
Move it, as their humblest suit,  
In thy justice to molest  
None but them, and leave the rest.  
<STANZA>  
<IX  Song: To Celia > 
Drink to me, only, with thine eyes,  
And I will pledge with mine;  
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,  
And I'll not look for wine.  
The thirst, that from the soul does rise,  
Does ask a drink divine:  
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,  
I would not change for thine.  
I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath,  
Not so much honoring thee,                              
As giving it a hope, that there  
It could not withered be,
But thou thereon did only breath,  
And sent it back to me:  
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,  
Not of itself, but thee. 
<STANZA>  
<X> 
And must I sing? What subject shall I choose?  
Or whose great name in poets' heaven use?  
For the more countenance to my active muse?  
Hercules? Alas his bones are yet sore,  
With his old earthly labors. To exact more,  
Of his dull god-head, were sin. I'll implore  
Phoebus. No? Tend thy cart still. Envious day  
Shall not give out, that I have made thee stay,  
And found'red thy hot team, to tune my lay. 
Nor will I beg of thee, lord of the vine,             
To raise my spirits with thy conjuring wine,  
In the green circle of thy ivy twine.  
Pallas, nor thee I call on, mankind maid,  
That, at thy birth, made the poor smith afraid,  
Who, with his axe, thy father's midwife play'd.  
Go, cramp dull Mars, light Venus, when he snorts,  
Or, with thy tribute trine, invent new sports,  
Thou, nor thy looseness with my making sorts.  
Let the old boy, your son, ply his old task,  
Turn the stale prologue to some painted masque,       
His absence in my verse, is all I ask
Hermes, the cheater, shall not mix with us,  
Though he would steal his sisters' Pegasus,  
And riffle him: or pawn his Petasus.  
Nor all the ladies of the Thespian lake,  
(Though they were crush'd into one form) could make  
A beauty of that merit, that should take  
My muse up by commission: no, I bring  
My own true fire. Now my thought takes wing,  
And now an epode to deep ears I sing.                 
<STANZA>  
<XI  Epode> 
Not to know vice at all, and keep true state,  
Is virtue, and not Fate:  
Next, to that virtue, is to know vice well,  
And her black spite expel.  
Which to effect (since no breast is so sure,  
Or safe, but she'll procure  
Some way of entrance) we must plant a guard  
Of thoughts to watch, and ward  
As the eye and ear (the ports unto the mind)  
That no strange, or unkind                        
Object arrive there, but the heart (our spy)  
Give knowledge instantly,  
To wakeful reason, our affections' king:  
Who (in the examining)  
Will quickly taste the treason, and commit  
Close, the close cause of it.  
It is the securest policy we have,  
To make our sense our slave.  
But this true course is not embrac'd by many:  
By many? Scarce by any.
For either our affections do rebel,  
Or else the sentinel  
(That should ring alarm to the heart) does sleep,  
Or some great thought does keep  
Back the intelligence, and falsely swears,  
They're base, and idle fears  
Whereof the loyal conscience so complains.  
Thus, by these subtle trains,  
Do several passions invade the mind,  
And strike our reason blind.                      
Of which usurping rank, some have thought love  
The first; as prone to move  
Most frequent tumults, horrors, and unrests,  
In our inflamed breasts:  
But this does from the cloud of error grow,  
Which thus we over-blow.  
The thing, they call love, is blind desire,  
Arm'd with bow, shafts, and fire;  
Inconstant, like the sea, of whence it is born,  
Rough, swelling, like a storm:                    
With whom who sails, rides on the surge of fear,  
And boils, as if he were  
In a continual tempest. Now, true love  
No such effects does prove;  
That is an essence, far more gentle, fine,  
Pure, perfect, nay divine;  
It is a golden chain let down from heaven,  
Whose links are bright, and even,  
That falls like sleep on lovers, and combines  
The soft, and sweetest minds                      
In equal knots: this bears no brands, nor darts,  
To murther different hearts,  
But, in a calm, and god-like unity,  
Preserves community.  
O, who is he, that (in this peace) enjoys  
The elixir of all joys?
A form more fresh, than are the Eden bowers  
And lasting, as her flowers:  
Richer than time, and as time's virtue, rare.  
Sober, as saddest care:                           
A fixed thought, an eye un-taught to glance;  
Who (blessed with such high chance)  
Would, at suggestion of a steep desire,  
Cast himself from the spire  
Of all his happiness? But soft: I hear  
Some vicious fool draw near,  
That cries, we dream, and swears, there's no such thing,  
As this chaste love we sing.  
Peace luxury, thou are like one of those  
Who, being at sea, suppose                        
Because they move, the continent does so:  
No, vice, we let thee know  
Though thy wild thoughts with sparrows' wings do fly,  
Turtles can chastely die;  
And yet (in this to express ourselves more clear)  
We do not number, here,  
Such spirits as are only continent,  
Because lust's means are spent:  
Or those, who doubt the common mouth of fame,  
And for their place, and name,                    
Cannot so safely sin. Their chastity  
Is mere necessity.  
Nor mean we those, whom vows and conscience 
Have fill'd with abstinence:  
Though we acknowledge, who can so abstain,  
Makes a most blessed gain.  
He that for love of goodness hates ill,  
Is more crown-worthy still,  
Than he, which for sin's penalty forbears.  
His heart sins, though he fears.                  
But we propose a person like our dove,  
Grac'd with a phoenix love;
A beauty of that clear, and sparkling light,  
Would make a day of night,  
And turn the blackest sorrows to bright joys: 
Whose odorous breath destroys  
All taste of bitterness, and makes the air  
As sweet, as she is fair.  
A body so harmoniously compos'd,  
As if Nature disclos'd                                    
All her best symmetry in that one feature!  
O,so divine a creature  
Who could be false to? Chiefly, when he knows  
How only she bestows  
The wealthy treasure of her love on him;  
Making his fortunes swim  
In the full flood of her admir'd perfection?  
What savage, brute affection,  
Would not be fearful to offend a dame  
Of this excelling frame?                                  
Much more a noble, and right generous mind  
(To virtuous moods inclin'd)  
That knows the weight of guilt: he will refrain  
From thoughts of such a strain.  
And to his sense object this sentence ever,  
Man may securely sin, but safely never.  
<STANZA>  
<XII Epistle to Elizabeth, Countess of Rutland> 
Madam,  
While that, for which, all virtue now is sold,  
And almost every vice, almighty gold,  
That which, to boot with hell, is thought worth heaven,  
And, for it, life, conscience, yes, souls are given,  
Toils, by grave custom, up and down the court,  
To every squire, or groom, that will report 
Well, or ill, only, all the following year,  
Just to the weight their this-day's presents bear;  
While it makes ushers serviceable men,  
And someone apt to be trusted, then,             
Though never after; while it gains the voice  
Of some grand peer, whose air does make rejoice  
The fool that gave it; who will want, and weep,  
When his proud patron's favors are asleep;  
While thus it buys great grace, and hunts poor fame;  
Runs between man, and man; between dame, and dame;  
Solders crack'd friendship; makes love last a day;  
Or perhaps less: while gold bears all this sway,  
I, that have none (to send you) send you verse.  
A present, which (if elder writs rehearse           
The truth of times) was once of more esteem,  
Than this, our guilt, nor golden age can deem,  
When gold was made no weapon to cut throats,  
Or put to flight Astraea, when her ingots  
Were yet unfound, and better plac'd in earth,  
Than, here, to give pride fame, and peasants birth.  
But let this dross carry what price it will  
With noble ignorants, and let them still,  
Turn, upon scorned verse, their quarter-face:  
With you, I know, my off'ring will find grace.      
For what a sin against your great father's spirit,  
Were it to think, that you should not inherit  
His love unto the muses, when his skill  
Almost you have, or may have, when you will?  
Wherein wise Nature you a dowry gave,  
Worth an estate, treble to that you have.  
Beauty, I know, is good, and blood is more;  
Riches thought most; but, madam, think what store  
The world hath seen, which all these had in trust,  
And now lie lost in their forgotten dust.           
It is the muse, alone, can raise to heaven,  
And at her strong arms' end, hold up, and even, 
The souls, she loves. Those other glorious notes,  
Inscrib'd in touch or marble, or the coats  
Painted, or carv'd upon our great-men's tombs,  
Or in their windows; do but prove the wombs,  
That bred them, graves: when they were born, they died,  
That had no muse to make their fame abide.  
How many equal with the Argive Queen,  
Have beauty known, yet none so famous seen?                  
Achilles was not first, that valiant was,  
Or, in an army's head, that, lock'd in brass,  
Gave killing strokes. There were brave men, before  
Ajax, or Idomen, or all the store,  
That Homer brought to Troy; yet none so live:  
Because they lack'd the sacred pen, could give  
Life unto them. Who heav'd Hercules  
Unto the stars? Or the Tyndarides?  
Who placed Jason's Argo in the sky?  
Or set bright Ariadne's crown so high?                       
Who made a lamp of Berenice's hair?  
Or lifted Cassiopea in her chair?  
But only poets, rapt with rage divine?  
And such, or my hopes fail, shall make you shine.  
You, and that other star, that purest light,  
Of all Lucina's train; Lucy the bright.  
Than which, a nobler heaven itself knows not.  
Who, though she have a better verser got,  
(Or poet, in the court account) than I,  
And, who does me (though I not him) envy,                    
Yet, for the timely favors she hath done,  
To my less sanguine muse, wherein she hath won  
My grateful soul, the subject of her powers,  
I have already us'd some happy hours,  
To her remembrance; which when time shall bring  
To curious light, to notes, I then shall sing,  
Will prove old Orpheus' act no tale to be:  
For I shall move stocks, stones, no less than he. 
Then all, that have but done my muse least grace,  
Shall thronging come, and boast the happy place     
They hold in my strange poems, which, as yet,  
Had not their form touch'd by an English wit.  
There like a rich, and golden pyramid,  
Born up by statues, shall I rear your head,  
Above your under-carved ornaments,  
And show, how, to the life, my soul presents  
Your form impress'd there: not with tickling rhymes,  
Or commonplaces, filch'd, that take these times,  
But high, and noble matter, such as flies  
From brains entranc'd, and fill'd with ecstasies,   
Moods, which the god-like Sidney often did prove,  
And your brave friend, and mine so well did love.  
Who wheresoever he be - (on what dear coast,  
Now thinking on you, though to England lost,  
For that firm grace he holds in your regard,  
I, that am grateful for him, have prepar'd  
This hasy sacrifice, wherein I rear  
A vow as new, and ominous as the year,  
Before his swift and circl'd race be run,  
My best of wishes, may you bear a son.)             
<STANZA>  
<XIII Epistle to Katherine, Lady Aubigny> 
It is grown almost a danger to speak true  
Of any good mind, now: there are so few.  
The bad, by number, are so fortified,  
As what they've lost to expect, they dare deride.  
So both the prais'd, and praisers suffer: yet,  
For others' ill, ought none their good forget.  
I, therefore, who profess myself in love  
With every virtue, wheresoever it move,  
And howsoever; as I am at feud  
With sin and vice, though with a throne endu'd;
And, in this name, am given out dangerous  
By arts, and practice of the vicious,  
Such as suspect themselves, and think it fit  
For their own capital crimes, to indict my wit;  
I, that have suffer'd this; and, though forsook  
Of Fortune, have not alter'd yet my look,  
Or so myself abandon'd, as because  
Men are not just, or keep no holy laws  
Of nature, and society, I should faint;  
Or fear to draw true lines, because others paint:             
I, madam, am become your praiser. Where,  
If it may stand with your soft blush to hear,  
Yourself but told unto yourself, and see  
In my character, what your features be,  
You will not from the paper slightly pass:  
No lady, but, at some time, loves her glass.  
And this shall be no false one, but as much  
Remov'd, as you from need to have it such.  
Look then, and see yourself. I will not say  
Your beauty; for you see that every day:                     
And so do many more. All which can call  
It perfect, proper, pure, and natural,  
Not taken up with the doctors, but as well  
As I, can say, and see it does excel.  
That asks but to be censur'd by the eyes:  
And, in those outward forms, all fools are Use.  
Nor that your beauty wanted not a dower,  
Do I reflect. Some alderman has power,  
Or coz'ning farmer of the customs so,  
To advance his doubtful issue, and over-flow                  
A prince's fortune: these are gifts of chance,  
And raise not virtue; they may vice enhance.  
My mirror is more subtle, clear, refin'd,  
And takes, and gives the beauties of the mind.  
Though it reject not those of Fortune: such  
As blood, and match. Wherein, how more than much
Are you engaged to your happy fate,  
For such a lot! That's mix'd you with a state  
Of so great title, birth, but virtue most,  
Without which, all the rest were sounds, or lost.            
It is only that can time, and chance defeat:  
For he, that once is good, is ever great.  
Wherewith, then, madam, can you better pay  
This blessing of the stars, than by that way  
Of virtue, which you tread? What if alone?  
Without companions? It is safe to have none.  
In single paths, dangers with ease are watch'd:  
Contagion in the press is soonest catch'd.  
This makes, that wisely you decline your life,  
Far from the maze of custom, error, strife,                  
And keep an even, and unalter'd gait;  
Not looking by, or back (like those, that wait  
Times, and occasions, to start forth, and seem)  
Which though the turning world may dis-esteem,  
Because that studies spectacles, and shows,  
And after varied, as fresh objects goes,  
Giddy with change, and therefore cannot see  
Right, the right way: yet must your comfort be  
Your conscience, and not wonder, if none asks  
For truth's complexion, where they all wear masks.           
Let who will follow fashions, and attires,  
Maintain their liegers forth, for foreign wires,  
Melt down their husbands' land, to pour away  
On the close groom, and page, on New Year's Day,  
And almost, all days after, while they live;  
(They find it both so witty, and safe to give.)  
Let them on powders, oils, and paintings, spend,  
Till that no usurer, nor his bawds dare lend  
Them, or their officers: and no man know,  
Whether it be a face they wear, or no.                       
Let them waste body, and state; and after all,  
When their own parasites laugh at their fall, 
May they have nothing left, whereof they can  
Boast, but how often they have gone wrong to man:  
And call it their brave sin. For such there be  
That do sin only for the infamy:  
And never think, how vice does every hour,  
Eat on her clients, and someone devour.  
You, madam, young have learn'd to shun these shelves,  
Whereon the most of mankind wrack themselves,                
And, keeping a just course, have early put  
Into your harbor, and all passage shut  
Against storms, or pirates, that might charge your peace;  
For which you worthy are the glad increase  
Of your blessed womb, made fruitful from above,  
To pay your lord the pledges of chaste love:  
And raise a noble stem, to give the fame,  
To Clifton's blood, that is deni'd their name.  
Grow, grow, fair tree, and as thy branches shoot,  
Hear, what the muses sing about thy root                     
By me, their priest (if they can aught divine)  
Before the moons have fill'd their triple trine,  
To crown the burthen which you go withal,  
It shall a ripe and timely issue fall,  
To expect the honors of great Aubigny:  
And greater rites, yet writ in mystery,  
But which the Fates forbid me to reveal.  
Only, thus much, out of a ravish'd zeal,  
Unto your name, and goodness of your life,  
They speak; since you are truly that rare wife,              
Other great wives may blush at: when they see  
What your tried manners are, what theirs should be.  
How you love one, and him you should; how still  
You are depending on his word, and will;  
Not fashion'd for the court, or strangers' eyes;  
But to please him, who is the dearer prize  
Unto himself, by being so dear to you.  
This makes, that your affections still be new,
And that your souls conspire, as they were gone  
Into each other, and had now made one.              
Live that one, still; and as long years do pass  
Madam, be bold to use this truest glass:  
Wherein, your form, you still the same shall find!  
Because nor it can change, nor such a mind.  
<STANZA>   
<XIV Ode to Sir William Sidney, on his Birthday> 
Now that the hearth is crown'd with smiling fire,  
And some do drink, and some do dance.  
Some ring,  
Some sing,  
And all do strive to advance  
The gladness higher:  
Wherefore should I  
Stand silent by,  
Who not the least,  
Both love the cause, and authors of the feast?    
Give me my cup, but from the Thespian well,  
That I may tell to Sidney, what  
This day  
Does say,  
And he may think on that  
Which I do tell:  
When all the noise  
Of these forc'd joys,  
Are fled and gone,  
And he, with his best genius left alone.      
This day says, then, the number of glad years  
Are justly summ'd, that makes you man;  
Your vow  
Must now 
Strive all right ways it can,  
To out-strip your peers: 
Since he does lack  
Of going back  
Little, whose will  
Does urge him to run wrong, or to stand still.    
Nor can a little of the common store,  
Of nobles' virtue, show in you;  
Your blood  
So good  
And great, must seek for new,  
And study more:  
Not weary, rest  
On what's deceas'd.  
For they, that swell  
With dust of ancestors, in graves but dwell.    
It will be exacted of your name, whose son,  
Whose nephews, whose grand-child you are;  
And man  
Will, then,  
Say you have follow'd far,  
When well begun:  
Which must be now,  
They teach you, how.  
And he that stays  
To live until tomorrow has lost two days.       
So may you live in honor, as in name,  
If with this truth you be inspir'd,  
So may  
This day  
Be more, and long desir'd:  
And with the flame  
Of love be bright,  
As with the light  
Of bonfires. Then  
The birthday shines, when logs not bum, but men. 
<STANZA>   
<XV To Heaven> 
Good, and great God, can I not think of thee,  
But it must, straight, my melancholy be?  
Is it interpreted in me disease,  
That, laden with my sins, I seek for ease?  
O, be thou witness, that the reins do know,  
And hearts of all, if I be sad for show,  
And judge me after: if I dare pretend  
To aught but grace, or aim at other end.  
As thou are all, so be thou all to me,  
First, midst, and last, converted one, and three;        
My faith, my hope, my love: and in this state,  
My judge, my witness, and my advocate.  
Where have I been this while exil'd from thee?  
And whether rapt, now thou but stoops to me?  
Dwell, dwell here still: O, being everywhere,  
How can I doubt to find thee ever, here?  
I know my state, both full of shame, and scorn,  
Conceiv'd in sin, and unto labor born,  
Standing with fear, and must with honor fall,  
And destin'd unto judgment, after all.                   
I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground,  
Upon my flesh to inflict another wound.  
Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death  
With holy Paul, lest it be thought the breath  
Of discontent; or that these prayers be  
For weariness of life, not love of thee.
</FILE>
<FILE Lodphil.ed>
<AUTH> Thomas Lodge
<TITLE> Phillis
<NOTES>  from Lee, 1964, 1593, Proofed from scan, WEYE, 7/90
<POEM>
<SONNET 1.>
O PLEASING thoughts, apprentices of love,
Fore-runners of desire, sweet mithridates
The poison of my sorrows to remove,
With whom my hopes and fear full oft debates!
Enrich yourselves and me by your self riches,
Which are the thoughts you spend on heaven-bred beauty,
Rouse you my muse beyond our poets' pitches,
And, working wonders. yet say all Is duty!
Use you no eaglets' eyes, nor phoenix' feathers,
To tower the heaven from whence heaven's wonder sallies.
For why? Your sun sings sweetly to her weathers,
Making a spring of winter in the valleys.
Show to the world, though poor and scant my skill is,
How sweet thoughts be, that are but thoughts on Phillis,
<POEM>
<SONNET 2.>
You sacred sea-nymphs pleasantly disporting
Amidst this wat'ry `world, where now I sail;
If ever love, or lovers sad reporting,
Had power sweet tears from your fair eyes to hail;
And you, more gentle-hearted than the rest,
Under the northern noon-stead sweetly streaming
Lend those moist riches of your crystal crest,
To quench the flames from my heart's Aetna streaming;
And thou, kind Triton, in thy trumpet relish
The ruthful accents of my discontent,
That midst this travel desolate and hellish,
Some gentle wind that listens my lament
May prattle in the north in Phillis' ears:
"Where Phillis wants, Damon consumes in tears."
<POEM>
<SONNET 3.>
In fancy's world an Atlas have I been,
Where yet the chaos of my ceaseless care
Is by her eyes unpitied and unseen,
In whom all gifts but pity planted are,
For mercy though still cries my moan-clad muse,
And every paper that she sends to beauty,
In tract of sable tears brings woeful news,
Of my true heart, kind thoughts, and loyal duty.
But ah the strings of her hard heart are strained
Beyond the harmony of my desires;
And though the happy heavens themselves have pained,
To tame her heart whose will so far aspires,
Yet she who claims the title of worlds wonder,
Thinks all deserts too base to bring her under.
<POEM>
<SONNET 4.>
LONG hath my sufferance labored to enforce
One pearl of pity from her pretty eyes,
Whilst I with restless rivers of remorse,
Have bathed the banks where my fair Phillis lies.
The moaning lines which weeping I have written,
And writing read unto my ruthful sheep,
And reading sent with tears that never fitten,
To my love's queen, that hath my heart in keep,
Have made my lambkins lay them down and sigh;
But Phillis sits, and reads, and calls them trifles.
O heavens, why climb not happy lines so high,
To rent that ruthless heart that all hearts rifles!
None writes with truer faith, or greater love;
Yet out, alas! I have no power to move.
<POEM>
<SONNET 5.>
AH PALE and dying infant of the spring,
How rightly now do I resemble thee!
That self same hand that thee from stalk did wring,
Hath rent my breast and robbed my heart from me.
Yet shalt thou live. For why? The native vigor
Shall thrive by woeful dew-drops of my dolor;
And from the wounds I bear through fancy's rigor,
My streaming blood shall yield the crimson color.
The ravished sighs that ceaseless take their issue
From out the furnace of my heart inflamed,
To yield you lasting springs shall never miss you;
So by my plaints and pains, you shall be famed.
Let my heart's heat and cold, thy crimson nourish,
And by my sorrows let thy beauty flourish.
<POEM>
<SONNET 6.>
IT is not death which wretched men call dying,
But that is very death which I endure,
When my coy-looking nymph, her grace envying,
By fatal frowns my domage doth procure.
It is not life which we for life approve,
But that is life when on her wool-soft paps
I seal sweet kisses which do batten love,
And doubling them do treble my good haps.
`Tis neither love the son, nor love the mother,
Which lovers praise and pray to; but that love is
Which she in eye and I in heart do smother.
Then muse not though I glory in my miss,
Since she who holds my heart and me in durance,
Hath life, death, love and all in her procurance,
<POEM>
<SONNET 7.>
How languisheth the primrose of love's garden!
How trill her tears, th' elixir of my senses!
Ambitious sickness, what doth thee so harden?
O spare, and plague thou me for her offenses!
Ah roses, love's fair roses, do not languish;
Blush through the milk-white veil that holds you covered.
If heat or cold may mitigate your anguish,
I`ll burn, I`ll freeze, but you shall be recovered.
Good God, would beauty mark how she is crazed,
How but one shower of sickness makes her tender,
Her judgments then to mark my woes amazed,
To mercy should opinion's fort surrender!
And I, -- o would I might, or would she meant it!
Should hery love, who now in heart lament it.
<POEM>
<SONNET 8.>
NO STARS her eyes to clear the wandering night,
But shining suns of true divinity,
That make the soul conceive her perfect light!
No wanton beauties of humanity
Her pretty brows, but beams that clear the sight
Of him that seeks the true philosophy!
No coral is her lip, no rose her fair,
But even that crimson that adorns the sun.
No nymph is she, but mistress of the air,
By whom my glories are but new begun.
But when I touch and taste as others do,
I then shall write, and you shall wonder too.
<POEM>
<SONNET 9.>
THE dewy roseate Morn had with her hairs
In sundry sorts the Indian clime adorned;
And now her eyes, apparell�d in tears,
The loss of lovely Memnon long had Mourned
When as she spied the nymph whom I admire,
Combing her locks, of which the yellow gold
Made blush the beauties of her curl�d wire,
Which heaven itself with wonder might behold,
Then, red with shame, her reverend locks she rent,
And weeping hid the beauty of her face;
The flower of fancy wrought such discontent.
The sighs, which midst the air she breathed a space,
A three-days' stormy tempest did maintain,
Her shame a fire, her eyes a swelling rain.
<POEM>
<SONNET 10.>
THE rumor runs that here in Isis swim
Such stately swans so confident in dying,
That when they feel themselves near Lethe's brim,
They sing their fatal dirge when death is nighing.
And I, like these, that feel my wounds are mortal,
Contented die for her whom I adore;
And in my joyful hymns do still exhort all
To die for such a saint or love no more.
Not that my torments or her tyranny
Enforce me to enjoin so hard a task,
But for I know, and yield no reason why,
But will them try that have desire to ask.
As love hath wreaths his pretty eyes to seel,
So lovers must keep secret what they feel.
<POEM>
<SONNET 11.>
MY FRAIL and earthly bark, by reason's guide,
Which holds the helm, whilst will doth wield the sail,
By my desires, the winds of bad betide,
Hath sailed these worldly seas with small avail,
Vain objects serve for dreadful rocks to quail
My brittle boat from haven of life that flies
To haunt the sea of mundane miseries.
My soul that draws impressions from above,
And views my course, and sees the winds aspire,
Bids reason watch to `scape the shoals of love;
But lawless will enflamed with endless ire
Doth steer empoop, whilst reason doth retire.
The streams increase; love's waves my bark do fill;
Thus are they wracked that guide their course by will.
<POEM>
<SONNET 12.>
AH, TREES, why fall your leaves so fast?
Ah rocks, where are your robes of moss?
Ah flocks, why stand you all aghast?
Trees, rocks, and flocks, what, are you pensive for my loss?
The birds, methinks, tune naught but moan,
The winds breathe naught but bitter plaint,
The beasts forsake their dens to groan;
Birds, winds, and beasts, what doth my loss your powers attaint?
Floods weep their springs above their bounds,
And echo wails to see my woe,
The robe of ruth doth clothe the grounds;
Floods, echo, grounds, why do you all these tears bestow?
The trees, the rocks, and flocks reply,
The birds, the winds, the beasts report,
Floods, echo, grounds, for sorrow cry,
We grieve since Phillis nill kind Damon's love consort.
<POEM>
<SONNET 13.>
Love guides the roses of thy lips,And flies about them like a bee;
If I approach he forward skips,
And If I kiss he stingeth me.
Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,
And sleeps within their pretty shine;
And if I look the boy will lower,
And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.
Love works thy heart within his fire,
And in my tears doth firm the same;
And if I tempt it will retire,
And of my plaints doth make a game.
Love, let me cull her choicest flowers,
And pity me, and calm her eye,
Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers,
Then will I praise thy deity.
But if thou do not love, I`ll truly serve her.
In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.
<POEM>
<SONNET 14.>
I WROTE in Mirrha's bark, and as I wrote,
Poor Mirrha wept because I wrote forsaken;
`Twas of thy pride I sung in weeping note,
When as her leaves great moan for pity maken.
The falling fountains from the mountains falling,
Cried out, alas, so far and be so cruel!
And babbling echo never ceased calling,
Phillis, disdain is fit for none but truthless.
The rising pines wherein I had engraved
Thy memory consulting with the wind,
Art trucemen to thy heart and thoughts depraved,
And say, thy kind should not be so unkind.
But, out alas! so fell is Phillis fearless,
That she hath made her Damon well-nigh tearless.
<POEM>
<15 and 16 omitted, not sonnets.>
<SONNET 17.>
AH, FLEETING weal! ah, sly deluding sleep,
That in one moment giv'st me joy and pain!
How do my hopes dissolve to tears in vain,
As wont the snows, `fore angry sun to weep
Ah, noisome life that hath no weal in keep!
My forward grief hath form and working might;
My pleasures, like the shadows, take their flight;
My path to bliss is tedious, long, and steep.
Twice happy thou Endymion that embracest
The live-long night thy love within thy arms,
Where thou fond dream my longed weal defacest
Whilst fleeting and uncertain shades thou placest
Before my eyes with false deluding charms!
Ah, instant sweets which do my heart revive,
How should I joy if you were true alive!
<POEM>
<SONNET 18.>
As where two raging venoms are united,
Which of themselves dissevered life would sever,
The sickly wretch of sickness is acquited,
Which else should die, or pine in torments ever
So fire and frost, that hold my heart in seizure,
Restore those ruins which themselves have wrought,
Where if apart they both had had their pleasure,
The earth long since her fatal claim had caught.
Thus two united deaths keep me from dying;
I burn in ice, and quake amidst the fire,
No hope midst these extremes or favor spying;
Thus love makes me a martyr in his ire.
So that both cold and heat do rather feed
My ceaseless pains, than any comfort breed.
<POEM>
<SONNET 19>
Thou tyrannising monarch that dost tire
My love-sick heart through those assaulting eyes,
That are the lamps which lighten my desire!
If nought but death thy fury may suffice,
Not for my peace, but for thy pleasure be it,
That Phillis, wrathful Phillis, that repines me
All grace but death, may deign to come and see it,
And seeing grieve at that which she assigns me.
This only boon for all my mortal bane
I crave and cry for at thy mercy seat
That when her wrath a faithful heart hath slain,
And soul is fled, and body reft of heat,
She might perceive how much she might command
That had my life and death within her hand.
<POEM>
<SONNET 20.>
SOME praise the looks, and others praise the locks
Of their fair queens, in love with curious worlds;
Some laud the breast where love his treasure locks
All like the eye that life and love affords.
But none of these frail beauties and unstable
Shall make my pen riot in pompous style;
More greater gifts shall my grave muse enable,
Whereat severer brows shall never smile.
I praise her honey-sweeter eloquence,
Which from the fountain of true wisdom floweth,
Her modest mien that matcheth excellence,
Her matchless faith which from her virtue groweth;
And could my style her happy virtues equal,
Time had no power her glories to enthrall.
<POEM>
<SONNET 21.>
YE HERALDS of my heart, mine ardent groans,
O, tears which gladly would burst out to brooks,
O, spent on fruitless sand my surging moans,
O, thoughts enthralled unto care-boding looks!
Ah, just laments of my unjust distress,
Ah, fond desires whom reason could not guide!
O, hopes of love that intimate redress,
Yet prove the load-stars unto bad betide!
When will you cease?  Or shall pain never-ceasing,
Seize on my heart?  O, mollify your rage,
Lest your assaults with over-swift increasing,
Procure my death, or call on timeless age.
What if they do? They shall but feed the fire,
Which I have kindled by my fond desire.
<POEM>
<SONNET 22.>
FAIR art thou, Phillis, ay, so fair, sweet maid
As nor the sun, nor I have seen more fair,
And gold more pure than gold doth gild thy hair.
Sweet bees have hived their honey on thy tongue,
And Hebe spiced her nectar with thy breath;
About thy neck do all the graces throng,
And lay such baits as might entangle death.
In such a breast what heart would not be thrall
From such sweet arms who would not wish embraces?
At thy fair hands who wonders not at all,
Wonder itself through ignorance embases?
Yet natheless though wondrous gifts you call these,
My faith is far more wonderful than all these.
<POEM>
<SONNET 23.>
BURST, burst, poor heart!  Thou hast no longer hope;
Captive mine eyes unto eternal sleep;
Let all my senses have no further scope;
Let death be lord of me and all my sheep!
For Phillis hath betrothed fierce disdain,
That makes his mortal mansion in her heart;
And though my tongue have long time taken pain
To sue divorce and wed her to desert.
She will not yield, my words can have no power;
She scorns my faith, she laughs at my sad lays,
She fills my soul with never-ceasing sour,
Who filled the world with volumes of her praise.
In such extremes what wretch can cease to crave
His peace from death, who can no mercy have!
<POEM>
<SONNET 24.>
NO GLORY makes me glorious or glad,
Nor pleasure may to pleasure me dispose,
No comfort can revive my senses sad,
Nor hope enfranchise me with one repose.
Nor in her absence taste I one delight.
Nor in her presence am I well content;
Was never time gave term to my despite,
Nor joy that dried the tears of my lament.
Nor hold I hope of weal in memory,
Nor have I thought to change my restless grief
Nor doth my conquest yield me sovereignty,
Nor hope repose, nor confidence relief
For why?  She sorts her frowns and favors so,
As when I gain or lose I cannot know.
<POEM>
<SONNET 25.>
I WAGE the combat with two mighty foes,
Which are more strong than I ten thousand fold;
The one is when thy pleasure I do lose,
The other, when thy person I behold.
In seeing thee a swarm of loves confound me
And cause my death in spite of my resist,
And if I see thee not, thy want doth wound me,
For in thy sight my comfort doth consist.
The one in me continual care createth,
The other doth occasion my desire;
The one the edge of all my joy rebateth,
The other makes me a phoenix in love's fire.
So that I grieve when I enjoy your presence,
And die for grief by reason of your absence.
<POEM>
<SONNET 26.>
I`ll teach thee, lovely Phillis, what love is.
It is a vision seeming such as thou,
That flies as fast as it assaults mine eyes;
It is affection that doth reason miss;
It is a shape of pleasure like to you,
Which meets the eye, and seen on sudden dies;
It is a double grief, a spark of pleasure
Begot by vain desire.  And this is love
Whom in our youth we count our chiefest treasure,
In age for want of power we do reprove.
Yea, such a power is love, whose loss is pain,
And having got him we repent our gain.
<POEM>
<SONNET 27.>
FAIR eyes, whilst fearful I your fair admire,
By unexpress�d sweetness that I gain,
My memory of sorrow doth expire,
And falcon-like I tower joy's heavens amain,
But when your suns in oceans of their glory
Shut up their day-bright shine, I die for thought;
So pass my joys as doth a new-played story,
And one poor sigh breathes all delight to naught.
So to myself I live not, but for you;
For you I live, and you I love, but none else.
O then, fair eyes, whose light I live to view,
Or poor forlorn despised to live alone else,
Look sweet, since from the pith of contemplation
Love gathereth life, and living, breedeth passion.
<POEM>
<SONNET 28.>
Not causeless were you christened, gentle flowers,
The one of faith, the other fancy's pride;
For she who guides both faith and fancy's power,
In your fair colors wraps her ivory side.
As one of you hath whiteness without stain,
So spotless is my love and never tainted;
And as the other shadoweth faith again,
Such is my lass, with no fond change acquainted.
And as nor tyrant sun nor winter weather
May ever change sweet amaranthus' hue,
So she though love and fortune join together,
Will never leave to be both fair and true. 
And should I leave thee there, thou pretty elf?
Nay, first let Damon quite forget himself.
<POEM>
<SONNET 29.>
I FEEL myself endangered beyond reason,
My death already `twixt the cup and lip,
Because my proud desire through cursed treason
Would make my hopes mount heaven, which cannot skip;
My fancy still requireth at my hands
Such things as are not, cannot, may not be,
And my desire although my power withstands
Will dive me wings, who never yet could flee.
What then remains except my maimed soul
Extort compassion from love-flying age,
Or if naught else their fury may control,
To call on death that quells affection's rage;
Which death shall dwell with me and never fly,
Since vain desire seeks that hope doth deny.
<POEM>
<SONNET 30.>
I do compare unto thy youthly clear,
Which always bides within thy flow'ring prime,
The month of April, that bedews our clime
With pleasant flowers, when as his showers appear.
Before thy face shall fly false cruelty,
Before his face the doly season fleets;
Mild been his looks, thine eyes are full of sweets;
Firm is his course, firm is thy loyalty.
He paints the fields through liquid crystal showers,
Thou paint'st my verse with Pallas' learned flowers;
With Zephirus' sweet breath he fills the plains,
And thou my heart with weeping sighs dost wring;
His brows are dewed with morning's crystal spring,
Thou mak'st my eyes with tears bemoan my pains.
<POEM>
<SONNET 31.>
DEVOID of reason, thrall to foolish ire,
I walk and chase a savage fairy still,
Now near the flood, straight on the mounting hill,
Now midst the woods of youth, and vain desire
For leash I bear a cord of careful grief;
For brach I lead an over-forward mind;
My hounds are thoughts, and rage despairing blind,
Pain, cruelty, and care without relief.
But they perceiving that my swift pursuit
My flying fairy cannot overtake,
With open mouths their prey on me do make,
Like hungry hounds that lately lost their suit,
And full of fury on their master feed,
To hasten on my hapless death with speed.
<POEM>
<SONNET 32.>
A THOUSAND times to think and think the same
To two fair eyes to show a naked heart,
Great thirst with bitter liquor to restrain,
To take repast of care and crooked smart;
To sigh full o without relent of ire,
To die for grief and yet conceal the tale,
To others' will to fashion my desire,
To pine in looks disguised through pensive-pale;
A short despite, a faith unfeigned true,
To love my foe, and set my life at naught,
With heedless eyes mine endless harms to view
A will to speak, a fear to tell the thought;
To hope [or all, yet for despair to die,
Is of my life the certain destiny.
<POEM>
<SONNET 33.>
WHEN first sweet Phillis, whom I must adore,
`Gan with her beauties bless our wond'ring sky,
The son of Rhea, from their fatal store
Make all the gods to grace her majesty.
Apollo first his golden rays among,
Did form the beauty of her bounteous eyes;
He graced her with his sweet melodious song,
And made her subject of his poesies.
The warrior Mars bequeathed her fierce disdain,
Venus her smile, and Phoebe all her fair,
Python his voice, and Ceres all her grain,
The moon her locks and fingers did repair.
Young Love, his bow, and Thetis gave her feet;
Clio her praise, Pallas her science sweet,
<POEM>
<SONNET 34.>
I WOULD in rich and golden-colored rain,
With tempting showers in pleasant sort descend
Into fair Phillis' lap, my lovely friend,
When sleep her sense with slumber doth restrain
I would be change to a milk-white bull,
When midst the gladsome field she should appear,
By pleasant fineness to surprise my dear,
Whilst from their stalks, she pleasant flowers did pull.
I were content to weary out my pain,
To be Narcissus so she were a spring,
To drown in her those woes my heart do ring,
And more; I wish transformed to remain,
That whilst I thus in pleasure's lap did lie,
I might refresh desire, which else would die.
<POEM>
<SONNET 35.>
I HOPE and fear, I pray and hold my peace,
Now freeze my thoughts and straight they fry again,
I now admire and straight my wonders cease,
I loose my bonds and yet myself restrain;
This likes me most that leaves me discontent,
My courage serves and yet my heart doth fail,
My will doth climb whereas my hopes are spent,
I laugh at love, yet when he comes I quail;
The more I strive, the duller bide I still,
I would be thanked, and yet I freedom love,
I would redress, yet hourly feed my ill,
I would repine, and dare not once reprove;
And for my love I am bereft of power,
And strengthless strive my weakness to devour.
<POEM>
<SONNET 36.>
IF SO I seek the shades, I presently do see
The god of love forsakes his bow and sit me by;
If that I think to write, his Muses pliant be,
If so I plain my grief the wanton boy will cry,
If I lament his pride, he doth increase my pain;
If tears my cheeks attaint, his cheeks are moist with moan;
If I disclose the wounds the which my heart hath slain,
He takes his fascia off and wipes them dry anon.
If so I walk the woods, the woods are his delight,
If I myself torment, he bathes him in my blood;
He will my soldier be if once I wend to fight,
If seas delight, he steers my bark amidst the flood.
In brief, the cruel god doth never from me go,
But makes my lasting love eternal with my woe.
<POEM>
<SONNET 37.>
THESE fierce incessant waves that stream along my face,
Which show the certain proof of my ne'er-ceasing pains,
Fair Phillis, are no tears that trickle from my brains;
For why?  Such streams of ruth within me find no place.
These floods that wet my cheeks are gathered from thy grace
And thy perfections, and from hundred thousand flowers
Which from thy beauties spring; whereto I medley showers
Of rose and lilies too, the colors of thy face.
My love doth serve for fire, my heart the furnace is,
The aperries of my sighs augment the burning flame,
The limbeck is mine eye that doth distill the same;
And by how much my fire is violent and sly,
By so much doth it cause the waters mount on high,
That shower from out mine eyes, for to assuage my miss.
<POEM>
<SONNET 38.>
Who lives enthralled to Cupid and his flame,
From day to day is changed in sundry sort;
The proof whereof myself may well report,
Who oft transformed by him may teach the same.
I first was turned into a wounded hart,
That bare the bloody arrow in my side;
Then to a swan that midst the waters glide,
With piteous voice presaged my deadly smart;
Eftsoons I waxed a faint and fading flower;
Then was I made a fountain sudden dry,
Distilling all my tears from troubled eye;
Now am I salamander by his power,
Living in flames, but hope ere long to be
A voice, to talk my mistress' majesty.
<POEM>
<SONNET 39.>
MY MATCHLESS mistress, whose delicious eyes
Have power to perfect nature's privy wants,
Even when the sun in greatest pomp did rise,
With pretty tread did press the tender plaits.
Each stalk, whilst forth she stalks, to kiss her feet
Is proud with pomp, and prodigal of sweet.
Her fingers fair in favoring every flower
That wooed their ivory for a wished touch,
By chance -- sweet chance -- upon a blessed hour
Did pluck the flower where Love himself did couch,
Where Love did couch by summer toil suppressed,
And sought his sleep within so sweet a nest.
The virgin's hand that held the wanton thrall,
Imprisoned him within the roseate leaves;
And twixt her teats, with favor did install
The lovely rose, where Love his rest receives.
The lad that felt the soft and sweet so nigh,
Drowned in delights, disdains his liberty,
And said, let Venus seek another son,
For here my only matchless mother is;
From whose fair orient orbs the drink doth run,
That deifies my state with greater bliss.
This said, he sucked, my mistress blushing smiled,
Since Love was both her prisoner and her child.
<POEM>
<SONNET 40.>
Resembling none, and none so poor as I,
Poor to the world, and poor in each esteem,
Whose first-born loves at first obscured did die,
And bred no fame but flame of base misdeem,
Under the ensign of whose tired pen,
Love's legions forth have masked, by others masked;
Think how I live wronged by ill-tongued men,
Not master of myself, to all wrongs tasked!
O thou that canst, and she that may do all things,
Support these languishing conceits that perish!
Look on their growth; perhaps these silly small things
May win this worthy palm, so you do cherish.
Homer hath vowed, and I with him do vow this,
He will and shall revive, if you allow this.
</FILE>
<FILE Lodroslyn.ed
<AUTH> Thomas Lodge
<TITLE>Rosalynde
<NOTES> edited Spring 1990 G. Yerovsek
<POEM>
<Rosalynde's Madrigal>
Love in my bosom like a bee
Doth suck his sweet:
Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest
Ah, wanton, will ye?
And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee
The livelong night.
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string,
He music plays if so I sing;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting.
Whist, wanton, still ye!
Else I with roses every day
Will whip you hence,
And bind you, when you long to play,
For your offense;
I 'll shut mine eyes to keep you in,
I 'll make you fast it for your sin,
I 'll count your power not worth a pin.
Alas, what hereby shall I win,
If he gainsay me?
What if I heat the wanton boy
With many a rod?
He will repay me with annoy,
Because a God.
Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee.
O Cupid, so thou pity me,
Spare not but play thee.
<STANZA>
<Montanus' Passion>
Hadst thou been born whereas perpetual cold
Makes Tanais hard, and mountains silver old;
Had I complained unto a marble stone,
Or to the floods bewrayed my bitter moan,
I then could bear the burthen of my grief.
But even the pride of countries at thy birth,
While heavens did smile, did new array the earth 
With flowers chief.
Yet thou, the flower of beauty blessed born,
Hast pretty looks, but all attired in scorn.
Had I the power to weep sweet Mirrha's tears,
Or by my plaints to pierce repining ears;
Hadst thou the heart to smile at my complaint,
To scorn the woes that doth my heart attain,
I then could bear the burthen of my grief:
But not my tears, but truth with thee prevails,
And seeming sour my sorrows thee assails
Yet small relief;
For if thou wilt thou art of marble hard,
And if thou please my suit shall soon be heard.
First shall the tops of highest hills
By humble plains be overpried,
And poets scorn the Muses' quills,
And fish forsake the water glide,
And Iris loose her colored weed,
Before I fail thee at thy need.
First direful hate shall turn to peace,
And love relent in deep disdain,
And death his fatal stroke shall cease,
And envy pity every pain,
And pleasure mourn and sorrow smile,
Before I talk of any guile.
First time shall stay his stayless race,
And winter bless his brows with corn,
And snow bemoisten July's face,
And winter spring, and summer mourn,
Before my pen, by help of fame,
Cease to recite thy sacred name.
This milk-white poppy, and this climbing pine
Both promise shade then sit thee down and sing,
And make these woods with pleasant notes to ring,
Till Phoebus design all westward to decline.
<STANZA>
<Montanus>
Ah, Corydon, unmeet is melody
To him whom proud contempt hath overborne:
Slain are my joys by Phoebe's bitter scorn;
Far hence my weal, and near my jeopardy.
Love's burning brand is couched in my breast,
Making a Phoenix of my faintful heart:
And though his fury do enforce my smart,
Ay blithe am I to honor his behest.
Prepared to woes, since so my Phoebe wills,
My looks dismayed, since Phoebe will disdain;
I banish bliss and welcome home my pain:
So stream my tears as showers from Alpine hills.
In error's mask I blindfold judgment's eye,
I fetter reason in the snares of lust,
I seem secure, yet know not how to trust;
I live by that which makes me living die.
Devoid of rest, companion of distress,
Plague to myself, consumed by my thought,
How may my voice or pipe in tune be brought,
Since I am reft of solace and delight?
<STANZA>
<Corydon>
Ah, lorrel lad, what makes thee hery love?
A sugared harm, a poison full of pleasure,
A painted shrine full filled with rotten treasure;
A heaven in show, a hell to them that prove.
A gain in seeming, shadowed still with want,
A broken staff which folly doth uphold,
A flower that fades with every frosty cold,
An orient rose sprung from a withered plant. A minute's joy to
gain a world of grief,
A subtle net to snare the idle mind,
A seeing scorpion, yet in seeming blind,
A poor rejoice, a plague without relief.
Forthy, Montanus, follow mine arede,
(Whom age hath taught the trains that fancy useth)
Leave foolish love, for beauty wit abuseth,
And drowns, by folly, virtue's springing seed.
<STANZA>
<Montanus>
So blames the child the flame because it burns,
And bird the snare because it doth entrap,
And fools true love because of sorry hap,
And sailors curse the ship that overturns.
But would the child forbear to play with flame,
And birds beware to trust the fowler's gin,
And fools foresee before they fall and sin,
And masters guide their ships in better frame;
The child would praise the fire because it warms,
And birds rejoice to see the fowler fail,
And fools prevent before their plagues prevail,
And sailors bless the bark that saves from harms.
Ah, Corydon, though many be thy years,
And crooked eld hath some experience left,
Yet is thy mind of judgment quite bereft,
In view of love, whose power in me appears.
The ploughman little wots to turn the pen,
Or bookman skills to guide the ploughman's cart;
Nor can the cobbler count the terms of art,
Nor base men judge the thoughts of mighty men.
Nor withered age, unmeet for beauty's guide, 
Uncapable of love's impression,
Discourse of that whose choice possession
May never to so base a man be tied. 
But I, whom nature makes of tender mould,
And youth most pliant yields to fancy's fire,
Do build my haven and heaven on sweet desire,
On sweet desire, more dear to me than gold.
Think I of love, O, how my lines aspire!
How haste the Muses to embrace my brows,
And hem my temples in with laurel boughs,
And fill my brains with chaste and holy fire!
Then leave my lines their homely equipage,
Mounted beyond the circle of the sun:
Amazed I read the stile when I have done,
And hery love that sent that heavenly rage.
Of Phoebe then, of Phoebe then I sing,
Drawing the purity of all the spheres,
The pride of earth, or what in heaven appears,
Her honored face and fame to light to bring.
In fluent numbers, and in pleasant veins,
I rob both sea and earth of all their state,
To praise her parts I charm both time and fate,
To bless the nymph that yields me love-sick pains.
My sheep are turned to thoughts, whom forward will
Guide in the restless labyrinth of love;
Fear lends them pasture wheresoever they move,
And by their death their life renews still.
My sheep-hook is my pen, mine oat reed
My paper, where my many woes are written.
Thus silly swain, with love and fancy bitten,
I trace the plains of pain in woeful weed.
Yet are my cares, my broken sleeps, my tears,
My dreams, my doubts, for Phoebe sweet to me
Who waits heaven in sorrow's vale must be,
And glory shines where danger most appears.
Then, Corydon, although I blithe me not,
Blame me not, man, since sorrow is my sweet:
So will love, and Phoebe thinks it meet,
And kind Montanus likes well his lot.
<STANZA>
<Corydon>
O stayless youth, by error so misguided,
Where will proscribeth laws to perfect wits,
Where reason mourns, and blame in triumph sits,
And folly poisoneth all that time provided!
With willful blindness bleared, prepared to shame,
Prone to neglect Occasion when she smiles:
Alas, that love, by fond and forward guiles,
Should make thee tract the path to endless blame!
Ah, my Montanus, cursed is the charm,
That hath bewitched so thy youthful eyes.
Leave off in time to like these vanities,
Be forward to thy good, and fly thy harm.
As many bees as Hybla daily shields,
As many fry as fleet on ocean's face,
As many herds as on the earth do trace,
As many flowers as deck the fragrant fields,
As many stars as glorious heaven contains,
As many storms as wayward winter weeps,
As many plagues as hell enclosed keeps,
So many griefs in love, so many pains.
Suspicions, thoughts, desires, opinions, prayers,
Mislikes, misdeeds, fond joys, and feigned peace,
Illusions, dreams, great pains, and small increase,
Vows, hopes, acceptance, scorns, and deep despairs,
Truce, war, and woe do wait at beauty's gate;
Time lost, laments, reports, and privy grudge,     
And last, fierce love is but a partial judge,
Who yields for service shame, for friendship hate. 
<STANZA>
<Montanus>
All adder-like I stop mine ears, fond swain,
So charm no more, for I will never change.
Call home thy flocks in time that straggling range,
For lo, the sun declineth hence amain.
<STANZA>
<Montanus's Sonnet>
Phoebe sat,
sweet she sat,
Sweet sat Phoebe when I saw her;
White her brow,
Coy her eye:
Brow and eye how much you please me!
Words I spent,
Sighs I sent:
Sighs and words could never draw her.
O my love,
Thou art lost,
Since no sight could ever ease thee.
<STANZA>
Phoebe sat
By a fount;
Sitting by a fount I spied her:
Sweet her touch,
Rare her voice
Touch and voice what may distain you?
As she sung
I did sigh,
And by sighs while that I tried her,
O mine eyes!
You did lose
Her first sight whose want did pain you.
Phoebe's flocks,
White as wool:
Yet were Phoebe's locks more whiter.
Phoebe's eyes
Dove-like mild:
Dove-like eyes, both mild and cruel.
Montan swears,
In your lamps
He will die for to delight her.
Phoebe yield,
Or I die:
Shall true hearts be fancy's fuel?
<STANZA>
<Sonetto>
Of all chaste birds the Phoenix doth excel,
Of all strong beasts the lion bears the bell,
Of all sweet flowers the rose doth sweetest smell,
Of all fair maids my Rosalynde is fairest.
Of all pure metals gold is only purest,
Of all high trees the pine hath highest crest,
Of all soft sweets I like my mistress' breast,
Of all chaste thoughts my mistress' thoughts are rarest.
Of all proud birds the eagle pleases Jove,
Of pretty fowls kind Venus likes the dove,
Of trees Minerva doth the olive love,
Of all sweet nymphs I honor Rosalynde.
Of all her gifts her wisdom pleases most,
Of all her graces virtue she doth boast:
For all these gifts my life and joy is lost,
If Rosalynde prove cruel and unkind.
<STANZA>
<Rosader's Sonnet>
In sorrow's cell I laid me down to sleep,
But waking woes were jealous of mine eyes,
They made them watch, and bend themselves to weep,
But weeping tears their want could not suffice:
Yet since for her they wept who guides my heart,
They weeping smile, and triumph in their smart.
Of these my tears a fountain fiercely springs,
Where Venus bains herself incensed with love,
Where Cupid bows his fair feathered wings;
But I behold what pains I must approve.
Care drinks it dry; but when on her I think,
Love makes me weep it full unto the brink.
Meanwhile my sighs yield truce unto my tears,
By them the winds increased and fiercely blow
Yet when I sigh the flame more plain appears,
And by their force with greater power doth glow:
Amid these pains, all phoenix-like I thrive
Since love, that yields me death, may life revive.
<STANZA>
<Rosader's Second Sonetto>
Turn I my looks unto the skies,
Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes;
If so I gaze upon the ground,
Love then in every flower is found.
Search I the shade to fly my pain,
He meets me in the shade again;
Wend I to walk in secret grove,
Even there I meet with sacred love.
If so I bain me in the spring,
Even on the brink I hear him sing:
If so I meditate alone,
He will be partner of my moan.
If so I mourn, he weeps with me,
And where I am there will he be.
Whenas I talk of Rosalynde
The god from coyness waxeth kind,
And seems in self-same flames to fry
Because he loves as well as I.
Sweet Rosalynde, for pity rue;
For why, than love I am more true
He, if he speed, will quickly fly,
But in thy love I live and die.
<STANZA>
<Rosader's Third Sonnet>
Of virtuous love myself may boast alone,
Since no suspect my service may attain:
For perfect fair she is the only one,
Whom I esteem for my beloved saint.
Thus, for my faith I only bear the bell,
And for her fair she only doth excel.
Then let fond Petrarch shroud his Laura's praise,
And Tasso cease to publish his affect,
Since mine the faith confirmed at all assays,
And hers the fair, which all men do respect.
My lines her fair, her fair my faith assures;
Thus I by love, and love by me endures.
<STANZA>
 <The Wooing Eclogue between Rosalynde and Rosander>
<Rosader>
I pray thee, nymph, by all the working words,
By all the tears and sighs that lovers know,
Or what or thoughts or faltering tongue affords,
I crave for mine in ripping up my woe.
Sweet Rosalynde, my love (would God, my love)
My life (would God, my life) aye, pity me !
Thy lips are kind, and humble like the dove,
And but with beauty, pity will not be.
Look on mine eyes, made red with rueful tears,
From whence the rain of true remorse descends,
All pale in looks am I though young in years,
And nought but love or death my days befriend.
O let no stormy rigor knit thy brows,
Which love appointed for his mercy seat:
The tallest tree by Boreas' breath it bows;
The iron yields with hammer, and to heat.
O Rosalynde, then be thou pitiful,
For Rosalynde is only beautiful.
<STANZA>
<Rosalynde>
Love's wantons arm their trait'rous suits with tears,
With vows, with oaths, with looks, with showers of gold;
But when the fruit of their affects appears,
The simple heart by subtle sleights is sold.
Thus sucks the yielding ear the poisoned bait,
Thus feeds the heart upon his endless harms,
Thus glut the thoughts themselves on self-deceit,
Thus blind the eyes their sight by subtle charms.
The lovely looks, the sighs that storm so sore,
The dew of deep-dissembled doubleness,
These may attempt, but are of power no more
Where beauty leans to wit and soothfastness.
O Rosader, then be thou wittiful,
For Rosalynde scorns foolish pitiful.
<STANZA>
<Rosader>
O Rosalynde, be kind, for times will change,
The looks ay nill be fair as now they be;
Thine age from beauty may thy looks estrange:
Ah, yield in time, sweet nymph, and pity me.
<STANZA>
<Rosalynde>
O Rosalynde, thou must be pitiful,
For Rosader is young and beautiful.
<STANZA>
<Rosader>
O, gain more great than kingdoms or a crown!
<STANZA>
<Rosalynde>
O, trust betrayed if Rosader abuse me.
<STANZA>
<Rosader>
First let the heavens conspire to pull me down
And heaven and earth as abject quite refuse me.
Let sorrows stream about my hateful bower,
And restless horror hatch within my breast:
Let beauty's eye afflict me with a low'r,
Let deep despair pursue me without rest,
Ere Rosalynde my loyalty disprove,
Ere Rosalynde accuse me for unkind.
<STANZA>
<Rosalynde>
Then Rosalynde will grace thee with her love
Then Rosalynde will have thee still in mind.
<STANZA>
<Rosader>
Then let me triumph more than Tithon's dear,
Since Rosalynde will Rosader respect:
Then let my face exile his sorry cheer,
And frolic in the comfort of affect;
And say that Rosalynde is only pitiful,
Since Rosalynde is only beautiful.
<STANZA>
<Rosader>
I pray thee, Rosalynde, by those sweet eyes
That stain the sun in shine, the morn in clear,
By those sweet cheeks where love encamped lies
To kiss the roses of the springing year.
I tempt thee, Rosalynde, by ruthful plaints,
Not seasoned with deceit or fraudful guile,
But firm in pain, far more than tongue depaints,
Sweet nymph, be kind, and grace me with a smile.
So may the heavens preserve from hurtful food
The harmless flocks; so may the summer yield
The pride of all her riches and her good,
To fat thy sheep, the citizens of field.
O, leave to arm thy lovely brows with scorn:
The birds their beak, the lion hath his tail,
And lovers nought but sighs and bitter mourn,
The spotless fort of fancy to assail.
O Rosalynde, then be thou pitiful,
For Rosalynde is only beautiful.  
<STANZA>
<Rosalynde>
The hardened steel by fire is brought in frame:
<STANZA>
<Rosader>
And Rosalynde, my love, than any wool more softer;
And shall not sighs her tender heart inflame?
<STANZA>
<Rosalynde>
Were lovers true, maids would believe them ofter.
<STANZA>
<Rosader>
Truth, and regard, and honor, guide my love.
<STANZA>
<Rosalynde>
Fain would I trust, but yet I dare not try.
<STANZA>
<Rosader>
O pity me, sweet nymph, and do but prove.
<STANZA>
<Rosalynde>
I would resist, but yet I know not why.
<STANZA>
<Rosalynde's Description>
Like to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of self-same color is her hair,
Whether unfolded or in twines
Heigh ho, fair Rosalynde!
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Refining heaven by every wink:
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think:
heigh ho wish she were mine.
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Phoebus' smiling looks do grace:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalynde.
Her lips are like two budded roses,
Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh, 
Within which bounds she balm encloses,
Apt to entice a deity:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Her neck, like to a stately tower
Where love himself imprisoned lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalynde.
Her paps are centres of delight,
Her paps are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where nature moulds the dew of light,
To feed perfection with the same:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalynde.
Nature herself her shape admires,
The gods are wounded in her sight,
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Then muse not, nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosalynde,
Since for her fair there is fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalynde.
Heigh ho, my heart, would God that she were mine!
<STANZA>
 <The Contents of the Schedule which Sir HUonof Bordeaux gave
to his Sons>
My sons, behold what portion I do give:
I leave you goods, but they are quickly lost;
I leave advice, to school you how to live;
I leave you wit, but won with little cost;
But keep it well, for counsel still is one,
When father, friends, and worldly goods are gone.
In choice of thrift let honor be thy gain,
Win it by virtue and by manly might;
In doing good esteem thy toil no pain;
Protect the fatherless and widow's right
Fight for thy faith, thy country, and thy king,
For why ? this thrift will prove a blessed thing.
In choice of wife, prefer the modest-chaste;
Lilies are fair in show, but foul in smell:
The sweetest looks by age are soon defaced;
Then choose thy wife by wit and living well.
Who brings thee wealth and many faults withal,
Presents thee honey mixed with bitter gall.
In choice of friends, beware of light belief;
A painted tongue may shroud a subtle heart;
The Siren's tears do threaten mickle grief;
Foresee, my son, for fear of sudden smart:
Choose in thy wants, and he that friends thee then,
When richer grown, befriend thou him again.
Learn with the ant in summer to provide;
Drive with the bee the drone from out thy hive:
Build like the swallow in the summer tide;
Spare not too much, my son, but sparing thrive:
Be poor in folly, rich in all but sin:
So by thy death thy glory shall begin.
Two suns at once from one fair heaven there shined,
Ten branches from two boughs, tipped all with roses,
Pure locks more golden than is gold refined,
Two pearled rows that nature's pride encloses;
Two mounts fair marble-white, down-soft and dainty,
A snow-dyed orb, where love increased by pleasure
Full woeful makes my heart, and body fainty:
Her fair (my woe) exceeds all thought and measure.
In lines confused my luckless harm appears,
Whom sorrow clouds, whom pleasant smiling clears.
<STANZA>
<Montanus' Sonnet>
A turtle sat upon a leaveless tree,
Mourning her absent fere 
With sad and sorry cheer:
About her wondering stood
The citizens of wood,
And while her plumes she rents
And for her love laments,
The stately trees complain them,
The birds with sorrow pain them.
Each one that doth her view
Her pain and sorrows rue;
But were the sorrows known
That me hath overthrown,
O how would Phoebe sigh if she did look on me!
The love-sick Polypheme, that could not see,
Who on the barren shore
His fortunes do deplore,
And melt all in moan
For Galatea gone,
And with his piteous cries
Afflicts both earth and skies,
And to his woe betook
Doth break both pipe and hook,
For whom complains the morn,
For whom the sea-nymphs mourn,
Alas, his pain is nought;
For were my woe but thought,
O how would Phoebe sigh if she did look on me!
Beyond compare my pain;
Yet glad am I,
If gentle Phoebe deign
To see her Montan die.
<STANZA>          
<Phoebe's Sonnet, a Reply to Montanus' Passion>
Down a down,
Thus Phyllis sung,
By fancy once distressed;
Who so by foolish love are stung
Are worthily oppressed.
And so sing I. With a down, down, &c.
When Love was first begot,
And by the mover's will
Did fall to human lot
His solace to fulfill,
Devoid of all deceit, 
A chaste and holy fire
Did quicken man's conceit,
And women's breast inspire.
The gods that saw the good
That mortals did approve,
With kind and holy mood
Began to talk of Love.
Down a down,
Thus Phyllis sung
By fancy once distressed, &c.
But during this accord,
A wonder strange to hear,
While love in deed and word
Most faithful did appear,
False-semblance came in place,
By Jealousy attended,
And with a double face
Both love and fancy blended;
Which made the gods forsake,
And men from fancy fly,
And maidens scorn a make,
Forsooth, and so will I.
Down a down,
Thus Phyllis sung,
By fancy once distressed;
Who so by foolish love are stung
Are worthily oppressed.  
And so sing I.
With down a down, a down down, a down a.
<STANZA>
<Saladyne's Sonnet>
If it be true that heaven's eternal course
With restless sway and ceaseless turning glides;
If air constant be, and swelling source
Turn and returns with many fluent tides;
If earth in winter summer's pride estrange,
And nature seems only fair in change;
If it be true that our immortal spright,
Derived from heavenly pure, in wand'ring still,
In novelty and strangeness doth delight,
And by discoverent power discerns ill;
And if the body for to work his best
Doth with the seasons change his place of rest;
Whence comes it that, enforced by furious skies,
I change both place and soil, but not my heart,
Yet save not in this change my maladies ?
Whence grows it that each object works my smart?
Alas, I see my faith procures my miss,
And change in love against my nature is.
<STANZA>
<Sonetto>
My boat doth pass the straits
of seas incensed with fire,
Filled with forgetfulness;
amid the winter's night,
A blind and careless boy,
brought up by fond desire,
Doth guide me in the sea
of sorrow and despite.
For every oar he sets
a rank of foolish thoughts,
And cuts, instead of wave,
a hope without distress;
The winds of my deep sighs,
that thunder still for noughts,
Have split my sails with fear,
with care and heaviness.
A mighty storm of tears,
a black and hideous cloud,
A thousand fierce disdains
do slack the halyards often;
Till ignorance do pull,
and error hale the shrouds,
No star for safety shines,
no Phoebe from aloft.
Time hath subdued art,
and joy is slave to woe: 
Alas, Love's guide, be kind!
what, shall I perish so ?
<STANZA>
<Montanus' Second Sonnet>
When the Dog 
Full of rage,
With his ireful eyes
Frowns amid the skies,
The shepherd, to assuage
The fury of the heat,
Himself doth safely seat
By a fount
Full of fair,
Where a gentle breath,
Mounting from beneath,
Tempers the air.
There his flocks
Drink their fill,
And with ease repose,
While sweet sleep doth close
Eyes from toilsome ill.
But I burn
Without rest,
No defensive power
Shields from Phoebe's low'r;
Sorrow is my best.
Gentle Love,
Low'r no more;
If thou wilt invade
In the secret shade,
Labor not so sore.
I myself
And my flocks,
They their love to please,
I myself to ease,
Both leave the shady oaks;
Content to burn in fire,
If love doth so desire.
<STANZA>
<Montanus' First Sonnet>
Alas! how wander I amid these woods
Whereas no day-bright shine doth find access;
But where the melancholy fleeting floods,
Dark as the night, my night of woes express.
Disarmed of reason, spoiled of nature's goods,
Without redress to salve my heaviness
I walk, while thought, too cruel to my harms,
With endless grief my heedless judgment charms.
My silent tongue assailed by secret fear,
My traitorous eyes imprisoned in their joy,
My fatal peace devoured in feigned cheer,
My heart enforced to harbor in annoy,
My reason robbed of power by yielding ear,
My fond opinions slave to every toy.
O Love! thou guide in my uncertain way,
Woe to thy bow, thy fire, the cause of my decay.
<STANZA>
<Corydon's Song>
A blithe and bonny country lass,
heigh ho, the bonny lass!
Sat sighing on the tender grass
and weeping said, will none come woo her.
A smicker boy, a lither swain,
heigh ho, a smicker swain!
That in his love was wanton fain,
with smiling looks straight came unto her.
Whenas the wanton wench espied,
heigh ho, when she espied!
The means to make herself a bride,
she simpered smooth like Bonnybell:
The swain, that saw her squint-eyed kind,
heigh ho, squint-eyed kind!
His arms about her body twined,
and: "Fair lass, how fare ye, well?"
The country kit said: "Well, forsooth,
heigh ho, well forsooth!
But that I have a longing tooth,
a longing tooth that makes me cry."
"Alas!" said he, "what gars thy grief?
heigh ho, what gars thy grief ?"
"A wound," quote she, "without relief,
I fear a maid that I shall die."
"If that be all," the shepherd said,
heigh ho, the shepherd said!
"I will make thee wive it gentle maid,
and so recure thy malady."
Hereon they kissed with many an oath,
heigh ho, with many an oath!
And fore God Pan did plight their troth,
and to the church they hied them fast.
And God send every pretty peat,
heigh ho, the pretty peat!
That fears to die of this conceit,
so kind a friend to help at last.
</FILE>   
<FILE Ralpoems.ed>
<AUTH> Sir Walter Ralegh
<TITLE> POEMS OF SIR WALTER RALEGH
<NOTES> From Frank Cheney Hersey, , New York: Macmillan, 1909
scanned, proofed by Ward Elliott, April 19, 1990
<POEM>
<1. THE EXCUSE>
CALLING to mind, my eyes went long about
To cause my heart for to forsake my breast,
All in a rage I sought to pull them out,
As who had been such traitors to my rest:
What could they say to win again my grace?
Forsooth, that they had seen my mistress' face.
<STANZA>
Another time, my cart I called to mind,
Thinking that he this woe on me had brought,
Because that he to love his force resigned,
When of such wars my fancy never thought:
What could he say when I would him have slain?
That he was hers, and had forgone my chain.
<STANZA>
At last, when I perceived both eyes and heart
Excuse themselves, as guiltless of my ill,
I found myself the cause of all my smart,
And told myself that I myself would kill:
Yet when I saw myself to you was true,
I loved myself, because myself loved you.
<POEM>
<2. AN EPITAPH FOR SIR PHILIP SIDNEY>
To praise thy life Or wail thy worthy death,
And want thy wit, -- thy wit high, pure, divine, --
Is far beyond the power of mortal line,
Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath;
<STANZA>
Yet rich in zeal (though poor in learning's lore),
And-friendly care obscured in secret breast,
And, love that envy in thy life suppressed,
The dear life done, -- and death hath doubled more.
<STANZA>
And I, that in thy time and living state
Did only praise thy virtues in my thought,
As one that seld the rising sun hath sought,
With words and tears now wail thy timeless fate.
<STANZA>
Drawn was thy race aright from princely line;
Nor less than such, by gifts that nature gave, --
The common mother that all creatures have, --
Doth virtue show, and princely lineage shine.
<STANZA>
A king gave thee thy name; a kingly mind, --
That God thee gave, -- who found it now too dear
For this base world, and hath resumed it near
To sit in skies, and sort with powers divine.
Kent thy birth-days, and Oxford held thy youth;                  
The heavens made haste, and stayed nor years nor time;
The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime;
The will, thy words; thy words the seals of truth.
<STANZA>
Great gifts and wisdom rare employed thee thence,
To treat from kings with those more great than kings;
Such hope men had to lay the highest things'
On thy wise youth, to be transported hence.
<STANZA>
Whence to sharp wars sweet honor did thee call,
The country's love, religion, and thy friends;
Of worthy men the marks, the lives, and ends,
And her defense, for whom we labor all.
<STANZA>
There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age,
Grief, sorrow, sickness, and base fortune's might,
The rising day saw never woeful night,
But passed with praise from off this worldly stage.
<STANZA>
Back to the camp by thee that day was brought,
First thine own death; and after, thy long fame;
Tears to the soldiers; the proud Castilian's shame;
Virtue expressed, and honor truly taught.
<STANZA>
What hath he lost that such great grace hath won?
Young years for endless years, and hope unsure
Of fortune's gifts for wealth that still shall dure:
O happy race, with so great praises run!
<STANZA>
England doth hold thy limbs, that bred the same;
Flanders thy valor, where it last was tried;
The camp thy sorrow, where thy body died;
The friends thy want; the world thy virtue's fame;
<STANZA>
Nations thy wit; our minds lay up thy love;
Letters thy learning; thy loss years long to come;
In worthy hearts sorrow hath made thy tomb;
Thy soul and sprite enrich the heavens above,
<STANZA>
The liberal heart embalmed in grateful tears,
Young sighs, sweet sighs, sage sighs, bewail thy fall;
Envy her sting, and spite hath left her gall;
Malice herself a mourning garment wears,
<STANZA>
That day their Hannibal died, our Scipio fell, --
Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time;
Whose virtues, wounded by my worthless rhyme,
Let angels speak, and heaven thy praises tell.
<POEM>
<3. A VISION UPON THIS CONCEIT OF THE FAERIE QUEEN>
Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay,
Within that temple where the vestal flame
Was wont to burn: and, passing by that way,
To see that buried dust of living fame,
Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept,
All suddenly I saw the Faerie Queen,
At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept;
And from thenceforth those graces were not seen,
For they this Queen attended; in whose stead
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse.
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed,
And groans of buried ghosts the heaven did pierce:
Where Homer's sprite did tremble all for grief,
And cursed the access of that celestial thief.
<POEM>
<4. RALEGH'S REPLY TO MARLOWE (Before 1599)>
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 complains 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>
The gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
The cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, --
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
<STANZA>
The belt of straw and ivy buds,
The coral clasps and amber studs, --
All those in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.
<STANZA>
But could youth last, and love still breed;
Had joys no date, nor age no need;
Then those delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.
<POEM>
<5. FAREWELL TO THE COURT>
Like truthless dreams, so are my joys expired,
And past return are all my dandled days,
My love misled, and fancy quite retired;
Of all which past, the sorrow only stays.
<STANZA>
My lost delights, now clean from sight of land,
Have left me all alone in unknown ways,
My mind to woe, my life in fortune's hand;
Of all which past, the sorrow only stays.
<STANZA>
As in a country strange without companion,
I only wail the wrong of death's delays,
Whose sweet spring spent, whose summer well nigh done;
Of all which past, the sorrow only stays;
<STANZA>
Whom care forewarns, ere age and winter cold,
To haste me hence to find my fortune's fold.
<POEM>
<6.  SIR WALTER RALEGH TO HIS SON>
Three things there be that prosper all apace,
And flourish while they are asunder far;
But on a day, they meet all in a place,
And when they meet, they one another mar.
<STANZA>
And they be these; the Wood, the Weed, the Wag:
The Wood is that that makes the gallows tree;
The Weed is that that strings the hangman's bag;
The Wag, my pretty knave, betokens thee.
<STANZA>
Now mark, dear boy while these assemble not,
Green springs the tree, hemp grows, the wag is wild;
But when they meet, it makes the timber rot,
It frets the halter, and it chokes the child.

GOD BLESS THE CHILD!
<POEM>
<7. FAIN WOULD I, BUT I DARE NOT>
FAIN would I, but I dare not; I dare, and yet I may not;
I may, although I care not, for pleasure when I play not.
You laugh because you like not; I jest whenas I joy not;
You pierce, although you strike not; I strike and yet
    annoy not.
I spy, whenas I speak not; for oft I speak and speed not;
But of my wounds you reck not, because you see they
   bleed not:
Yet bleed they where you see not, but you the pain
   endure not:
Of noble mind they be not that ever kill and cure not.
<STANZA>
I see, whenas I view not; I wish, although I crave
   not;
I serve, and yet I sue not; I hope for that I have not;
I catch, although I hold not; I burn, although I flame not;
I seem, whenas I would not; and when I seem, I am not.
<STANZA>
Yours am I, though I seem not, and will be, though I
   show not;
Mine outward deeds then deem not, when mine intent
   you know not;
But if my serving prove not most sure, although I
   sue not,
Withdraw your mind and love not, nor of my ruin
    rue not.
<POEM>
<8. THE LIE>
<Certainly before 1608; possibly before 1596>
Go, Soul, the body's guest,
Upon a thankless arrant:
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant:
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.
<STANZA>
Say to the court, it glows
And shines like rotten wood;
Say to the church, it shows
What's good, and doth no good:
If church and court reply,
Then give them both the lie.
<STANZA>
Tell potentates, they live
Acting by others' action;
Not loved unless they give,
Not strong but by a faction:
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.
<STANZA>
Tell men of high condition,
That manage the estate,
That purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate:
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.
<STANZA>
Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who, in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending:
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.
<STANZA>
Tell zeal it wants devotion;
Tell love it is but lust;
Tell time it is but motion;
Tell flesh it is but dust:
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.
<STANZA>
Tell age it daily wasteth;
Tell honor how it alters;
Tell beauty how she blasteth;
Tell favor how it falters;
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.
<STANZA>
Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in over-wiseness:
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.
<STANZA>
Tell physic of her boldness;
Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldness;
Tell law it is contention:
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.
<STANZA>
Tell fortune of her blindness;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindness;
Tell justice of delay;
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie. 
<STANZA>
Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming:
If arts and schools reply,
Give arts and schools the lie.
<STANZA>
Tell faith it's fled the city;
Tell how the country erreth;
Tell manhood shakes off pity;
Tell virtue least preferreth:
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.
<STANZA>
So when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing, --
Although to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing, --
Stab at thee he that will,
No stab the soul can kill.
<POEM>>
<9. SIR WALTER RALEGH'S PILGRIMAGE
<Circ. 1603>
GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope's true gage;
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.
<STANZA>
Blood must be my body's balmer;
No other balm will there be given;
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of heaven;
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains:
There will I kiss
The bowls of bliss;
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill.
My soul will be a-dry before;
But after, it will thirst no more.
<STANZA>
Then by that happy blissful day,
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have cast off their rags of clay,
And walk apparelled fresh like me.
I'll take them first
To quench their thirst
And taste of nectar suckets,
At those clear wells
Where sweetness dwells,
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets,
And when our bottles and all we
Are filled with immortality,
Then the blessed paths we'll travel,
Strowed with rubies thick as gravel;
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors,
High walls of coral and pearly bowers.
From thence to heaven's bribeless hall,
Where no corrupted voices brawl;
No conscience molten into gold,
No forged accuser bought or sold,
No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey,
For there Christ is the king's Attorney,
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And He hath angels, but no fees.
And when the grand twelve-million jury 
Of our sins, with direful fury,
Against our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads His death, and then we live.
Be Thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder!
Thou givest salvation even for aims;
Not with a bribed lawyer's palms.
And this is mine eternal plea
To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea,
That, since my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to dine next noon,
Just at the stroke, when my veins start and spread,
Set on my soul an everlasting head!
Then am I ready, like a palmer fit,
To tread those blest paths which before I writ.

Of death and judgment, heaven and hell,
Who oft doth think, must needs die well.
<POEM>
<10. TO THE TRANSLATOR OF LUCAN>
<1614>
Had Lucan hid the truth to please the time,
He had been too unworthy of thy pen,
Who never sought nor ever cared to climb 
By flattery, or seeking worthless men.
For this thou hast been bruised; but yet those scars
Do beautify no less than those wounds do,
Received in just and in religious wars;
Though thou hast bled by both, and bearest them too.
Change not!  To change thy fortune `tis too late:
Who with a manly faith resolves to die,
May promise to himself a lasting state,
Though not so great, yet free from infamy.
Such was thy Lucan, whom so to translate,
Nature thy muse like Lucan's did create.
<POEM>
<11. PETITION TO THE QUEEN (ANNE OF DENMARK)>
<1618>
O HAD truth power, the guiltless could not fall,
Malice win glory, or revenge triumph;
But truth alone cannot encounter all.
<STANZA>
Mercy is fled to God, which mercy made;
Compassion dead; faith turned to policy;
Friends know not those who sit in sorrow's shade.
<STANZA>
For what we sometime were, we are no more:
Fortune hath changed our shape, and destiny
Defaced the very form we had before.
<STANZA>
All love, and all desert of former times,
Malice hath covered from my sovereign's eyes,
And largely laid abroad supposed crimes.
<STANZA>
But kings call not to mind what vassals were,
But know them now, as envy hath described them:
So can I look on no side from despair.
<STANZA>
Cold walls! to you I speak; but you are senseless:
Celestial Powers! you hear, but have determined,
And shall determine, to my greatest happiness.
<STANZA>
Then unto whom shall I unfold my wrong,
Cast down my tears, or hold up folded hands?
To Her, to whom remorse doth most belong;
<STANZA>
To Her who is the first, and may alone
Be justly called the Empress of the Bretanes.
Who should have mercy if a Queen have none?
<STANZA>
Save those that would have died for your defense! 
Save him whose thoughts no treason ever tainted!
For lo! destruction is no recompense.
<STANZA>
If I have sold my duty, sold my faith
To strangers, which was only due to One;
Nothing I should esteem so dear as death.
<STANZA>
But if both God and Time shall make you know
That I, your humblest vassal, am oppressed,
Then cast your eyes on undeserved woe;
<STANZA>
That I and mine may never mourn the miss
Of Her we had, but praise our living Queen,
Who brings us equal, if not greater, bliss.
<POEM>
<11. VERSES WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS DEATH>
EVEN such is time, that takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
Who, in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days;
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust!
<POEM>
<12. WHAT IS OUR LIFE?>
WHAT is our life?  The play of passion
Our mirth?  The music of division:
Our mothers' wombs the tiring-houses he,
Where we are dressed for life's short comedy.
The earth the stage; Heaven the spectator is,
Who sits and views whosoe'er doth act amiss.
The graves which hide us from the scorching sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus playing post we to our latest rest,
And then we die in earnest, not in jest.
<POEM>
<THE 21sT AND LAST BOOK OF THE OCEAN, TO CYNTHIA>
<1589 or 1592-93>
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 fruit[less] 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 fading 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 transpersant, 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;
Out 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;
<STANZA>
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 as 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 ever 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 lustre 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; sometime 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 tare, 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 writes the 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 marvellous 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 wounders 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
The 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 which then our jealousy removed,
And others for our sakes then valued dear,
The one forgot, the rest are dear beloved,
When all of ours 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;
<STANZA>
That fair resemblance weareth out of date;
Our ocean seas are but tempestuous waves,
And all things base, that blessed were of late. . . .
<STANZA>
And as a field, wherein the stubble stands
Of harvest past, the ploughman's eye offends;
He tills again, or tears them up with hands,
And throws to fire as foiled and fruitless ends,
<STANZA>
And takes delight another seed to sow;
So doth the mind root up all wonted thought,
And scorns the care of our remaining woes;
The sorrows, which themselves for us have wrought,
<STANZA>
Are burnt to cinders by new kindled fires;
The ashes are dispersed into the air;
The sighs, the groans of all our past desires
Are clean outworn, as things that never were.
<STANZA>
With youth is dead the hope of love's return,
Who looks not back to hear our after-cries:
Where he is not, he laughs at those that mourn;
Whence he is gone, he scorns the mind that dies.
<STANZA>
When he is absent, he believes no words;
When reason speaks, he, careless, stops his ears;
Whom he hath left, he never grace affords,
But bathes his wings in our lamenting tears.
<STANZA>
Unlasting passion, soon outworn conceit,
Whereon I built, and on so dureless trust!
My mind had wounds, I dare not say deceit,
Were I resolved her promise was not just.
<STANZA>
Sorrow was my revenge and woe my hate;
I powerless was to alter my desire;
My love is not of time or bound to date;
My heart's internal heat and living fire
<STANZA>
Would not, or could, be quenched with sudden showers;
My bound respect was not confined to days;
My vowed faith not set to ended hours;
I love the bearing and not bearing sprays
<STANZA>
Which now to others do their sweetness send;
The incarnate, snow-driven white, and purest azure,
Who from high heaven doth on their fields descend,
Filling their barns with grain, and towers with treasure
<STANZA>
Erring or never erring, such is love
As, while it lasteth, scorns the account of those
Seeking but self-contentment to improve,
And hides, if any be, his inward woes,
<STANZA>
And will not know, while he knows his own passion,
The often and unjust perseverance
In deeds of love and state, and every action
From that first day and year of their joy's entrance,
<STANZA>
But I, unblessed and ill-born creature,
That did embrace the dust her body bearing,
That loved her, both by fancy and by nature,
That drew, even with the milk in my first sucking,
<STANZA>
Affection from the parent's breast that bare me,
Have found her as a stranger so severe,
Improving my mishap in each degree;
But love was gone: so would I my life were!
<STANZA>
A queen she was to me, -- no more Belphoebe;
A lion then, -- no more a milk-white dove;
A prisoner in her breast I could not be;
She did untie the gentle chains of love.
<STANZA>
Love was no more the love of hiding
All trespass and mischance for her own glory:
It had been such; it was still for the elect;
But I must be the example in love's story;
This was of all forepast the sad effect,
<STANZA>
But thou, my weary soul and heavy thought,
Made by her love a burthen to my being,
Dost know my error never was forethought,
Or ever could proceed from sense of loving.
<STANZA>
Of other cause if then it had proceeding,
I leave the excuse, sith judgment hath been given;
The limbs divided, sundered, and ableeding,
Cannot complain the sentence was uneven.
<STANZA>
This did that nature's wonder, virtue's choice,
The only paragon of time's begetting,
Divine in words, angelical in voice,
That spring of joys, that flower of love's own setting,
<STANZA>
The idea remaining of those golden ages,
That beauty, braving heavens and earth embalming,
Which after worthless worlds but play on stages,
Such didst thou her long since describe, yet sighing
<STANZA>
That thy unable spirit could not find aught,
In heaven's beauties or in earth's delight,
For likeness fit to satisfy thy thought:
But what hath it availed thee so to write?
<STANZA>
She cares not for thy praise, who knows not theirs;
It's now an idle labor, and a tale
Told out of time, that dulls the hearer's ears;
A merchandise whereof there is no sale.
<STANZA>
Leave them, or lay them up with thy despairs!
She hath resolved, and judged thee long ago.
Thy lines are now a murmuring to her ears,
Like to a falling stream, which, passing slow,
<STANZA>
Is wont to nourish sleep and quietness;
So shall thy painful labors be perused,
And draw on rest, which sometime had regard;
But those her cares thy errors have excused.
<STANZA>
The days foredone have had their day's reward;
So her hard heart, so her estranged mind,
In which above the heavens I once reposed;
So to thy error have her ears inclined,
<STANZA>
And have forgotten all thy past deserving,
Holding in mind but only thine offense;
And only now affecteth thy depraving,
And thinks all vain that pleadeth thy defense.
<STANZA>
Yet greater fancy beauty never bred;
A more desire the heart-blood never nourished;
Her sweetness an affection never fed,
Which more in any age hath ever flourished.
<STANZA>
The mind and virtue never have begotten
A firmer love, since love on earth had power;
A love obscured, but cannot be forgotten;
Too great and strong for time's jaws to devour;
<STANZA>
Containing such a faith as ages wound not,
Care, wakeful ever of her good estate,
Fear, dreading loss, which sighs and joys not,
A memory of the joys her grace begat;
<STANZA>
A lasting gratefulness for those comforts past,
Of which the cordial sweetness cannot die;
These thoughts, knit up by faith, shall ever last;
These time assays, but never can untie,
<STANZA>
Whose life once lived in her pearl-like breast,
Whose joys were drawn but from her happiness,
Whose heart's high pleasure, and whose mind's true rest,
Proceeded from her fortune's blessedness;
<STANZA>
Who was intentive, wakeful, and dismayed
In fears, in dreams, in feverous jealousy,
Who long in silence served, and obeyed
With secret heart and hidden loyalty,
<STANZA>
Which never change to sad adversity,
Which never age, or nature's overthrow,
Which never sickness or deformity,
Which never wasting care or wearing woe,
If subject unto these she could have been, --
<STANZA>
Which never words or wits malicious,
Which never honor's bait, or world's fame,
Achieved by attempts adventurous,
Or aught beneath the sun or heaven's frame
<STANZA>
Can so dissolve, dissever, or destroy
The essential love of no frail parts compounded,
Though of the same now buried be the joy,
The hope, the comfort, and the sweetness ended,
<STANZA>
But that the thoughts and memories of these
Work a relapse of passion, and remain
Of my sad heart the sorrow-sucking bees;
The wrongs received, the frowns persuade in vain.
<STANZA>
And though these medicines work desire to end,
And are in others the true cure of liking,
The salves that heal love's wounds, and do amend
Consuming woe, and slake our hearty sighing,
<STANZA>
They work not so in thy mind's long decease;
External fancy time alone recureth:
All whose effects do wear away with ease
Love of delight, while such delight endureth;
Stays by the pleasure, but no longer stays
<STANZA>
But in my mind so is her love enclosed,
And is thereof not only the best part,
But into it the essence is disposed:
O, love! (the more my woe) to it thou art
<STANZA>
Even as the moisture in each plant that grows;
Even as the sun unto the frozen ground;
Even as the sweetness to the incarnate rose;
Even as the centre in each perfect round:
<STANZA>
As water to the fish, to men as air,
As heat to fire, as light unto the sun;
O, love! it is but vain to say thou were;
Ages and times cannot thy power outrun.
<STANZA>
Thou art the soul of that unhappy mind
Which, being by nature made an idle thought,
Began even then to take immortal kind,
When first her virtues in thy spirits wrought.
<STANZA>
From thee therefore that mover cannot move,
Because it is become thy cause of being;
Whatever error may obscure that love,
Whatever frail effect in mortal living,
<STANZA>
Whatever passion from distempered heart,
What absence, time, or injuries effect,
What faithless friends or deep dissembled art
Present to feed her most unkind suspect.
<STANZA>
Yet as the air in deep caves underground
Is strongly drawn when violent heat hath vent,
Great clefts therein, till moisture do abound,
And then the same, imprisoned and uppent,
<STANZA>
Breaks out in earthquakes tearing all asunder;
So, in the centre of my cloven heart --
My heart, to whom her beauties were such wonder-
Lies the sharp poisoned head of that love's dart
<STANZA>
Which, till all break and all dissolve to dust,
Thence drawn it cannot be, or therein known:
There, mixed with my heart-blood, the fretting rust
The better part hath eaten and outgrown.
<STANZA>
But what of those or these? or what of ought
Of that which was, or that which is, to treat?
What I possess is but the same I sought:
My love was false, my labors were deceit.
<STANZA>
Nor less than such they are esteemed to be;
A fraud bought at the price of many woes;
A guile, whereof the profits unto me --
Could it be thought premediate for those?
<STANZA>
Witness those withered leaves left on the tree,
The sorrow-worn face, the pensive mind;
The external shews what may the internal be:
Cold care hath bitten both the root and rind.
<STANZA>
But stay, my thoughts, make end: give fortune way:
Harsh is the voice of woe and sorrow's sound:
Complaints cure not, and tears do but allay
Griefs for a time, which after more abound.
<STANZA>
To, seek for moisture in the Arabian sand
Is but a loss of labor and of rest:
The links which time did break of hearty bands
<STANZA>
Words cannot knit, or wailings make anew
Seek not the sun in clouds when it is set.
On highest mountains, where those cedars grew,
Against whose banks the troubled ocean beat,
<STANZA>
And were the marks to find thy hoped port,
Into a soil far off themselves remove.
On Sestus' shore, Leander's late resort,
Hero hath left no lamp to guide her love.
<STANZA>
Thou lookest for light in vain, and storms arise;
She sleeps thy death, that erst thy danger sighed;
Strive then no more; bow down thy weary eyes --
Eyes which to all these woes thy heart have guided.
<STANZA>
She is gone, she is lost, she is found, she is ever fair:
Sorrow draws weakly, where love draws not too:
Woe's cries sound nothing, but only in love's ear.
Do then by dying what life cannot do.
<STANZA>
Unfold thy flocks and leave them to the fields,
To feed on hills, or dales, where likes them best,
Of what the summer or the spring-time yields,
For love and time hath given thee leave to rest.
<STANZA>
The heart which was their fold, now in decay
By often storms and winter's many blasts,
All torn and rent becomes misfortune's prey;
False hope my shepherd's staff, now age hath brast
<STANZA>
My pipe, which love's own hand gave my desire
To sing her praises and my woe upon, --
Despair hath often threatened to the fire,
As vain to keep now all the rest are gone.
<STANZA>
Thus home I draw, as death's long night draws on;
Yet every foot, old thoughts turn back mine eyes:
Constraint me guides, as old age draws a stone
Against the hill, which over-weighty lies
<STANZA>
For feeble arms or wasted strength to move:
My steps are backward, gazing on my loss,
My mind's affection and my soul's sole love,
Not mixed with fancy's chaff or fortune's dross.
<STANZA>
To God I leave it, who first gave it me,
And I her gave, and she returned again,
As it was hers; so let His mercies be
Of my last comforts the essential mean.
<STANZA>
But be it so or not, the effects are past;
Her love hath end; my woe must ever last.
</FILE>
<FILE yngmilpo.d>
<AUTH>John Milton
<TITLE> early poems
<NOTES> Grierson, ed. 1925, proofed from scan, WEYE, 7/90
<POEM>
<1. ON THE DEATH OF A FAIR INFANT DYING OF A COUGH, 1625-26?>
O FAIREST flower no sooner blown but blasted,
Soft silken Primrose fading timelessly.
Summer's chief honor if thou hadst out-lasted
Bleak winter's force that made thy blossom dry;
For he being amorous on that lovely dye
That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss
But kill'd alas, and then bewail'd his fatal bliss.
<STANZA>
<Il>
For since grim Aquilo his charioteer
By boist'rous rape th' Athenian damsel got,
He thought it touch'd his Deity full near,
If likewise he some fair one wedded not,
Thereby to wipe away th' infamous blot,
Of long-uncoupled bed, and childless eld,
Which `mongst the wanton gods a foul reproach was held.
<STANZA>
<Ill>
So mounting up in icy-pearled car,
Through middle empire of the freezing air
He wander'd long, till thee he spied from far,
There ended was his quest, there ceas'd his care.
Down he descended from his Snow-soft chair,
But all unwares with his cold-kind embrace
Unhous'd thy Virgin Soul from her fair biding place.
<STANZA>
<IV>
Yet art thou not inglorious in thy fate
For so Apollo. with unweeting hand
Whilom did slay his dearly loved mate
Young Hyacinth born on Eurotas' strand,
Young Hyacinth the pride of Spartan land.
But then transform'd him to a purple flower
Alack. that so to change thee winter had no power.
<STANZA>
<V>
Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead
Or that thy corse corrupts in earth's dark womb,
Or that thy beauties lie in wormy bed,
Hid from the world in a low-delved tomb;
Could Heav'n for pity thee so strictly doom?
O no I for something in thy face did shine
Above mortality that show'd thou wast divine.
<STANZA>
<VI>
Resolve me then o Soul most surely blest
(If so it be that thou these plaints dost hear)
Tell me bright Spirit where e'er thou hoverest
Whether above that high first-moving Sphere
Or in the Elysian fields (if such there were.)
O say me true if thou wert mortal wight
And why from us so quickly thou didst take thy flight.
<STANZA>
<VIl>
Wert thou some Star which from the ruin'd roof
Of shak'd Olympus by mischance didst fall
Which careful Jove in nature's true behoof
Took up. and in fit place did reinstall?
Or did of late earth's Sons besiege the wall
Of sheeny Heav'n. and thou some goddess fled
Amongst us here below hide thy nectar'd head.
<STANZA>
<VllI>
Or wert thou that just Maid who once before
Forsook the hated earth, O tell me sooth,
And cam'st again to visit us once more?
Or wert thou Mercy that sweet smiling Youth?
Or that crown'd Matron, sage white-robed Truth?
Or any other of that heav'nly brood
Let down in cloudy throne to do the world some good?
<STANZA>
<IX>
Or wert thou of the golden-winged host,
Who having clad thyself in human weed,
To earth from thy prefixed seat didst post.
And after short abode fly back with speed,
As if to shew what creatures Heav'n doth breed,
Thereby to set the hearts of men on fire
To scorn the sordid world, and unto Heav'n aspire?
<STANZA>
<X>
But o why didst thou not stay here below
To bless us with thy heav'n-lov'd innocence,
To slake his wrath whom sin hath made our foe
To turn Swift-rushing black perdition hence,
Or drive away the slaughtering pestilence.
To stand `twixt us and our deserved smart?
But thou canst best perform that office where thou art.
<STANZA>
<Xl>
Then thou the mother of so sweet a child
Her false imagin'd loss cease to lament,
And wisely learn to curb thy sorrows wild;
Think what a present thou to God hast sent,
And render him with patience what he lent;
This if thou do, he will an off-spring give
That till the world's last-end shall make thy name to live.
<1625-26>
<POEM>
<2. AT A VACATION EXERCISE IN THE COLLEGE, 1628>
Hail native Language. that by sinews weak
Didst move my first endeavoring tongue to speak.
And mad'st imperfect words with childish trips.
Half unpronounc'd, slide through my infant-lips.
Driving dumb silence from the portal door,
Where he had mutely sate two years before:
Here I salute thee and thy pardon ask,
That now I use thee in my latter task:
Small loss it is that thence can come unto thee,
I know my tongue but little Grace can do thee:
Thou need'st not be ambitious to be first.
Believe me I have thither pack'd the worst:
And, if it happen as I did forecast,
The daintiest dishes shall be serv'd up last.
I pray thee then deny me not thy aid
For this same small neglect that I have made:
But haste thee straight to do me once a Pleasure,
And from thy wardrop bring thy chiefest treasure;
Not those new fangled toys. and trimming slight
Which takes our late fantastics with delight.
But cull those richest Robes. and gay'st attire
Which deepest Spirits. and choicest Wits desire:
I have some naked thoughts that rove about
And loudly knock to have their passage out;
And weary of their place do only stay
Till thou hast deck'd them in thy best array;
That so they may without suspect or fears
Fly swiftly to this fair Assembly's ears.
Yet I had rather if I were to choose.
The service in some graver subject use,
Such as may make thee search thy coffers round,
Before thou clothe my fancy in fit sound:
Such where the deep transported mind may soar
Above the wheeling poles, and at Heav'n's door
Look in, and see each blissful Deity
How he before the thunderous throne doth lie,
Listening to what unshorn Apollo sings
To th' touch of golden wires, while Hebe brings
Immortal Nectar to her Kingly Sire:
Then passing through the Spheres of watchful fire,
And misty Regions of wide air next under,
And hills of Snow and lofts of piled Thunder,
May tell at length how green-ey'd Neptune raves,
In Heav'n's defiance mustering all his waves;
Then sing of secret things that came to pass
When Beldam Nature in her cradle was;
And last of Kings and Queens and Heroes old.
Such as the wise Demodocus once told
In solemn Songs at King Alcinous' feast,
While sad Ulysses' soul and all the rest
Are held with his melodious harmony
In willing chains and sweet captivity.
But fie my wand'ring Muse how thou dost stray!
Expectance calls thee now another way.
Thou know'st it must be now thy only bent
To keep in compass of thy Predicament:
Then quick about thy purpos'd business come,
That to the next I may resign my Room.
<STANZA>
<Then Ens is represented as Father of the Predicaments>
<his ten Sons, whereof the Eldest stood for Substance>
<with his Canons, which Ens thus speaking. explains.>
Good luck befriend thee Son; for at thy birth
The Fairy Ladies danc'd upon the hearth;
The drowsy Nurse hath sworn she did them spy
Come tripping to the Room where thou didst lie;
And sweetly singing round about thy Bed
Strew all their blessings on thy sleeping Head.
She heard them give thee this, that thou shouldst still
From eyes of mortals walk invisible;
Yet there is something that doth force my fear.
For once it was my dismal hap to hear
A Sibyl old, bow.bent with crooked age,
That far events full wisely could presage.
And in Time's long and dark Prospective Glass
Fore-saw what future days should bring to pass!
Your son, said she, (nor can you it prevent)
Shall subject be to many an Accident.
O'er all his Brethren he shall Reign as King,
Yet every one shall make him underling,
And those that cannot live from him asunder
Ungratefully shall strive to keep him under.
In worth and excellence he shall out-go them,
Yet being above them, he shall be below them;
From others he shall stand in need of nothing.
Yet on his Brothers shall depend for Clothing.
To find a Foe it shall not be his hap.
And peace shall lull him in her flow'ry lap;
Yet shall he live in strife, and at his door
Devouring war shall never cease to roar;
Yea it shall be his natural property
To harbor those that are at enmity.
What power, what force, what mighty spell, if not
Your learned hands, can loose this Gordian knot?
<STANZA>
<The next Quantity and Quality spake in prose, then>
<Relation was call'd by his Name.>
Rivers, arise; whether thou be the Son
Of utmost Tweed, or Ouse, or gulfy Dun,
Or Trent, who like some earth-born Giant spreads
His thirty Arms along the indented Meads,
Or sullen Mole that runneth underneath,
Or Severn swift, guilty of Maiden's death,
Or Rocky Avon, or of Sedgy Lee,
Or Coaly Tyne, or ancient hallowed Dee,
Or Number loud that keeps the Scythian's Name,
Or Medway smooth, or Royal Tow'red Thame.
The rest was Prose.
<July, 1628.>
<POEM>
<3. ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVlTY, 1629>
THIS is the Month, and this the happy morn
Wherein the Son of Heav'n's eternal King.
Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing,
That he our deadly forfeit should release.
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.
<STANZA>
<II>
That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty,
Wherewith he wont at Heav'n's high Council-Table.
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity.
He laid aside; and here with us to be,
Forsook the Courts of everlasting Day.
And chose with us a darksome House of mortal Clay.
<STANZA>
<III>
Say Heav'nly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
Afford a present to the Infant God?
Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,
To welcome him to this his new abode,
Now while the Heav'n by the Sun's team untrod,
Hath took no print of the approaching light.
And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
<STANZA>
<IV>
See how from far upon the Eastern road
The Star-led Wizards haste with odors sweet,
O run, prevent them with thy humble ode,
And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;
Have thou the honor first, thy Lord to greet,
And join thy voice unto the Angel Quire.
From out his secret Altar toucht with hallow'd fire.
<STANZA>
<THE HYMN.>
IT was the Winter wild,
While the Heav'n-born-child,
All meanly wrapp'd in the rude manger lies;
Nature in awe to him
Had doff'd her gaudy trim,
With her great Master so to sympathize:
It was no season then for her
To wanton with the Sun her lusty Paramour.
<STANZA>
<II>
Only with speeches fair
She woo's the gentle Air
To hide her guilty front with innocent Snow,
And on her naked shame,
Pollute with sinful blame.
The Saintly Veil of Maiden white to throw,
Confounded, that her Maker's eyes
Should look so near upon her foul deformities.
<STANZA>
<Ill>
But he her fears to cease,
Sent down the meek-ey'd Peace,
She crown'd with Olive green, came softly sliding
Down through the turning sphere
His ready Harbinger,
With Turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing.
And waving wide her myrtle wand
She strikes a universal Peace through Sea and Land.
<STANZA>
<IV>
No War, or Battail's sound
Was heard the World around,
The idle spear and shield were high up hung;
The hooked Chariot stood
Unstain'd with hostile blood,
The Trumpet spake not to the armed throng,
And Kings sate still with aweful eye.
As if they surely knew their sov'reign Lord was by.
<STANZA>
<V>
But peaceful was the nightWherein the Prince of light
His reign of peace upon the earth began:
The Winds with wonder whist,
Smoothly the waters kiss'd
Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean,
Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
While Birds of Calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.
<STANZA>
<VI>
The Stars with deep amaze
Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,
Bending one way their precious influence,
And will not take their flight,
For all the morning light,
Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;
But in their glimmering Orbs did glow,
Until their Lord himself bespake and bid them go.
<STANZA>
<VIl>
And though the shady gloom
Had given day her room,
The Sun himself with-held his wonted speed,
And hid his head for shame,
As his inferior flame,
The new enlightn'd world no more should need;
He saw a greater Sun appear
Than his bright Throne, or burning Axletree could bear.
<STANZA>
<VIII>
The Shepherds on the Lawn,
Or ere the point of dawn,
Sate simply chatting in a rustic row;
Full little thought they then,
That the mighty Pan
Was kindly come to live with them below;
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.
<STANZA>
<IX>
When such music sweet
Their hearts and ears did greet.
As never was by mortal finger strook,
Divinely-warbled voice
Answering the stringed noise.
As all their souls in blissful rapture took:
The Air such pleasure loath to lose,
With thousand echo's still prolongs each heav'nly close.
<STANZA>
<X>
Nature that heard such sound
Beneath the hollow round
Of Cynthia's seat, the Airy region thrilling.
Now was almost won
To think her part was done,
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;
She knew such harmony alone
Could hold all Heav'n and Earth in happier union.
<STANZA>
<Xl>
At last surrounds their sight
A Globe of circular light.
That with long beams the shame-fact night array'd.
The helmed Cherubim
And sworded Seraphim.
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd.
Harping in loud and solemn quire.
With unexpressive notes to Heaven's new.born Heir.
<STANZA>
<XII>
Such Music (as `tis said)
Before was never made,
But when of old the sons of morning sung.
While the Creator Great
His constellations set,
And the well-balanc'd world on hinges hung.
And cast the dark foundations deep.
And bid the welt'ring waves their oozy channel keep.
<STANZA>
<XlII>
Ring out ye Crystal spheres.
Once bless our human ears,
(If ye have power to touch our senses so)
And let your silver chime
Move in melodious tame;
And let the Bass of Heav'n's deep Organ blow;
And with your ninefold harmony
Make up full consort to th' Angelic symphony.
<STANZA>
<XIV>
For if such holy Song
Enwrap our fancy long,
Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold,
And speckl'd vanity
Will sicken soon and die,
And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould,
And Hell itself will pass away.
And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
<STANZA>
<XV>
Yea. Truth and Justice then
Will down return to men,
Th' enamell'd Arras of the Rain-bow wearing,
And Mercy set between,
Thron'd in Celestial sheen,
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering,
And Heav'n as at some festival,
Will open wide the Gates of her high Palace Hall.
<STANZA>
<XVl>
But wisest Fate says no,
This must not yet be so,
The Babe lies yet in smiling Infancy,
That on the bitter cross
Must redeem our loss;
So both himself and us to glorify:
Yet first to those ychain'd in sleep.
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep.
<STANZA>
<XVIl>
With such a horrid clang
As on mount Sinai rang
While the red fire, and smould'ring clouds out brake:
The aged Earth aghast
With terror of that blast,
Shall from the surface to the centre shake
When at the world's last session,
The dreadful Judge in middle Air shall spread his throne.
<STANZA>
<XVIII>
And then at last our bliss
Full and perfect is
But now begins; for from this happy day
Th' old Dragon under ground,
In straiter limits bound,
Not half so far casts his usurped sway,
And wrath to see his Kingdom fail,
Swinges the scaly Horror of his folded tail.
<STANZA>
<XlX>
The Oracles are dumb.
No voice or hideous hum
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.
Apollo from his shrine
Can no more divine,
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.
No nightly trance, or breathed spell,
Inspires the pale-ey'd Priest from the prophetic cell.
<STANZA>
<XX>
The lonely mountains o'er,
And the resounding shore,
A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;
From haunted spring. and dale
Edg'd with poplar pale,
The parting Genius is with sighing sent,
With flower-inwov`n tresses torn
The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
<STANZA>
<XXl>
In consecrated Earth,
And on the holy Hearth,
The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint;
In Urns, and Altars round,
A drear, and dying sound
Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;
And the chill Marble seems to sweat,
While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat.
<STANZA>
<XXll>
Peor, and Baalim,
Forsake their Temples dim,
With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine,
And mooned Ashtaroth,
Heaven's Queen and Mother both,
Now sits not girt with Tapers' holy shine,
The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn,
In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.
<STANZA>
<XXIll>
And sullen Moloch fled,
Hath left in shadows dread,
His burning Idol all of blackest hue:
In vain with Cymbals' ring,
They call the grisly king.
In dismal dance about the furnace blue;
The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
lsis and Orus, and the Dog Anubis haste.
<STANZA>
<XXlV>
Nor is Osiris seenIn Memphian Grove, or Green,
Trampling the unshow'r'd Grass with lowings loud:
Nor can he be at rest
Within his sacred chest,
Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud:
In vain with Timbrel'd Anthems dark
The sable-stoled Sorcerers bear his worshipp'd Arl:.
<STANZA>
<XXV>
He feels from Juda's Land
The dreaded Infant's hand,
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne;
Nor all the gods beside,
Longer dare abide,
Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
Our Babe, to shew his Godhead true,
Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew.
<STANZA>
<XXVI>
So when the Sun in bed,
Curtain'd with cloudy red,
Pillows his chin upon an Orient wave,
The flocking shadows pale,
Troop to th' infernal jail,
Each fetter'd Ghost slips to his several grave,
And the yellow-skirted Fays,
Fly after the Night-steeds. leaving their Moon-lov'd maze.
<STANZA>
<XXVlI>
But see the Virgin blest,
Hath laid her Babe to rest.
Time is our tedious Song should here have ending;
Heav'n's youngest teemed Star,
Hath fix'd her polish'd Car,
Her sleeping Lord with Handmaid Lamp attending;
And all about the Courtly Stable,
Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable.
<Christmas, 1629.>
<POEM>
<4. THE PASSION, 1630.>
<I>
Ere-while of Music, and Ethereal mirth,
Wherewith the stage of Air and Earth did ring.
And joyous news of heav'nly Infant's birth,
My muse with Angels did divide to sing;
But headlong joy is ever on the wing,
In Wintry solstice like the shorten'd light
Soon swallow'd up in dark and long out-living night.
<STANZA>
<II>
For now to sorrow must I tune my song,
And set my Harp to notes of saddest woe,
Which on our dearest Lord did seize ere long,
Dangers. and snares, and wrongs, and worse than so,
Which he for us did freely undergo:
Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight
Of labors huge and hard, too hard for human wight.
<STANZA>
<III>
He sov'reign Priest stooping his regal head
That dropp'd with odorous oil down his fair eyes,
Poor fleshly Tabernacle entered,
His starry front low-roof'd beneath the skies;
O what a Mask was there, what a disguise!
Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide
Then lies him meekly down fast by his Brethren's side.
<STANZA>
<IV>
These latter scenes confine my roving verse,
To this Horizon is my Phoebus bound,
His Godlike acts, and his temptations fierce,
And former sufferings otherwhere are found;
Loud o'er the rest Cremona's Trump doth sound;
Me softer airs befit, and softer strings
Of Lute, or Viol still, more apt for mournful things.
<STANZA>
<V>
Befriend me night, best Patroness of grief,
Over the Pole thy thickest mantle throw,
And work my flatter'd fancy to belief,
That Heav'n and Earth are color'd with my woe;
My sorrows are too dark for day to know:
The leaves should all be black whereon I write,
And letters where my tears have wash'd, a wannish white.
<STANZA>
<VI>
See see the Chariot. and those rushing wheels,
That whirl'd the Prophet up at Chebar flood,
My spirit some transporting Cherub feels.
To bear me where the Towers of Salem stood,
Once glorious Towers. now sunk in guiltless blood;
There doth my soul in holy vision sit,
In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit.
<STANZA>
<VII>
Mine eye hath found that sad Sepulchral rock
That was the Casket of Heav'n's richest store,
And here though grief my feeble hands up-lock,
Yet on the soft'ned Quarry would I score
My plaining verse as lively as before;
For sure so well instructed are my tears,
That they would fitly fall in order'd Characters.
<STANZA>
<VIII>
Or should I thence hurried on viewless wing,
Take up a weeping on the Mountains wild,
The gentle neighborhood of grove and spring
Would soon unbosom all their Echoes mild,
And I (for grief is easily beguil'd)
Might think th' infection of my sorrows loud
Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud.
<STANZA>
<This Subject the Author finding to be above the>
<years he had, when he wrote it, and nothing>
<satisfied with what was begun, left it unfinish'd.>
<POEM>
<5. SONG, 1630?>
<On May Morning.>
NOW the bright morning Star, Day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The Flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow Cowslip. and the pale Primrose.
Hail bounteous May that doth inspire
Mirth and youth. and warm desire!
Woods and Groves. are of thy dressing.
Hill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song.
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
<POEM>
<6. AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE DRAMATIC POET>
<W. SHAKESPEARE, 1630.>
WHAT needs my Shakespeare for his honor'd Bones
The labor of an age in piled Stones,
Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid
Under a Star-ypointing Pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of Fame.
What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a live-long Monument.
For whilst to th' shame of slow-endeavoring art,
The easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued Book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,
Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us Marble with too much conceiving;
And so Sepulcher'd in such pomp dost lie,
That Kings for such a Tomb would wish to die.
<POEM>
<7. ON THE UNIVERSITY CARRIER WHO SICKEN'D IN THE TIME OF>
<HIS VACANCY, BEING FORBID TO GO TO LONDON, BY REASON>
<OF THE PLAGUE, 1631.>
HERE lies old Hobson, Death hath broke his girt,
And here, alas, hath laid him in the dirt,
Or else the ways being foul, twenty to one,
He's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown.
`Twas such a shifter, that if truth were known,
Death was half glad when he had got him down;
For he had any time this ten years full,
Dodg'd with him, betwixt Cambridge and the Bull.
And surely, Death could never have prevail'd,
Had not his weekly course of carriage fail'd;
But lately finding him so long at home,
And thinking now his journeys end was come,
And that he had ta'en up his latest Inn,
In the kind office of a Chamberlain
Show'd him his room where he must lodge that night,
Pull'd off his Boots, and took away the light:
If any ask for him, it shall be said,
Hobson has supp'd, and `s newly gone to bed.
<POEM>
<8. ANOTHER ON THE SAME, 1631.>
HERE lieth one who did most truly prove,
That he could never die while he could move,
So hung his destiny never to rot
While he might still jog on, and keep his trot,
Made of sphere-metal, never to decay
Until his revolution was at stay.
Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime
`Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his tame:
And like an Engine mov'd with wheel and weight.
His principles being ceas'd, he ended straight.
Rest that gives all men life, gave him his death,
And too much breathing put him out of breath;
Nor were it contradiction to affirm
Too long vacation hasten'd on his term.
Merely to drive the time away he sicken'd,
Fainted, and died, nor would with Ale be quicken'd;
Nay, quoth he, on his swooning bed out-stretch'd,
If I may not carry. sure I'll ne'er be fetch'd,
But vow, though the cross Doctors all stood hearers,
For one Carrier put down to make six bearers.
Ease was his chief disease, and to judge right,
He died for heaviness that his Cart went light.
His leisure told him that his time was come,
And lack of load made his life burdensome
That even to his last breath (there be that say 't)
As he were prest to death, he cried. more weight;
But had his doings lasted as they were,
He had been an immortal Carrier.
Obedient to the Moon he spent his date
In course reciprocal, and had his fate
Link'd to the mutual flowing of the Seas,
Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase:
His Letters are deliver'd all and gone,
Only remains this superscription.
<POEM>
<9. AN EPITAPH ON THE MARCHIONESS OF WINCHESTER, 1631.>
THIS rich Marble doth inter
The honor'd Wife of Winchester.
A Viscount's daughter. an Earl's heir,
Besides what her virtues fair
Added to her noble birth,
More then she could own from Earth.
Summers three times eight save one
She had told; alas too soon,
After so short time of breath,
To house with darkness, and with death.
Yet had the number of her days
Been as complete as was her praise,
Nature and fate had had no strife
In giving limit to her life.
Her high birth, and her graces sweet,
Quickly found a lover meet;
The Virgin quire for her request
The God that sits at marriage feast
He at their invoking came
But with a scarce-well-lighted flame;
And in his Garland as he stood,
Ye might discern a Cypress bud.
Once had the early Matrons run
To greet her of a lovely son,
And now with second hope she goes,
And calls Lucina to her throes;
But whether by mischance or blame
Atropos for Lucina came;
And with remorseless cruelty,
Spoil'd at once both fruit and tree:
The hapless Babe before his birth
Had burial, yet not laid in earth,
And the languish'd Mother's Womb
Was not long a living Tomb.
So have I seen some tender slip
Sav'd with care from Winter's nip.
The pride of her carnation train,
Pluck't up by some unheedy swain,
Who only thought to crop the flow'r
New shot up from vernal show'r;
But the fair blossom hangs the head
Side-ways as on a dying bed,
And those Pearls of dew she wears,
Prove to be presaging tears
Which the sad morn had let fall
On her hast'ning funeral.
Gentle Lady, may thy grave
Peace and quiet ever have;
After this thy travail sore
Sweet rest seize thee evermore,
That to give the world increase,
Short'ned hast thy own life's lease!
Here besides the sorrowing
That thy noble House doth bring.
Here be tears of perfect moan
Wept for thee in Helicon,
And some Flowers, and some Bays,
For thy Hearse to strew the ways,
Sent thee from the banks of Came,
Devoted to thy virtuous name;
Whilst thou bright Saint high sit'st in glory.
Next her much like to thee in story,
That fair Syrian Shepherdess,
Who after years of barrenness,
The highly favor'd Joseph bore
To him that serv'd for her before,
And at her next birth much like thee,
Through pangs fled to felicity.
Far within the bosom bright
Of blazing Majesty and Light:
There with thee, new welcome Saint
Like fortunes may her soul acquaint,
With thee there clad in radiant sheen,
No Marchioness, but now a Queen.
<POEM>
<10. HOW SOON HATH TIME..., 1631>
HOW soon hath Time the subtle thief of youth.
Stol'n on his wing my three and twentith year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arriv'd so near,
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.
Yet be it less or more. or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure ev'n,
To that same lot, however mean, or high,
Toward which Time leads me. and the will of Heav'n;
All is, if I have grace to use it so.
As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.
<POEM>
<11. ARCADES, 1630-1632.>
<Part of an entertainment presented to the Countess Dowager of>
<Derby at Harefield, by some Noble persons of her Family, who>
<appear on the Scene in pastoral habit, moving toward the seat>
< of State with this Song.>
<STANZA>
<I. SONG.>
LOOK Nymphs. and Shepherds look,
What sudden blaze of majesty
Is that which we from hence descry,
Too divine to be mistook:
This this is she
To whom our vows and wishes bend,
Here our solemn search hath end.
Fame that her high worth to raise,
Seem'd erst so lavish and profuse,
We may justly now accuse
Of detraction from her praise,
Less than half we find express'd,
Envy bid conceal the rest.
Mark what radiant state she spreads,
In circle round her shining throne,
Shooting her beams like silver threads,
This this is she alone,
Sitting like a Goddess bright,
In the centre of her light.
Might she the wise Latona be,
Or the tow'red Cybele.
Mother of a hundred gods;
Juno dares not give her odds;
Who had thought this clime had held
A deity so unparallel'd?
<As they come forward, the genius>
<of the Wood appears. and turning toward them, speaks.>
<STANZA>
<GENIUS.> Stay gentle Swains, for though in this disguise,
I see bright honor sparkle through your eyes;
Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprung
Of that renowned flood, so often sung,
Divine Alpheus. who by secret sluice,
Stole under Seas to meet his Arethuse;
And ye the breathing Roses of the Wood,
Fair silver-buskin'd Nymphs as great and good,
I know this quest of yours. and free intent
Was all in honor and devotion meant
To the great Mistress of yon princely shrine,
Whom with low reverence I adore as mine,
And with all helpful service will comply
To further this night's glad solemnity;
And lead ye where ye may more near behold
What shallow-searching Fame hath left untold;
Which I full oft amidst these shades alone
Have sate to wonder at, and gaze upon:
For know. by lot from Jove I am the pow'r
Of this fair Wood. and live in Oak'n bow'r,
To nurse the Saplings tall, and curl the grove
With Ringlets quaint, and wanton windings wove.
And all my Plants I save from nightly ill,
Of noisome winds, and blasting vapors chill;
And from the Boughs brush off the evil dew,
And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blue,
Or what the cross dire-looking Planet smites,
Or hurtful Worm with canker'd venom bites.
When Ev'ning grey doth rise, I fetch my round
Over the mount, and all this hallow'd ground,
And early ere the odorous breath of morn
Awakes the slumb'ring leaves, or tassell'd horn
Shakes the high thicket, haste I all about,
Number my ranks, and visit every sprout
With puissant words, and murmurs made to bless;
But else in deep of night when drowsiness
Hath lock'd up mortal sense, then listen I
To the celestial Sirens' harmony,
That sit upon the nine enfolded Spheres,
And sing to those that hold the vital shears,
And turn the Adamantine spindle round,
On which the fate of gods and men is wound.
Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie,
To lull the daughters of Necessity,
And keep unsteady Nature to her law,
And the low world in measur'd motion draw
After the heavenly tune, which none can hear
Of human mould with gross unpurged ear;
And yet such music worthiest were to blaze
The peerless height of her immortal praise,
Whose lustre leads us, and for her most fit,
If my inferior hand or voice could hit
lnimitable sounds; yet as we go,
Whate'er the skill of lesser gods can show,
I will assay. her worth to celebrate,
And so attend ye toward her glittering state;
Where ye may all that are of noble stem
Approach. and kiss her sacred vesture's hem.
<STANZA>
<2. SONG.>
O'er the smooth enamell'd green
Where no print of step hath been,
Follow me as I sing,
And touch the warbled string.
Under the shady roof
Of branching Elm Star-proof,
Follow me;
I will bring you where she sits
Clad in splendor as befits
Her deity.
Such a rural Queen
All Arcadia hath not seen,
<STANZA>
<3. SONG.>
Nymphs and Shepherds dance no more
By sandy Ladon's lilied banks.
On old Lycaeus or Cyllene hoar,
Trip no more in twilight ranks,
Though Erymanth your loss deplore,
A better soil shall give ye thanks.
From the stony Maenalus
Bring your Flocks. and live with us,
I  Here ye shall have greater grace.
To serve the Lady of this place.
Though Syrinx your Pan's Mistress were.
Yet Syrinx well might wait on her.
Such a rural Queen
All Arcadia hath not seen.
<POEM>
<12. ON TIME, 1632-33.>
FLY envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy Plummet's pace:
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more then what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain.
For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,
And last of all, thy greedy self consum'd,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;
And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,
When everything that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With Truth, and Peace. and Love shall ever shine
About the supreme Throne
Of him, t' whose happy-making sight alone,
When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall climb,
Then all this Earthy grossness quit.
Attir'd with Stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee
O Time.
<POEM>
<13. UPON THE CIRCUMCISION, 1632-33.>
YE flaming Powers, and winged Warriors bright,
That erst with Music, and triumphant song
First heard by happy watchful Shepherds' ear,
So sweetly sung your Joy the Clouds along
Through the soft silence of the list'ning night;
Now mourn, and if sad share with us to bear
Your fiery essence can distill no tear,
Burn in your sighs, and borrow
Seas wept from our deep sorrow:
He who with all Heav'ns heraldry whilere
Enter'd the world, now bleeds to give us ease;
Alas, how soon our sin
Sore doth begin
His Infancy to seize!
O more exceeding love or law more just?
Just law indeed, but more exceeding love I
For we by rightful doom remediless
Were lost in death, till he that dwelt above
High thron'd in secret bliss, for us frail dust
Emptied his glory, ev'n to nakedness;
And that great Cov'nant which we still transgress
Entirely satisfied,
And the full wrath beside
Of vengeful Justice bore for our excess,
And seals obedience first with wounding smart
This day but O ere long
Huge pangs and strong
Will pierce more near his heart.
<POEM>
<14. AT A SOLEMN MUSIC, 1632-33.>
Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav'n's joy,
Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice. and Verse.
Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd power employ
Dead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce,
And to our high-rais'd fantasy present
That undisturbed Song of pure consent,
Aye sung before the sapphire-color'd throne
To him that sits thereon,
With Saintly shout, and solemn Jubilee,
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
Their loud up-lifted Angel-trumpets blow,
And the Cherubic host in thousand quires
Touch their immortal Harps of golden wires,
With those just Spirits that wear victorious Palms,
Hymns devout and holy Psalms
Singing everlastingly
That we on Earth with undiscording voice
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportion'd sin
Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din
Broke the fair music that all creatures made
To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd
Diapason, whilst they stood
In first obedience, and their state of good.
O may we soon again renew that Song,
And keep in tune with Heav'n, till God ere long
To his celestial consort us unite,
To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light.
<POEM>
<15. L' ALLEGRO, 1632-43.>
Hence loathed Melancholy
Cerberus, and blackest midnight born,
In Stygian Cave forlorn
`Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy,
Find out some uncouth cell,
Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings,
And the night-Raven sings;
There under Ebon shades, and low-brow'd Rocks,
As ragged as thy Locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But come thou Goddess fair and free,
In Heav'n yclep'd Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus at a birth
With two sister Graces more
To Ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;
Or whether (as some Sager sing)
The frolic Wind that breathes the Spring,
Zephyr with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a Maying,
There on Beds of Violets blue,
And fresh-blown Roses wash'd in dew,
Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair,
So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful Jollity,
Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks, and Wreathed Smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it as ye go
On the light fantastic toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee,
The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honor due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free;
To hear the Lark begin his flight,
And singing startle the dull night,
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to come in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good morrow,
Through the Sweet-Brier, or the Vine,
Or the twisted Eglantine;
While the Cock with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
And to the stack, or the Barn door,
Stoutly struts his Dames before;
Oft list'ning how the Hounds and horn
Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn,
From the side of some Hoar Hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill,
Some time walking not unseen
By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green,
Right against the Eastern gate,
Where the great Sun begins his state,
Rob'd in flames, and Amber light,
The clouds in thousand Liveries digt.
While the Plowman near at hand,
Whistles o'er the Furrow'd Land,
And the Milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the Mower whets his scythe,
And every Shepherd tells his tale
Under the Hawthorn in the dale.
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
Whilst the Lantskip round it measures,
Russet Lawns, and Fallows Grey,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
Mountains on whose barren breast
The laboring clouds do often rest;
Meadows trim with Daisies pied,
Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide.
Towers, and Battlements it sees
Bosom'd high in tufted Trees,
Where perhaps some beauty lies,
The Cynosure of neighboring eyes.
Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes,
From betwixt two aged Oaks,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,
Are at their savory dinner set
Of Herbs, and other Country Messes,
Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses;
And then in haste her Bow'r she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves;
Or if the earlier season lead
To the tann'd Haycock in the Mead.
Sometimes with secure delight
The upland Hamlets will invite,
When the merry Bells ring round,
And the jocund rebecks sound
To many a youth, and many a maid,
Dancing in the Chequer'd shade;
And young and old come forth to play
On a Sunshine Holiday,
Till the live-long day-light fail;
Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale,
With stories told of many a feat,
How Fairy Mab the junkets eat;
She was pinch'd and pull'd she said,
And he by Friar's Lanthorn led;
Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat.
To earn his Cream-bowl duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn.
His shadowy Flail hath thresh'd the Corn
That ten day-laborers could not end;
Then lies him down the Lubber Fiend,
And stretch'd out all the Chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
And Crop-full out of doors he flings,
Ere the first Cock his Matin rings.
Thus done the Tales, to bed they creep,
By whispering Winds soon lull'd asleep.
Tow'red Cities please us then,
And the busy hum of men,
Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,
In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,
With store of Ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prize
Of Wit, or Arms, while both contend
To win her Grace, whom all commend.
There let Hymen oft appear
In Saffron robe, with Taper clear,
And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
With mask, and antique Pageantry,
Such sights as youthful Poets dream
On Summer eves by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonson's learned Sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespeare, fancy's child,
Warble his native Wood-notes wild.
And ever against eating Cares, 
Lap me in soft Lydian Airs,
Married to immortal verse,
Such as the meeting soul may pierce
In notes, with many a winding bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out,
With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running;
Untwisting all the chains that tie
The hidden soul of harmony:
That Orpheus' self may heave his head
From golden slumber on a bed
Of heap'd Elysian flow'rs, and hear
Such strains as would have won the ear
Of Pluto, to have quite set free
His half-regain'd Eurydice.
These delights if thou canst give.
Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
<POEM>
<16. IL PENSEROSO, 1632-34.>
HENCE vain deluding joys,
The brood of folly without father bred,
How little you bested,
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys;
Dwell in some idle brain,
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess.
As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the Sun-Beams,
Or likest hovering dreams
The fickle Pensioners of Morpheus' train.
But hail thou Goddess, sage and holy,
Hail divinest Melancholy,
Whose Saintly visage is too bright
To hit the Sense of human sight;
And therefore to our weaker view,
O'er-laid with black. staid Wisdom's hue;
Black, but such as in esteem,
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem,
Or that Starr'd Ethiope Queen that strove
To set her beauty's praise above
The Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended.
Yet thou art higher far descended,
Thee bright-hair'd Vesta long of yore,
To solitary Saturn bore;
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign,
Such mixture was not held a stain).
Oft in glimmering Bow'rs, and glades
He met her, and in secret shades
Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove.
Come pensive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And sable stole of Cypress Lawn,
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With ev'n step, and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies,
The rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
There held in holy passion still,
Forget thyself to Marble, till
With a sad Leaden downward cast,
Thou fix them on the earth as fast.
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring,
Aye round about Jove's Altar sing.
And add to these retired Leisure,
That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure;
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The Cherub Contemplation;
And the mute Silence hist along,
`Less Philomel will deign a Song,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke,
Gently o'er th' accustom'd Oak;
Sweet Bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!
Thee Chauntress oft the Woods among,
I woo to hear thy even-Song;
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven Green,
To behold the wand'ring Moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had bin led astray
Through the Heav'ns wide pathless way;
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a Plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off Curfew sound,
Over some wide-water'd shore,
Swinging slow with sullen roar;
Or if the Air will not permit,
Some still removed place will fit,
Where glowing Embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the Cricket on the hearth,
Or the Bellman's drowsy charm,
To bless the doors from nightly harm:
Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,
Be seen in some high lonely Tow'r,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere
The spirit of Plato to unfold
What Worlds, or what vast Regions hold
The immortal mind that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook:
And of those Demons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whose power hath a true consent
With Planet, or with Element.
Sometime let Gorgeous Tragedy
In Sceptred PaIl come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes', or Pelop's line,
Or the tale of Troy divine,
Or what (though rare) of later age,
Ennobled hath the Buskin'd stage.
But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as warbled to the string
Drew Iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what Love did seek.
Or call up him that left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife,
That own'd the virtuous Ring and Glass,
And of the wond'rous Horse of Brass,
On which the Tartar King did ride;
And if aught else, great Bards beside,
In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
Of Tourneys and of Trophies hung;
Of Forests, and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus night oft see me in thy pale career,
Till civil-suited Morn appear,
Not trick'd and frounc'd as she was wont,
With the Attic Boy to hunt,
But Kerchief'd in a comely Cloud,
While rocking Winds are Piping loud,
Or usher'd with a shower still,
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling Leaves,
`With minute drops from off the Eaves.
And when the Sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me Goddess bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown that Sylvan loves
Of pine, or monumental Oak,
Where the rude Axe with heaved stroke,
Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallowed haunt.
There in close covert by some Brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from Day's garish eye,
While the Bee with Honied thigh,
That at her flow'ry work doth sing,
And the Waters murmuring
With such consort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;
And let some strange mysterious dream,
Wave at his Wings in Airy stream,
Of lively portraiture displayed,
Softly on my eye-lids laid.
And as I wake, sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unseen Genius of the Wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious Cloisters pale,
And love the high embowed Roof,
With antic Pillars massy proof,
And storied Windows richly digt,
Casting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing Organ blow,
To the full-voic'd Quire below,
In Service high, and Anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The Hairy Gown and Mossy Cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell
OF every Star that Heav'n doth shew,
And every Herb that sips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To something like Prophetic strain.
These pleasures Melancholy give,
And I with thee will choose to live.
</FILE>