CXXII. Or at the least so long as brain and heart To trust those tables that receive thee more: No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change: Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire Made more or less by thy continual haste: If my dear love were but the child of state, No, it was builded far from accident; It fears not policy, that heretic, Which works on leases of short-number'd hours, That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with To this I witness call the fools of time, CXXV.. Were it aught to me I bore the canopy, With my extern the outward honouring, Or laid great bases for eternity, Which prove more short than waste or ruining? Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour No; let me be obsequious in thy heart, CXXVI. O thou, my lovely boy! who in thy power She may detain, but not still keep her treasure: CXXVII. In the old age black was not counted fair, For since each hand hath put on Nature's power, Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black, How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st, Do I envy those jacks, that nimble leap The expence of spirit in a waste of shame Enjoy'd no sooner, but despised straight; purpose laid to make the taker mad: Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream: To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. CXXX. My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare, CXXXI. Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, Yet in good faith, some say, that thee behold, And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there; Thy face hath not the power to make love groan: To say they err, I dare not be so bold, Although I swear it to myself alone. And, to be sure that is not false I swear, Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place. Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, Knowing thy heart, torment me with disdain; Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, Nor that full star that ushers in the even, Doth half that glory to the sober west, As those two mourning eyes become thy face; O let it then as well beseem thy heart To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace, And suit thy pity like in every part. Then will I swear beauty herself is black, And all they foul that thy complexion lack. CXXXIII. Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me! Is't not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery, my sweetest friend must be? Thou canst not then use rigour in my gaol; So now I have confess'd that he is thine, But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free, The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take, Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, The sea, all water, yet receives rain still, If thy soul check thee, that I come so near, Swear by thy blind soul that I was thy will, Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil. Then in the number let one pass untold, Though in thy stores' account I one must be; For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold That nothing me, a something sweet to thee: Make but my name thy love, and love that still, And then thou lovest me, - for my name is Will. CXXXVII. Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes, That they behold, and see not what they see? If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks, Why should my heart think that a several plot, Which my heart knows the wide world's common place? Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not? When my love swears that she is made of truth, Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue; On both sides thus is simple truth supprest. But wherefore says she not, she is unjust? And wherefore say not I, that I am old? O love's best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love loves not to have years told. Therefore I lie with her, and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be. CXXXIX. O call not me to justify the wrong, That thy unkindness lays upon my heart; Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue; Use power with power, and slay me not by art! Tell me thou lovest elsewhere; but in my sight, Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside! What need'st thou wound with cunning, when thy might Is more than my o'erpress'd defence can 'bide? Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press If I might teach thee wit, better it were, Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so; (As testy sick men, when their deaths be near, No news but health from their physicians know :) For if I should despair, I should grow mad, And in my madness might speak ill of thee: Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad, In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes, Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted; Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone, But my five wits, nor my five senses can Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Or if it do, not from those lips of thine, Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lovest those Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee: Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows, Thy pity may deserve to pitied be. If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, Lo as a careful house-wife runs to catch So run'st thou after that which flies from thee, Two loves I have of comfort and despair, To win me soon to hell, my female evil And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend, CXLV. Those lips that Love's own hand did make, Breathed forth the sound that said, I hate, To me that languish'd for her sake; But when she saw my woeful state, Straight in her heart did mercy come, Chiding that tongue, that ever sweet Was used in giving gentle doom; Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, Eat up thy change? Is this thy body's end? Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store: Bay terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more: My love is as a fever, longing still My reason, the physician to my love, Past cure I am, now reason is past care, And frantic mad with evermore unrest; My thoughts and my discourse as mad men's are, At random from the truth vaiuly express'd; For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. CXLVIII. O me! what eyes hath love put in my head, Which have no correspondence with true sight! Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled, That censures falsely what they see aright? If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, How can it? O how can Love's eye be trae, That is so vex'd with watching and with tears? No marvel then though I mistake my view; The sun itself sees not, till heaven clears. Canst thon, O cruel! say I love thee not, Who hateth thee that I do call my friend? What merit do I in myself respect, Commanded by the motion of thine eyes? But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind; Those that can see thou lovest, and I am blind. CL. O from what power hast thou this powerful might, With insufficiency my heart to sway? To make me give the lie to my true sight, And swear that brightness doth not grace the day? With others thou shouldst not abhor my state; A maid of Dian's this advantage found, If thy unworthiness raised love in me, More worthy I to be beloved of thee. CLI. Love is too young to know what conscience is; To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. CLII. In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn, But thou art twice forsworn to me love swearing; In act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torn, In vowing new hate after new love bearing. But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee, When I break twenty? I am perjured most; For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee, And all my honest faith in thee is lost: And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep Which borrow'd from this holy fire of love But at my mistress' eye love's brand new-fired, The boy for trial needs would touch my breast; I sick withal, the help of bath desired, And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest, But found no cure; the bath for my help lies, Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress' eyes. CLIV. The little love-god lying onee asleep, Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarm'd. This brand she quenched in a cool well by, Which from love's fire took heat perpetual, Growing a bath and healthful remedy For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall, Came there for cure, and this, by that I prove Love's fire heats water, water cools not love. THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM. 1. DID not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, 'Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument, Persuade my heart to this false perjury? Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment. A woman I forswore; but I will prove, Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee: My vow was earthly, thon a heavenly love; Thy grace being gain'd, cures all disgrace in me. My vow was breath, and breath a vapour is; Then thou fair sun, which on my earth dost shine, Exhalest this vapour vow; in thee it is; If broken, then it is no fault of mine. If by me broke, what fool is not so wise To break an oath, to win a paradise? II. Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook, With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green, Did court the lad with many a lovely look, Such looks, as none could look but beauty's queen. She told him stories to delight his ear; She show'd him favours to allure his eye: Where all those pleasures live, that art can comprehend. If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice; Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend; All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder; Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire ; To win his heart, she touch'd him here and there: Thine eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his Touches so soft still conquer chastity. dreadful thunder, Which (not to anger bent) is music and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, O do not love that wrong. To sing the heavens' praise with such an earthly tongue. IV. Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn, And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade, When Cytherea all in love forlorn, A longing tarriance for Adonis made, A brook, where Adon used to cool his spleen. Anon he comes and throws his mautle by, Yet not so wistly, as this queen on him: He spying her, bounced in, whereas he stood; 'O Jove,' quoth she, 'why was not I a flood!' V. Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle, A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her, She burn'd with love, as straw with fire flameth, If music and sweet poetry agree, Downland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch Upon the lute doth ravish human sense; Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such, As passing all conceit, needs no defence. Thon lovest to hear the sweet melodious sound, That Phoebus' lute, the queen of music, makes : And I in deep delight am chiefly drown'd, When as himself to singing he betakes. One god is god of both, as poets feign; One knight loves both, and both in thee remain. VII. Fair was the morn when the fair queen of love. * * Paler for sorrow than her milk white dove, For Adou's sake, a youngster proud and wild; Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill; Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds; She silly queen, with more than love's good will, Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds; 'Once,' quoth she, 'did I see a fair sweet youth 'Here in these brakes deep wounded with a boar, 'Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth! See in my thigh,' quoth she, 'here was the sore: She showed hers; he saw more wounds than one, And blushing iled, and left her all alone. *) By Richard Barnefielde. Fair Venus, with Adonis sitting by her, Under a myrtle shade, began to woo him: She told the youngling how god Mars did try her, And as he fell to her, she fell to him. 'E'en thus,' quoth she, 'the warlike god embraced me; And then she clipt Adonis in her arms: 'E'en thus,' quoth she, 'the warlike god unlaced me,' As if the boy should use like loving charms. 'E'en thus,' quoth she, 'he seized on my lips,' And with her lips on his did act the seizure; And as she fetched breath, away he skips, And would not take her meaning nor her plea sure. To kiss and clip me till I run away! Ah! that I had my lady at this bay, Crabbed age and youth, X. Cannot live together; Youth is wild, and age is tame. O sweet shepherd, hie thee, Beanty is but a vain and doubtful good, A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, So beauty blemish'd once, for ever's lost, Good night, good rest! Ah! neither be my share: |