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As good to write, as for to lie and groan:
O Stella dear, how much thy power hath wrought,
That hast my mind, none of the basest, brought
My still kept course, while others sleep, to moan!
Alas! if from the height of Virtue's throne,
Thou canst vouchsafe the influence of a thought
Upon a wretch that long thy grace hath sought;
Weigh then, how I by thee am overthrown:
And then, think thus, although thy beauty be
Made manifest by such a victory,
Yet noble conquerors do wrecks avoid :
Since then thou hast so far subdued me,
That in my heart I offer still to thee,
O do not let thy temple be destroy'd!
Because I breathe not love to every one,
Nor do not use set colours for to wear,
Nor nourish special locks of vowed hair,
Nor give each speech a full point of a groan ;
The courtly nymphs, acquainted with the moan
Of them who in their lips Love's standard bear,
What, he ? say they of me, now I dare swear
He cannot love! no, no; let him alone.
And think so still, so Stella know my mind !
Profess indeed I do not Cupid's art;
But you, fair maids, at length this true shall find,
That his right badge is but worn in the heart.
Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove:
They love indeed, who quake to say they love.
No more, my dear, no more these counsels try,
O give my passions leave to run their race !
Let fortune lay on me her worst disgrace,
Let folk o'ercharg'd with brain against me cry;
Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye,
Let me no steps but of lost labour trace;
Let all the earth with scorn recount my case ;
But do not will me from my love to fly.
I do not envy Aristotle's wit,
Nor do aspire to Cæsar's bleeding fame;
Nor ought do care though some above me sit;
Nor hope nor wish another course to frame,
But that which once may win thy cruel heart:
Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art.
HAVING this day my horse, my hand, my lance,
Guided so well, that I obtain'd the prize,
Both by the judgment of the English eyes,
And of some sent from that sweet enemy, France ;
Horsemen, my skill in horsemanship advance,
Town-folks, my strength ; a daintier judge applies
His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rise ;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance ;
Others, because of both sides I do take
My blood from them who did excell in this,
Think nature me a man of arms did make :
How far they shot awry! the true cause is,
Stella look'd on, and from her heavenly face
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.
O Kiss, which dost those ruddy gems impart
Or gems, or fruits of new-found Paradise,
Breathing all bliss, and sweetening to the heart,
Teaching dumb lips a nobler exercise !
O kiss, which souls, even souls, together ties
By links of love, and only nature's art!
How fain would I paint thee to all men's eyes,
Or of thy gifts at least shade out some part !
But she forbids ; with blushing words, she says,
She builds her fame on higher-seated praise :
But my heart burns, I cannot silent be.
Then since, dear life, you fain would have me peace,
And I, mad with delight, want wit to cease,
Stop you my mouth with still still kissing me.