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Whilst others are becalm’d, or lie them still,
Or sail secure, with tide and wind at will.

And as all those which hear this bird complain

Conceive in all her tunes a sweet delight, Without remorse, or pitying her pain ;

So she, for whom I wail both day and night, Doth sport herself in hearing my complaint, A just reward for serving such a saint!


In Thetis’ lap, while Titan took his rest,

I slumbering lay within my restless bed. Till Morpheus, with a falsed sorry jest,

Presenting her by whom I still am led, For then I thought she came to end my woe But when I waked, alas ! 'twas nothing so !

Embracing air instead of my delight,

I blamed love, as author of the guile;
Who, with a second sleep closed up my sight,

And said (methought) that I must bide awhile
Ixion's pains, whose arms did oft embrace
False darken'd clouds instead of Juno's grace. :

When 1 had lain and slumber'd thus a while,

Ruing the doleful doom that love assign'd, A woman saint, which bore an angel's face,

Bade me awake, and ease my troubled mind : With that I waked, forgetting what was pass’d, And saw 'twas Hope which helped thus at last,


In time the bull is brought to wear the yoke,

In time all haggard hawks will stoop to lures ; In time small wedge will cleave the sturdiest oak,

In time the marble wears with weakest show’rs : More fierce is my sweet love, more hard withal, Than beast or bird, than tree or stony wall.

No yoke prevails, she will not yield to might;

No lure will cause her stoop, she bears full gorge, No wedge of woes makes print, she recks no

right, No shower of tears can move, she thinks I forge, Help therefore, heavenly boy! come pierce her

• breast, With that same shaft which robs me of my rest. ·

So let her feel the force, that she relent;

So keep her low that she vouchsafe a prey; So frame her will to right that pride be spent ;

So forge, that I may speed without delay; Which if thou do, I'll swear, and sing with joy, That love no longer is a blinded boy,


My heedless heart, which love yet never knew,

But as he was described with painter's hand, One day, amongst the rest, would needs go view

The labyrinth of love, with all his band, To see the Minotaur his ugly face, . . And such as there lay slain within the place.

But soon my guiding thread, by reason spun,

Wherewith I past along his darksome cave,
Was broke, alas, by him, and over-run,

And I, perforce, became his captive slave:
Since when, as yet I never found the way
To leave that maze wherein so many stray.

Yet Thou! on whom mine eyes have gazed so long,

May’st, if thou wilt, play Ariadne's part,

And, by a second thread, revenge the wrong i Which, through deceit, hath hurt my guiltless

heart: Vouchsafe in time to save and set me free, Who seek and serve none other saint but thee.


ALL ye that grieve to think my death so near,

Take pity on yourselves, whose thought is blind : Can there be day unless the light appear?

Can fire be cold, which yieldeth heat by kind ? If love were pass’d, my life would soon decay, Love bids me hope, and hope is all my stay.

And you, that see in what estate I stand,

Now hot, now cold, and yet am living still, Persuade yourselves love hath a mighty hand, And custom frames what pleaseth best her

will. A lingering use of love hath taught my breast To harbour strife, and yet to live in rest.

The man that dwells far north hath seldom harm

With blast of winters wind, or nipping frost ; .

The Negro seldom feels himself too warm

If he abide within his native coast : So love in me a second nature is, And custom makes me think my woes are bliss.


Youth made a fault through lightness of belief,

Which fond belief love placed in my breast : But now I find that reason gives relief And time shews truth, and wit that's bought is

best: Muse not therefore although I change my vein, He runs too far which never turns again.

Henceforth my mind shall have a watchful eye,

I'll scorn fond love, and practise of the same : The wisdom of my heart shall soon descry Each thing that's good from what deserveth

blame. My song shall bem" Fortune hath spit her spite, And love can hurt no more with all his might.”

Therefore all you, to whom my course is known,

Think better comes, and pardon what is past;

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