Unto the boundless ocean of thy beauty
Runs this poor river, charged with streams of zeal,
Returning thee the tribute of my duty,
Which here my love, my youth, my plaints reveal.
Here I unclasp the book of my charged soul,
Where I have cast the accounts of all my care;
Here have I summ'd my sighs, here I enroll
How they were spent for thee: look what they are!
Look on the dear expenses of my youth,
And see how just I reckon with thine eyes!
Examine well thy beauty with my truth,
And cross my cares ere greater sums arise!
Read it, sweet Maid! though it be done but slightly: Who can show all his love doth love but lightly.
I once may see when years shall wreak my wrong,
When golden hairs shall change to silver wire,
And those bright rays that kindle all this fire
Shall fail in force, their working not so strong.
Then Beauty, now the burthen of my song,
Whose glorious blaze the world doth so admire,
Must yield up all to tyrant Time's desire;
Then fade those flowers that deck'd her pride so long.
When, if she grieve to gaze her in her glass,
Which then presents her winter-wither'd hue,
Go you, my Verse! go tell her what she was,
For what she was she best shall find in you.
Your fiery heat lets not her glory pass,
But, Phoenix-like, shall make her live anew.
Care-charmer, Sleep! son of the sable Night,
Brother to Death, in silent darkness born!
Relieve my languish, and restore the light,
With dark forgetting of my care's return;
And let the day be time enough to mourn
The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth.
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
Without the torment of the night's untruth!
Cease, Dreams! the images of day-desires,
To model forth the passions of the morrow;
Never let rising sun approve you liars,
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow!
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,
And never wake to feel the day's disdain !
Beauty, sweet Love! is like the morning dew,
Whose short refresh upon the tender green
Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth shew,
And straight is gone as it had never been.
Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish;
Short is the glory of the blushing rose,-
The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish,
Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose :
When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years,
Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth,
And that in Beauty's lease expired appears
The date of age, the kalends of our dearth :—
But ah, no more! this must not be foretold :
For women grieve to think they must be old.
I must not grieve my Love, whose eyes would read Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile : Flowers have a time before they come to seed, And she is young, and now must sport the while. And sport, sweet Maid! in season of these years, And learn to gather flowers before they wither,
And where the sweetest blossom first appears
Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither!
Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air,
And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise !
Pity and smiles do best become the Fair;
Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise.
Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone,
Happy the heart that sigh'd for such a One!
Tongue! never cease to sing Fidessa's praise;
Heart! howe'er she deserve, conceive the best;
Eyes! stand amazed to see her beauty's rays;
Lips! steal one kiss and be for ever bless'd;
Hands! touch that hand wherein your life is closed;
Breast! lock up fast in thee thy life's sole treasure ;
Arms! still embrace, and never be disclosed;
Feet! run to her without or pace or measure :
Tongue! heart! eyes! lips! hands! breast! arms! feet!
Consent to do true homage to your Queen :
Lovely, fair, gent, wise, virtuous, sober, sweet,
Whose like shall never be, hath never been!
O that I were all tongue, her praise to show!
Then surely my poor heart were freed from woe.
If great Apollo offer'd as a dower
His burning throne to Beauty's excellence,-
If Jove himself came in a golden shower
Down to the earth, to fetch fair Io thence,-
If Venus in the curled locks was tied
Of proud Adonis, not of gentle kind,—
If Tellus for a shepherd's favour died
(The favour cruel Love to her assign'd),-
If heaven's winged herald Hermes had
His heart enchanted with a country maid,-
If poor Pygmalion was for Beauty mad,—
If Gods and men have all for Beauty stray'd,—
I am not then ashamed to be included
'Mongst those that love and be with love deluded.
JOHN DAVIES.
(OF HEREFORD.) 1560-5-1618.
THE PICTURE OF AN HAPPY MAN.
How bless'd is he, though ever cross'd,
That can all crosses blessings make;
That finds himself ere he be lost,
And lose that found, for virtue's sake.
Yea, bless'd is he in life and death,
That fears not death, nor loves this life;
That sets his will his wit beneath;
And hath continual peace in strife.
That striveth but with frail-Desire,
Desiring nothing that is ill;
That rules his soul by Reason's squire,
And works by Wisdom's compass still.
That nought observes but what preserves
His mind and body from offence;
That neither courts nor seasons serves,
And learns without experience.
That hath a name as free from blot
As Virtue's brow, or as his life
Is from the least suspect or spot,
Although he lives without a wife.
That doth, in spite of all debate,
Possess his soul in patiènce ;
And pray, in love, for all that hate;
And hate but what doth give offence.
Whose soul is like a sea too still,
That rests, though moved: yea, moved (at least) With love and hate of good and ill,
To waft the mind the more to rest.
That singly doth and doubles not,
But is the same he seems; and is
Still simply so, and yet no sot,
But yet not knowing ought amiss.
That never sin concealed keeps,
But shows the same to God, or moe;
Then ever for it sighs and weeps,
And joys in soul for grieving so.
That by himself doth others mete,
And of himself still meekly deems;
That never sate in scorner's seat;
But as himself the worst esteems.
That loves his body for his soul,
Soul for his mind, his mind for God, God for Himself; and doth controul CONTENT, if it with Him be odd.
That to his soul his sense subdues,
His soul to reason, and reason to faith;
That vice in virtue's shape eschews,
And both by wisdom rightly weigh'th.
That rests in action, acting nought
But what is good in deed and show ;
That seeks but God within his thought,
And thinks but God to love and know.
That, all unseen, sees all (like Him),
And makes good use of what he sees; That notes the tracks and tricks of Time,
And flees with the one, the other flees.
|