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Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still;
The better angel is a man right fair,
The worser spirit a woman, colour'd ill.
To win me soon to Hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;
But being both from me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another's Hell.
Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.


THOSE lips that Love's own hand did make,
Breath'd 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 us'd in giving gentle doom;
And taught it thus a-new to greet:
Thate she alter'd with an end,
That follow'd it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who like a fiend
From Heaven to Hell is flown away.
I hate from hate away she threw,
And sav'd my life, saying-" not you.”


Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
Fool'd by those rebel powers that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within, aud suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
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 charge? Is this thy body's end?
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And, Death once dead, there's no more dying then.


My love is like a fever, longing still

For that which longer nurseth the disease;
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve,
Desire his death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with ever-more unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as mad men's are,
At random from the truth vainly express'd;
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as Hell, as dark as night.


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,
What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then love doth well denote
Love's eye is not so true as all men's: no,
How can it? O how can Love's eye be true,
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.
O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.


CANST thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,
When I, against myself, with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?
On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon?
Nay if thou lowr'st on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myself with present moan?
What merit do I in myself respect,
That is so proud thy service to despise,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;
Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind.


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?
Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds
There is such strength and warrantise of skill,
That in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?
O, though I love what others do abhor,
With others thou should'st not abhor my state;
If thy unworthiness rais'd love in me,
More worthy I to be belov'd of thee.


Love is too young to know what conscience is;
Yet who knows not, conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove.
For thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body's treason;
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love; flesh stays no further reason;
But rising at thy name, doth point out thee
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
No want of conscience hold it that I call
Her love, for whose dear love I rise and fall.



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 perjur'd most;
For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee,
And all my honest faith in thee is lost :
For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,
Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy;
And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,
Or made them swear against the thing they see;
For I have sworn thee fair: more perjur'd Ï,
To swear, against the truth, so foul a lie!


CUPID lay'd by his brand, and fell asleep;
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrow'd from this holy fire of love
A dateless lively heat, still to endure,
And drew a seething bath which yet men prove,
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fir'd,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
I sick withal, the help of bath desir'd,
And hither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,
But found no cure; the bath for my help lies
Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress' eyes.


THE little love-god lying once asleep,
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keep,
Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand
The fairest votary took up that fire

Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd;
And so the general of hot desire
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 diseas'd; but I, my mistress' thrall,
Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.



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, thou 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,
Exhal'st this vapour now; 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?

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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,
Under an osier growing by a brook,

A brook, where Adon us'd to cool his spleen.
Hot was the day; she hotter that did look
For his approach, that often there had been.
Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by,
And stood stark-naked on the brook's green brim;
The Sun look'd on the world with glorious eye,
Yet not so wistly, as this queen on him:
He spying her, boune'd in, whereas he stood;
"Oh, Jove," quoth she, "why was I not a flood?"


Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle,
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty;
Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle,
Softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty:
A little pale, with damask dye to grace her,
None fair, nor none falser to deface her.

Her lips to mine how often hath she join'd,
Between each kiss her oath of true love swearing!
How many tales to please me hath she coin'd,
Dreading my love, the loss whereof still fearing!
Yet in the midst of all her true protestings,
Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings.

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She burnt with love, as straw with fire flameth,
She burnt out love, as soon as straw out burneth;
She fram'd the love, and yet she foil'd the framing,
She bad love last, and yet she fell a turning.
Was this a lover, or a lecher whether?
Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.


If music and sweet poetry agree,

As they must needs, the sister and the brother,
Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me,.
Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other.
Dowland 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.
Thou loy'st to hear the sweet melodious sound
That Phœbus' lute, the queen of music, makes ;
And I in deep delight am chiefly drown'd,
Whenas himself to singing he betakes.
One god is god of both, as poets feign;
One knight loves both, and both in thee remain.

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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 felt to her, she felt to him. [me;"
"Even thus," quoth she, "the warlike god embrac'd
And then she clip'd Adonis in her arms: [me."
"Even thus," quoth she, "the warlike god unlac'd
As if the boy should use like loving charms.
"Even 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 pleasure.
Ah! that I had my lady at this bay,
To kiss and clip me till I run away!

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Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,
In scorn or friendship, nill I construe whether:
May be, she joy'd to jest at my exile,
May be, again to make me wander thither:
Wander, a word for shadows like myself,
As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.


Lord how mine eyes throw gazes to the east!
My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise
Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest.
Not daring trust the office of mine eyes,
While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,
And wish her lays were tuned like the lark.

For she doth welcome day-light with her ditty,
And drives away dark dismal-dreaming night:
The night so pack'd, I post unto my pretty;
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight;
Sorrow chang'd to solace, solace mix'd with sor-

For why she sigh'd, and bade me come to morrow.

Were I with her, the night would post too soon; “ Jo black mourn 1,
But now are minutes added to the hours;

All fears scorn 1,
To spite me now, each minute seems an hour; Love hath forlorn me,
Yet not for me, shine, Sun, to succour flowers! [row; Living in thrall :
Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now bor- Heart is bleeding,
Short, Night, to night, and length thyself to morrow. All help needing,

(O cruel speeding!)

Fraughted with gall.
It was a lordling's daughter, the fairest one of three, My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal,
That liked of her master as well as well might be,

My wethers' bell rings dolefull knell;
Till looking on an Englishman, the fairest that eye My curtail dog that wont to have play'd,
Her fancy fell a turning.

[could see, Plays not at all

, but seems afraid; Long was the combat doubtful, that love with love with sighs so deep, did fight,

[knight: Procures to weep, To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant

In howling-wise, to see my doleful plight. To put in practice either, alas it was a spite

How sighs resound Unto the silly damsel.

Through heartless ground,

Like a thousand vanquish'd men in bloody fight! But one must be refused, more mickle was the pain, Clear wells spring not, That nothing could be used, to turn them both to

Sweet birds sing not, gain,

[disdain: Green plants bring not For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with Forth; they die: Alas, she could not help it!

Herds stand weeping, Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day, Flocks all sleeping, Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away; Nymphs back peeping Then lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gay;

fearfully. For now my song is ended.

All our pleasure known to as poor swains,

All our merry meetings on the plains,

All our evening sport from us is fled,

All our love is lost, for love is dead. On a day (alack the day!)

Farewell, sweet love, Love, whose month was ever May,

Thy like ne'er was Spy'd a blossom passing fair,

For sweet content, the cause of all my moan: Playing in the wanton air,

Poor Coridon, Through the velvet leaves the wind,

Must live alone, All unseen, 'gan passage find;

Other help for bim I see that there is none." That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the Heaven's breath;

XVII. “ Air," quoth he, “ thy cheeks may blow; When as thine eye hath chose the dame, Air, would I might triumph so!

And stall'd the deer that thou should'st strike, But, alas! my hand hath sworn

Let reason rule things worthy blame, Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn :

As well as fancy, partial might: Vow, alack, for youth unmeet,

Take counsel of some wiser head,
Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet.

Neither too young, nor yet unwed.
Do not call it sin in me,
That I am forsworn for thee;

And when thou com'st thy tale to tell,
Thou for whom even Jove would swear

Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk, Juno but an Ethiope were;

Lest she some subtle practice smell; And deny himself for Jove,

(A cripp!e soon can find a halt :) Turning mortal for thy love.

But plainly say thou lov'st her well,

And set her person forth to sale.

What though her frowning brows be bent, “ My fhocks feed not,

Her cloudy looks will calm ere night; My ewes breed not,

And then too late she will repent, My rams speed not,

That thus dissembled her delight; All is amiss :

And twice desire, ere it be day, Love's denying,

That which with scorn she put away. Faith's defying,

What though she strive to try her strength, Heart's renying,

And ban and brawl, and say thee nay, Causer of this.

Her feeble force will yield at length, All my merry jigs are quite forgot,

When craft hath taught her thus to say: All my lady's love is lost, God wot:

“ Had women been so strong as men, Where her faith was firmly fix'd in love,

In faith you had not had it then."
There a nay is plac'd without remove.
One silly cross

And to her will frame all thy ways;
Wrought all my loss;

Spare not to spend, and chiefly there O frowning Portune, cursed, fickle dame! Where thy desert may merit praise, For now I see,

By ringing in thy lady's ear: Inconstancy

The strongest castle, tower, and town, More in women than in men remain.

The golden bullet beats it down.

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Serve always with assured trust,

And in thy suit be humble, true; Unless thy lady prove unjust,

Press never thou to choose anew: When time shall serve, be thou not slack To proffer, though she put thee back.

The wiles and guiles that women work,
Dissembled with an outward show,
The tricks and toys that in them lurk,
The cock that treads them shall not know.
Have you not heard it said full oft,
A woman's nay doth stand for nought?

Think women still to thrive with men,

To sin, and never for to saint: There is no Heaven, by holy then, When time with age shall them attaint. Were kisses all the joys in bed, One woman would another wed.

But soft; enough,-too much I fear, Lest that my mistress hear my song; She'll not stick to round me i' th`ear,

To teach my tongue to be so long: Yet will she blush, bere be it said, To hear her secrets so bewray'd.


As it fell upon a day,

In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade

Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,
Trees did grow, and plants did spring :
Every thing did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone :
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity:
"Fie, fie, fie," now would she cry,
"Teru, Teru," by and by:

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If that one be prodigal, Bountiful they will him call: And with such like flattering, "Pity but he were a king."

If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will entice;
If to women he be bent,
They have him at commandement;
But if fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown:
They that fawn'd on him before,
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need;
If thou sorrow, he will weep;
If thou wake, he cannot sleep:
Thus of every grief in heart
He with thee doth bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flattering foe.


Take, oh, take those lips away,

That so sweetly were forsworn ; And lose eyes, the break of day,

Lights that do mislead the morn: But any kisses bring again, Seals of love, but seal'd in vain.

Hide, oh, hide those hills of snow

Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow, Are of those that April wears. But first set my poor heart free, Bound in those icy chains by thee.


Let the bird of loudest lay,
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be,
To whose sound chaste wings obey.

But thou shrieking harbinger,
Foul pre-currer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever's end,
To this troop come thou not near.

From this session interdict Every fowl of tyrant wing, Save the eagle, feather'd king: Keep the obsequy so strict,

Let the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right.

And thou, treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender mak'st
With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st,
'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.

Here the anthem doth commence :-
Love and constancy is dead;
Phenix and the turtle fled

In a mutual flame from hence.


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