Like as the spotless ermelin distressedCircumpassed round with filth and lothsome mud,Pines in her grief, imprisoned to her nest,And cannot issue forth to seek her good;So I invironed with a hatefull want,Look to the heavens; the heavens yield forth no grace;I search the earth, the earth I find as scant,I view myself, myself in wofull case.Heaven nor earth will not, myself cannot makeA way through want to free my soul from care;But I must pine, and in my pining lurkLest my sad looks bewray me how I fare.My fortune mantled with a cloud s'obscure,Thus shades my life so long as wants endure.
Like as the spotless ermelin distressedCircumpassed round with filth and lothsome mud,Pines in her grief, imprisoned to her nest,And cannot issue forth to seek her good;So I invironed with a hatefull want,Look to the heavens; the heavens yield forth no grace;I search the earth, the earth I find as scant,I view myself, myself in wofull case.Heaven nor earth will not, myself cannot makeA way through want to free my soul from care;But I must pine, and in my pining lurkLest my sad looks bewray me how I fare.My fortune mantled with a cloud s'obscure,Thus shades my life so long as wants endure.
My cares draw on mine everlasting night,In horror's sable clouds sets my life's sun;My life's sweet sun, my dearest comfort's lightShall rise no more to me whose day is done.I'll go before unto the myrtle shades,T'attend the presence of my world's dear;And there prepare her flowers that never fades,And all things fit against her coming there.If any ask me why so soon I came,I'll hide her sin and say it was my lot.In life and death I'll tender her good name;My life nor death shall never be her blot.Although this world may seem her deed to blame,The Elysian ghosts shall never know the same.
My cares draw on mine everlasting night,In horror's sable clouds sets my life's sun;My life's sweet sun, my dearest comfort's lightShall rise no more to me whose day is done.I'll go before unto the myrtle shades,T'attend the presence of my world's dear;And there prepare her flowers that never fades,And all things fit against her coming there.If any ask me why so soon I came,I'll hide her sin and say it was my lot.In life and death I'll tender her good name;My life nor death shall never be her blot.Although this world may seem her deed to blame,The Elysian ghosts shall never know the same.
The sonnet-cycle in the hands of Henry Constable seems to have been in the first place rather a record of a succession of "moment's monuments" than a single dramatic scheme, even an embryonic one. The quaint preface found in the Harleian transcript of theDianashows this, and at the same time tells what freedom was at that period allowed in the structure and dove-tailing of a sonnet-cycle. It is as follows:
"The Sonnets following are divided into 3 parts, each parte contayning 3 several arguments and every argument 7 sonets."The first parte is of variable affections of love: wherein the first 7 be of the beginning and byrth of his love; the second 7, of the prayse of hismistresse; the thyrd 7, of severall accidents hapning in the tyme of his love."The second is the prayse of perticulars: wherein the first 7 be of the generall honoure of this ile, through the prayses of the heads thereof, the Q. of England and K. of Scots; the second 7 celebrate the memory of perticular ladies whoe the author most honoureth: the thyrd 7 be to the honoure of perticulars, presented upon severall occasions."The thyrd parte is tragicall, conteyning only lamentations: wherein the first 7 be complaynts onlye of misfortunes in love, the second 7, funerall sonets of the death of perticulars; the last 7, of the end and death of his love."
"The Sonnets following are divided into 3 parts, each parte contayning 3 several arguments and every argument 7 sonets.
"The first parte is of variable affections of love: wherein the first 7 be of the beginning and byrth of his love; the second 7, of the prayse of hismistresse; the thyrd 7, of severall accidents hapning in the tyme of his love.
"The second is the prayse of perticulars: wherein the first 7 be of the generall honoure of this ile, through the prayses of the heads thereof, the Q. of England and K. of Scots; the second 7 celebrate the memory of perticular ladies whoe the author most honoureth: the thyrd 7 be to the honoure of perticulars, presented upon severall occasions.
"The thyrd parte is tragicall, conteyning only lamentations: wherein the first 7 be complaynts onlye of misfortunes in love, the second 7, funerall sonets of the death of perticulars; the last 7, of the end and death of his love."
The four sonnets to that distinguished "perticular," the King of Scotland, seem to have won for the author a great deal of fame, for Bolton mentions one of them as a witness to his opinion that "noble Henry Constable was a great master in English tongue, nor had any gentleman of our nation a more pure, quick, or higher delivery of conceit." The King himself the poet is said tohave met personally when on his propagandist tours in Scotland; for Constable was an ardent Roman Catholic, and spent most of his life in plots for the re-establishment of that faith in England. Among the other "perticulars" addressed, the Queen is of course bounteously favoured, and a number of ladies of her Court are honoured; the series therefore lacks all pretense of unity. In fact, the title of the 1594 edition declares that the "excellent conceitful sonnets of Henry Constable" are "augmented with divers quartorzains of honourable and learned personages;" and Sidney has been found to be one of the "honourable and learned personages" whose works were laid under contribution to make the book; but since the whole first and second decades are the same as in the earlier volume by "H.C." which contained also the King James sonnets attributed by numerous contemporaries to Henry Constable, and since as yet, beside the ten by Sidney, no more of the sonnets have by antiquarian research been traced to their sources in the mazes of Elizabethan common-place books, it seems but fair to leave theDianaof 1594 in thehands of Constable. All three books, the '92 and '94 editions and the manuscript volume, show a like taste for orderly arrangement not found in general in the sonnet-cycles.
Constable was a Cambridge man and was thirty years old when theDianawas first printed. He lived until 1613 and bore an excellent reputation in his day. He was the friend of Ben Jonson, who speaks of his "ambrosaic Muse," of Sidney, Harington, Tofte, and other literary men. If toying with the sonnet inDianaseems to indicate a light and trifling spirit, we have to yield that with Constable as with Fletcher the graver matters of state policy formed the chief interest in life to the author. In Constable's case the interest was religious and the poet was personally a man of devout feeling. Writing from the Tower, where for a time he was detained, he says, "Whether I remain in prison or go out, I have learned to live alone with God." At the conclusion of the third part of the Harleian Miscellany transcript, the author says: "When I had ended this last sonnet, and found that such vain poems as I had by idle hours writ, did amount just to thediametrical number 63, methought it was high time for my folly to die, and to employ the remnant of my wit to other calmer thoughts less sweet and less bitter." It was probably in a mood like this that the poet turned from his devotion to an earthly love and began to write his "Sonnets in honor of God and his Saints." In this group, as in the other, he expresses that passion for beauty characteristic of the renaissance, but here he shows the lack of a clear conception as to where the line should be drawn between earthly and heavenly beauty. In Constable we see the new revelation barely emerging from the darkness, the human hand reaching out in art toward the divine, but not knowing how to take and hold the higher in its grasp. These sonnets are as "conceitful" as the others, but the collection illustrates an early effort to turn the poetic energy into a new field, to broaden the scope of subject-matter possible in sonnet-form. The poet was evidently a close student of the sonnet-structure. He used the Italian and the English form in about an equal number of cases but he experiments on a large variety of rime-arrangements besides.
As to the personality honoured under the name of Diana, there seems to be much obscurity. From the sonnetTo his Mistress, we learn that though he addresses several he loves but one.
"Grace full of grace, though in these verses hereMy love complains of others than of thee,Yet thee alone I loved, and they by me,Thou yet unknown, only mistaken were."
"Grace full of grace, though in these verses hereMy love complains of others than of thee,Yet thee alone I loved, and they by me,Thou yet unknown, only mistaken were."
So he loved her, it seems, while she was "yet unknown," something quite possible in the sonneteer's world: and her personality, though shadowed under various names, is to the poet a distinct conception. To the honour of being this poet's inspirer, there are two claimants; one the Lady Rich, the Stella of Sidney, the other the ill-fated Arabella Stuart. It is noteworthy that the only one of all the sonnets addressed personally to particular ladies that is retained in the edition of 1594, is one to Lady Rich. But this sonnet tells us little except that "wishèd fortune" had once made it possible for him to see her in all her beauty of roses and lilies, stars and waves of gold: but this might have happened if he had once seen that beauteous lady pass alongthe street in the queen's glittering train. Other sonnets to or about the Lady Rich are equally uncommunicative; and if the ill-starred Penelope Devereux is the one alone that Constable loved, Time has shut the secret tightly in his heart and will not give it up.
The other guess is but little nearer to certainty. During the years that Constable was pursuing his shadowy schemes, Arabella Stuart was an object of admiration and of political jealousy; the house where she lived was constantly spied upon, her very tutors were suspected, the wildest schemes were formed upon her royal connections, and it would not be strange if the heart of our poetical zealot turned toward this star of his cause. We may be sure that he would not have been averse to a clandestine meeting, for in writing to that arch-plotter, the Countess of Shrewsbury, Arabella's doting grandmother, he says: "It is more convenient to write unto your Ladyship, than to come unto you or to make any other visits either by day or night till I have further liberty granted me;" besides this, the Earl of Shrewsbury was distantly related to Constable's family, and thisfact of kinship may have opened the way; while his sonnet to the Countess intimates that his heart had been touched by some beauty in her Venus' camp. If not Arabella, who could this be?
"To you then, you, the fairest of the wise,And wisest of the fair I do appeal.A warrior of your camp by force of eyesMe prisoner took, and will with rigour deal,Except you pity in your heart will place,At whose white hands I only seek for grace."
"To you then, you, the fairest of the wise,And wisest of the fair I do appeal.A warrior of your camp by force of eyesMe prisoner took, and will with rigour deal,Except you pity in your heart will place,At whose white hands I only seek for grace."
As before, the sonnets addressed to Arabella give no definite information. The first is in the usual strain of praise, and closes:
"My drift was this,Some earthly shadow of thy worth to showWhose heavenly self above world's reason is."
"My drift was this,Some earthly shadow of thy worth to showWhose heavenly self above world's reason is."
The second is as follows:
"Only hope of our age, that virtues deadBy your sweet breath should be revived again;Learning discouraged long by rude disdainBy your white hands is only cherishèd.Thus others' worth by you is honourèd.But who shall honour yours? Poor wits, in vainWe seek to pay the debts which you pertainTill from yourself some wealth be borrowèd.Lend some your tongues, that every nation mayIn his own hear your virtuous praises blaze;Lend them your wit, your judgment, memory,Lest they themselves should not know what to say;And that thou mayst be loved as much as praised,My heart thou mayst lend them which I gave thee."
"Only hope of our age, that virtues deadBy your sweet breath should be revived again;Learning discouraged long by rude disdainBy your white hands is only cherishèd.Thus others' worth by you is honourèd.But who shall honour yours? Poor wits, in vainWe seek to pay the debts which you pertainTill from yourself some wealth be borrowèd.Lend some your tongues, that every nation mayIn his own hear your virtuous praises blaze;Lend them your wit, your judgment, memory,Lest they themselves should not know what to say;And that thou mayst be loved as much as praised,My heart thou mayst lend them which I gave thee."
The last of Constable's sonnets in the edition of 1592 is this dedicatory address:
"My mistress' worth gave wings unto my museAnd my muse wings did give unto her name,So, like twin birds, my muse bred with her fameTogether now do learn their wings to use.And in this book, which here you may peruse,Abroad they fly, resolved to try the sameAdventure in their flight; and thee, sweet dame,Both she and I for our protection choose;I by my vow, and she by farther rightUnder your phœnix (wing) presume to fly;That from all carrion beaks in safety mightBy one same wing be shrouded, she and I.O happy, if I might but flitter thereWhere you and she and I should be so near."
"My mistress' worth gave wings unto my museAnd my muse wings did give unto her name,So, like twin birds, my muse bred with her fameTogether now do learn their wings to use.And in this book, which here you may peruse,Abroad they fly, resolved to try the sameAdventure in their flight; and thee, sweet dame,Both she and I for our protection choose;I by my vow, and she by farther rightUnder your phœnix (wing) presume to fly;That from all carrion beaks in safety mightBy one same wing be shrouded, she and I.O happy, if I might but flitter thereWhere you and she and I should be so near."
The value of this author's praise, however, is somewhat impaired by the extravagances in certainsonnets where, for instance, he honours a lady whose soul, he says, was "endued in her lifetime with infinite perfections as her divine poems do testify," when she on earth did sing poet-wise angels in heaven prayed for her company, and when she died, her "fair and glittering rays increased the light of heaven;" where again he calls on the Countess of Essex to revenge the death of her first husband, Sir Philip Sidney, upon the Spanish people by murdering themen massewith her eyes, and where he calls the Countess of Shrewsbury "chieftain of Venus's host," and places her crowned in heaven beside the Virgin Mary. Constable's zealous publisher was not far wrong when he claimed that in this poet "conceit first claimed his birthright to enjoy," and since we do not find either in the sonnets to Lady Rich or in those to Lady Arabella any special tone of sincerity that leads us to have confidence in our conjecture, we shall be compelled to leave this puzzle unsolved.
Eternal Twins! that conquer death and time,Perpetual advocates in heaven and earth!Fair, chaste, immaculate, and all divine,Glorious alone, before the first man's birth;Your twofold charities, celestial lights,Bow your sun-rising eyes, planets of joy,Upon these orphan poems; in whose rightsConceit first claimed his birthright to enjoy.If, pitiful, you shun the song of death,Or fear the stain of love's life-dropping blood,O know then, you are pure; and purer faithShall still keep white the flower, the fruit, and bud.Love moveth all things. You that love, shall moveAll things in him, and he in you shall love.
Eternal Twins! that conquer death and time,Perpetual advocates in heaven and earth!Fair, chaste, immaculate, and all divine,Glorious alone, before the first man's birth;Your twofold charities, celestial lights,Bow your sun-rising eyes, planets of joy,Upon these orphan poems; in whose rightsConceit first claimed his birthright to enjoy.If, pitiful, you shun the song of death,Or fear the stain of love's life-dropping blood,O know then, you are pure; and purer faithShall still keep white the flower, the fruit, and bud.Love moveth all things. You that love, shall moveAll things in him, and he in you shall love.
Richard Smith.[A]
Grace full of grace, though in these verses hereMy love complains of others than of thee,Yet thee alone I loved, and they by me,Thou yet unknown, only mistaken were.Like him which feels a heat now here now there,Blames now this cause now that, until he seeThe fire indeed from whence they causèd be;Which fire I now do know is you, my dear,Thus diverse loves dispersèd in my verseIn thee alone for ever I unite,And fully unto thee more to rehearse;To him I fly for grace that rules above,That by my grace I may live in delight,Or by his grace I never more may love.
Grace full of grace, though in these verses hereMy love complains of others than of thee,Yet thee alone I loved, and they by me,Thou yet unknown, only mistaken were.Like him which feels a heat now here now there,Blames now this cause now that, until he seeThe fire indeed from whence they causèd be;Which fire I now do know is you, my dear,Thus diverse loves dispersèd in my verseIn thee alone for ever I unite,And fully unto thee more to rehearse;To him I fly for grace that rules above,That by my grace I may live in delight,Or by his grace I never more may love.
Severed from sweet content, my live's sole light,Banished by over-weening wit from my desire,This poor acceptance only I require:That though my fault have forced me from thy sightYet that thou would'st, my sorrows to requite,Review these sonnets, pictures of thy praise;Wherein each woe thy wondrous worth doth raise,Though first thy worth bereft me of delight.See them forsaken; for I them forsook,Forsaken first of thee, next of my sense;And when thou deign'st on their black tears to look,Shed not one tear, my tears to recompence;But joy in this, though fate 'gainst me repine,My verse still lives to witness thee divine.
Severed from sweet content, my live's sole light,Banished by over-weening wit from my desire,This poor acceptance only I require:That though my fault have forced me from thy sightYet that thou would'st, my sorrows to requite,Review these sonnets, pictures of thy praise;Wherein each woe thy wondrous worth doth raise,Though first thy worth bereft me of delight.See them forsaken; for I them forsook,Forsaken first of thee, next of my sense;And when thou deign'st on their black tears to look,Shed not one tear, my tears to recompence;But joy in this, though fate 'gainst me repine,My verse still lives to witness thee divine.
Only of the birth and beginning of love
Resolved to love, unworthy to obtain,I do no favour crave; but, humble wise,To thee my sighs in verse I sacrifice,Only some pity and no help to gain.Hear then, and as my heart shall aye remainA patient object to thy lightning eyes,A patient ear bring thou to thund'ring cries;Fear not the crack, when I the blow sustain.So as thine eye bred mine ambitious thought,So shall thine ear make proud my voice for joy.Lo, dear, what wonders great by thee are wrought,When I but little favour do enjoy!The voice is made the ear for to rejoice,And your ear giveth pleasure to my voice.
Resolved to love, unworthy to obtain,I do no favour crave; but, humble wise,To thee my sighs in verse I sacrifice,Only some pity and no help to gain.Hear then, and as my heart shall aye remainA patient object to thy lightning eyes,A patient ear bring thou to thund'ring cries;Fear not the crack, when I the blow sustain.So as thine eye bred mine ambitious thought,So shall thine ear make proud my voice for joy.Lo, dear, what wonders great by thee are wrought,When I but little favour do enjoy!The voice is made the ear for to rejoice,And your ear giveth pleasure to my voice.
An excuse to his mistress for resolving to love so worthy a creature
Blame not my heart for flying up so high,Sith thou art cause that it this flight begun;For earthly vapours drawn up by the sun,Comets become, and night suns in the sky.Mine humble heart, so with thy heavenly eyeDrawn up aloft, all low desires doth shun;Raise thou me up, as thou my heart hast done,So during night in heaven remain may I.I say again, blame not my high desire,Sith of us both the cause thereof depends.In thee doth shine, in me doth burn a fire,Fire draws up other, and itself ascends.Thine eye a fire, and so draws up my love;My love a fire, and so ascends above.
Blame not my heart for flying up so high,Sith thou art cause that it this flight begun;For earthly vapours drawn up by the sun,Comets become, and night suns in the sky.Mine humble heart, so with thy heavenly eyeDrawn up aloft, all low desires doth shun;Raise thou me up, as thou my heart hast done,So during night in heaven remain may I.I say again, blame not my high desire,Sith of us both the cause thereof depends.In thee doth shine, in me doth burn a fire,Fire draws up other, and itself ascends.Thine eye a fire, and so draws up my love;My love a fire, and so ascends above.
Of the birth of his love
Fly low, dear love, thy sun dost thou not see?Take heed, do not so near his rays aspire;Lest, for thy pride, inflamed with wreakful ire,It burn thy wings, as it hath burnèd me.Thou haply sayst thy wings immortal be,And so cannot consumèd be with fire;And one is hope, the other is desire,And that the heavens bestowed them both on thee.A muse's words made thee with hope to fly,An angel's face desire hath begot,Thyself engendered by a goddess' eye;Yet for all this, immortal thou art not.Of heavenly eye though thou begotten art,Yet art thou born but of a mortal heart.
Fly low, dear love, thy sun dost thou not see?Take heed, do not so near his rays aspire;Lest, for thy pride, inflamed with wreakful ire,It burn thy wings, as it hath burnèd me.Thou haply sayst thy wings immortal be,And so cannot consumèd be with fire;And one is hope, the other is desire,And that the heavens bestowed them both on thee.A muse's words made thee with hope to fly,An angel's face desire hath begot,Thyself engendered by a goddess' eye;Yet for all this, immortal thou art not.Of heavenly eye though thou begotten art,Yet art thou born but of a mortal heart.
Of his mistress, upon occasion of a friend of his which dissuaded him from loving
A friend of mine, pitying my hopeless love,Hoping by killing hope my love to stay,"Let not," quoth he, "thy hope, thy heart betray;Impossible it is her heart to move."But sith resolvèd love cannot removeAs long as thy divine perfections stay,Thy godhead then he sought to take away.Dear, seek revenge and him a liar prove;Gods only do impossibilities."Impossible," saith he, "thy grace to gain."Show then the power of divinitiesBy granting me thy favour to obtain.So shall thy foe give to himself the lie;A goddess thou shall prove, and happy I!
A friend of mine, pitying my hopeless love,Hoping by killing hope my love to stay,"Let not," quoth he, "thy hope, thy heart betray;Impossible it is her heart to move."But sith resolvèd love cannot removeAs long as thy divine perfections stay,Thy godhead then he sought to take away.Dear, seek revenge and him a liar prove;Gods only do impossibilities."Impossible," saith he, "thy grace to gain."Show then the power of divinitiesBy granting me thy favour to obtain.So shall thy foe give to himself the lie;A goddess thou shall prove, and happy I!
Of the conspiracy of his lady's eyes and his own to engender love
Thine eye the glass where I behold my heart,Mine eye the window through the which thine eyeMay see my heart, and there thyself espyIn bloody colours how thou painted art.Thine eye the pile is of a murdering dart;Mine eye the sight thou tak'st thy level byTo hit my heart, and never shoot'st awry.Mine eye thus helps thine eye to work my smart.Thine eye a fire is both in heat and light;Mine eye of tears a river doth become.O that the water of mine eye had mightTo quench the flames that from thine eye doth come,Or that the fires kindled by thine eye,The flowing streams of mine eyes could make dry.
Thine eye the glass where I behold my heart,Mine eye the window through the which thine eyeMay see my heart, and there thyself espyIn bloody colours how thou painted art.Thine eye the pile is of a murdering dart;Mine eye the sight thou tak'st thy level byTo hit my heart, and never shoot'st awry.Mine eye thus helps thine eye to work my smart.Thine eye a fire is both in heat and light;Mine eye of tears a river doth become.O that the water of mine eye had mightTo quench the flames that from thine eye doth come,Or that the fires kindled by thine eye,The flowing streams of mine eyes could make dry.
Love's seven deadly sins
Mine eye with all the deadly sins is fraught.Firstproud, sith it presumed to look so high.A watchman being made, stood gazing by,Andidle, took no heed till I was caught.Andenvious, bears envy that by thoughtShould in his absence be to her so nigh.To kill my heart, mine eye let in her eye;And so consent gave to amurderwrought.Andcovetous, it never would removeFrom her fair hair, gold so doth please his sight.Unchaste, a baud between my heart and love.Agluttoneye, with tears drunk every night.These sins procurèd have a goddess' ire,Wherefore my heart is damned in love's sweet fire.
Mine eye with all the deadly sins is fraught.Firstproud, sith it presumed to look so high.A watchman being made, stood gazing by,Andidle, took no heed till I was caught.Andenvious, bears envy that by thoughtShould in his absence be to her so nigh.To kill my heart, mine eye let in her eye;And so consent gave to amurderwrought.Andcovetous, it never would removeFrom her fair hair, gold so doth please his sight.Unchaste, a baud between my heart and love.Agluttoneye, with tears drunk every night.These sins procurèd have a goddess' ire,Wherefore my heart is damned in love's sweet fire.
Of the slander envy gives him for so highly praising his mistress
Falsely doth envy of your praises blameMy tongue, my pen, my heart of flattery,Because I said there was no sun but thee.It called my tongue the partial trump of fame,And saith my pen hath flatterèd thy name,Because my pen did to my tongue agree;And that my heart must needs a flatterer be,Which taught both tongue and pen to say the same.No, no, I flatter not when thee I callThe sun, sith that the sun was never such;But when the sun thee I compared withal,Doubtless the sun I flatterèd too much.Witness mine eyes, I say the truth in this,They have seen thee and know that so it is.
Falsely doth envy of your praises blameMy tongue, my pen, my heart of flattery,Because I said there was no sun but thee.It called my tongue the partial trump of fame,And saith my pen hath flatterèd thy name,Because my pen did to my tongue agree;And that my heart must needs a flatterer be,Which taught both tongue and pen to say the same.No, no, I flatter not when thee I callThe sun, sith that the sun was never such;But when the sun thee I compared withal,Doubtless the sun I flatterèd too much.Witness mine eyes, I say the truth in this,They have seen thee and know that so it is.
Of the end and death of his love
Much sorrow in itself my love doth move,More my despair to love a hopeless bliss,My folly most to love whom sure to missO help me, but this last grief to remove;All pains, if you command, it joy shall prove,And wisdom to seek joy. Then say but this,"Because my pleasure in thy torment is,I do command thee without hope to love!"So when this thought my sorrow shall augmentThat my own folly did procure my pain,Then shall I say to give myself content,"Obedience only made me love in vain.It was your will, and not my want of wit;I have the pain, bear you the blame of it!"
Much sorrow in itself my love doth move,More my despair to love a hopeless bliss,My folly most to love whom sure to missO help me, but this last grief to remove;All pains, if you command, it joy shall prove,And wisdom to seek joy. Then say but this,"Because my pleasure in thy torment is,I do command thee without hope to love!"So when this thought my sorrow shall augmentThat my own folly did procure my pain,Then shall I say to give myself content,"Obedience only made me love in vain.It was your will, and not my want of wit;I have the pain, bear you the blame of it!"
Upon occasion of her walking in a garden
My lady's presence makes the roses red,Because to see her lips they blush with shame.The lily's leaves for envy pale became,And her white hands in them this envy bred.The marigold the leaves abroad doth spread,Because the sun's and her power is the same.The violet of purple colour came,Dyed in the blood she made my heart to shed.In brief, all flowers from her their virtue take;From her sweet breath their sweet smells do proceed;The living heat which her eyebeams doth makeWarmeth the ground and quickeneth the seed.The rain wherewith she watereth the flowers,Falls from mine eyes which she dissolves in showers.
My lady's presence makes the roses red,Because to see her lips they blush with shame.The lily's leaves for envy pale became,And her white hands in them this envy bred.The marigold the leaves abroad doth spread,Because the sun's and her power is the same.The violet of purple colour came,Dyed in the blood she made my heart to shed.In brief, all flowers from her their virtue take;From her sweet breath their sweet smells do proceed;The living heat which her eyebeams doth makeWarmeth the ground and quickeneth the seed.The rain wherewith she watereth the flowers,Falls from mine eyes which she dissolves in showers.
To the Lady Rich
Heralds at arms do three perfections quote,To wit, most fair, most rich, most glittering;So when those three concur within one thing,Needs must that thing of honour be a note.Lately I did behold a rich fair coat,Which wishèd fortune to mine eyes did bring.A lordly coat, yet worthy of a king,In which one might all these perfections note.A field of lilies, roses proper bare;Two stars in chief; the crest was waves of gold.How glittering 'twas, might by the stars appear;The lilies made it fair for to behold.And rich it was as by the gold appeareth;But happy he that in his arms it weareth!
Heralds at arms do three perfections quote,To wit, most fair, most rich, most glittering;So when those three concur within one thing,Needs must that thing of honour be a note.Lately I did behold a rich fair coat,Which wishèd fortune to mine eyes did bring.A lordly coat, yet worthy of a king,In which one might all these perfections note.A field of lilies, roses proper bare;Two stars in chief; the crest was waves of gold.How glittering 'twas, might by the stars appear;The lilies made it fair for to behold.And rich it was as by the gold appeareth;But happy he that in his arms it weareth!
Of the end and death of his love
If true love might true love's reward obtain,Dumb wonder only might speak of my joy;But too much worth hath made thee too much coy,And told me long ago I sighed in vain.Not then vain hope of undeservèd gainHath made me paint in verses mine annoy,But for thy pleasure, that thou might'st enjoyThy beauty's praise, in glasses of my pain.See then, thyself, though me thou wilt not hear,By looking on my verse. For pain in verse,Love doth in pain, beauty in love appear.So if thou would'st my verses' meaning see,Expound them thus, when I my love rehearse:"None loves like he!" that is, "None fair like me!"
If true love might true love's reward obtain,Dumb wonder only might speak of my joy;But too much worth hath made thee too much coy,And told me long ago I sighed in vain.Not then vain hope of undeservèd gainHath made me paint in verses mine annoy,But for thy pleasure, that thou might'st enjoyThy beauty's praise, in glasses of my pain.See then, thyself, though me thou wilt not hear,By looking on my verse. For pain in verse,Love doth in pain, beauty in love appear.So if thou would'st my verses' meaning see,Expound them thus, when I my love rehearse:"None loves like he!" that is, "None fair like me!"
How he encouraged himself to proceed in love, and to hope for favour in the end at love's hands
It may be, love my death doth not pretend,Although he shoots at me, but thinks it fitThus to bewitch thee for thy benefit,Causing thy will to my wish to condescend.For witches which some murder do intend,Do make a picture and do shoot at it;And in that part where they the picture hit,The party's self doth languish to his end.So love, too weak by force thy heart to taint,Within my heart thy heavenly shape doth paint;Suffering therein his arrows to abide,Only to th'end he might by witches' art,Within my heart pierce through thy picture's side,And through thy picture's side might wound my heart.
It may be, love my death doth not pretend,Although he shoots at me, but thinks it fitThus to bewitch thee for thy benefit,Causing thy will to my wish to condescend.For witches which some murder do intend,Do make a picture and do shoot at it;And in that part where they the picture hit,The party's self doth languish to his end.So love, too weak by force thy heart to taint,Within my heart thy heavenly shape doth paint;Suffering therein his arrows to abide,Only to th'end he might by witches' art,Within my heart pierce through thy picture's side,And through thy picture's side might wound my heart.
Of the thoughts he nourished by night when she was retired to bed
The sun, his journey ending in the west,Taketh his lodging up in Thetis' bed;Though from our eyes his beams be banishèd,Yet with his light th' antipodes be blest.Now when the sun-time brings my sun to rest,Which me too oft of rest hath hinderèd,And whiter skin with white sheet coverèd,And softer cheek doth on soft pillow rest,Then I, O sun of suns! and light of lights!Wish me with those antipodes to be,Which see and feel thy beams and heat by nights.Well, though the night both cold and darksome is,Yet half the day's delight the night grants me,I feel my sun's heat, though his light I miss.
The sun, his journey ending in the west,Taketh his lodging up in Thetis' bed;Though from our eyes his beams be banishèd,Yet with his light th' antipodes be blest.Now when the sun-time brings my sun to rest,Which me too oft of rest hath hinderèd,And whiter skin with white sheet coverèd,And softer cheek doth on soft pillow rest,Then I, O sun of suns! and light of lights!Wish me with those antipodes to be,Which see and feel thy beams and heat by nights.Well, though the night both cold and darksome is,Yet half the day's delight the night grants me,I feel my sun's heat, though his light I miss.
Of his lady's praise
Lady, in beauty and in favour rare,Of favour, not of due, I favour crave.Nature to thee beauty and favour gave;Fair then thou art, and favour thou may'st spare.Nor when on me bestowed your favours are,Less favour in your face you shall not have;If favour then a wounded soul may save,Of murder's guilt, dear Lady, then beware.My loss of life a million fold were lessThan the least loss should unto you befall;Yet grant this gift; which gift when I possess,Both I have life and you no loss at all.For by your favour only I do live,And favour you may well both keep and give.
Lady, in beauty and in favour rare,Of favour, not of due, I favour crave.Nature to thee beauty and favour gave;Fair then thou art, and favour thou may'st spare.Nor when on me bestowed your favours are,Less favour in your face you shall not have;If favour then a wounded soul may save,Of murder's guilt, dear Lady, then beware.My loss of life a million fold were lessThan the least loss should unto you befall;Yet grant this gift; which gift when I possess,Both I have life and you no loss at all.For by your favour only I do live,And favour you may well both keep and give.
Of the end and death of his love
My reason absent did mine eyes requireTo watch and ward and such foes to descryAs they should ne'er my heart approaching spy;But traitor eyes my heart's death did conspire,Corrupted with hope's gifts; let in desireTo burn my heart; and sought no remedy,Though store of water were in either eye,Which well employed, might well have quenched the fire.Reason returnèd; love and fortune madeJudges, to judge mine eyes to punishment.Fortune, sith they by sight my heart betrayedFrom wishèd sight, adjudged them banishment;Love, sith by fire murdered my heart was found,Adjudgèd them in tears for to be drowned.
My reason absent did mine eyes requireTo watch and ward and such foes to descryAs they should ne'er my heart approaching spy;But traitor eyes my heart's death did conspire,Corrupted with hope's gifts; let in desireTo burn my heart; and sought no remedy,Though store of water were in either eye,Which well employed, might well have quenched the fire.Reason returnèd; love and fortune madeJudges, to judge mine eyes to punishment.Fortune, sith they by sight my heart betrayedFrom wishèd sight, adjudged them banishment;Love, sith by fire murdered my heart was found,Adjudgèd them in tears for to be drowned.
Of several complaints of misfortune in love only
Wonder it is and pity is't that sheIn whom all beauty's treasure we may find,That may unrich the body and the mind,Towards the poor should use no charity.My love has gone a begging unto thee.And if that beauty had not been more kindThat pity, long ere this he had been pined;But beauty is content his food to be.O pity have when such poor orphans beg!Love, naked boy, hath nothing on his back;And though he wanteth neither arm nor leg,Yet maimed he is sith he his sight doth lack.And yet though blind he beauty can behold,And yet though naked he feels more heat than cold.
Wonder it is and pity is't that sheIn whom all beauty's treasure we may find,That may unrich the body and the mind,Towards the poor should use no charity.My love has gone a begging unto thee.And if that beauty had not been more kindThat pity, long ere this he had been pined;But beauty is content his food to be.O pity have when such poor orphans beg!Love, naked boy, hath nothing on his back;And though he wanteth neither arm nor leg,Yet maimed he is sith he his sight doth lack.And yet though blind he beauty can behold,And yet though naked he feels more heat than cold.
Of several complaints of misfortune in love only
Pity refusing my poor love to feed,A beggar starved for want of help he lies;And at your mouth, the door of beauty, cries,That thence some alms of sweet grants might proceed.But as he waiteth for some almès deed,A cherry tree before the door he spies."O dear," quoth he, "two cherries may suffice.Two only may save life in this my need."But beggars, can they nought but cherries eat?Pardon my love, he is a goddess' son,And never feedeth but on dainty meat,Else need he not to pine, as he hath done;For only the sweet fruit of this sweet treeCan give food to my love and life to me.
Pity refusing my poor love to feed,A beggar starved for want of help he lies;And at your mouth, the door of beauty, cries,That thence some alms of sweet grants might proceed.But as he waiteth for some almès deed,A cherry tree before the door he spies."O dear," quoth he, "two cherries may suffice.Two only may save life in this my need."But beggars, can they nought but cherries eat?Pardon my love, he is a goddess' son,And never feedeth but on dainty meat,Else need he not to pine, as he hath done;For only the sweet fruit of this sweet treeCan give food to my love and life to me.
Of his lady's veil wherewith she covered her
The fowler hides as closely as he mayThe net, where caught the silly bird should be,Lest he the threatening poison should but see,And so for fear be forced to fly away.My lady so, the while she doth assayIn curlèd knots fast to entangle me,Put on her veil, to th' end I should not fleeThe golden net wherein I am a prey.Alas, most sweet! what need is of a netTo catch a bird that is already ta'en?Sith with your hand alone you may it get,For it desires to fly into the same.What needs such art my thoughts then to entrap,When of themselves they fly into your lap?
The fowler hides as closely as he mayThe net, where caught the silly bird should be,Lest he the threatening poison should but see,And so for fear be forced to fly away.My lady so, the while she doth assayIn curlèd knots fast to entangle me,Put on her veil, to th' end I should not fleeThe golden net wherein I am a prey.Alas, most sweet! what need is of a netTo catch a bird that is already ta'en?Sith with your hand alone you may it get,For it desires to fly into the same.What needs such art my thoughts then to entrap,When of themselves they fly into your lap?
To his lady's hand upon occasion of her glove which in her absence he kissed
Sweet hand, the sweet but cruel bow thou art,From whence at me five ivory arrows fly;So with five wounds at once I wounded lie,Bearing my breast the print of every dart.Saint Francis had the like, yet felt no smart,Where I in living torments never die.His wounds were in his hands and feet; where IAll these five helpless wounds feel in my heart.Now, as Saint Francis, if a saint am I,The bow that shot these shafts a relic is;I mean the hand, which is the reason whySo many for devotion thee would kiss:And some thy glove kiss as a thing divine,This arrows' quiver, and this relic's shrine.
Sweet hand, the sweet but cruel bow thou art,From whence at me five ivory arrows fly;So with five wounds at once I wounded lie,Bearing my breast the print of every dart.Saint Francis had the like, yet felt no smart,Where I in living torments never die.His wounds were in his hands and feet; where IAll these five helpless wounds feel in my heart.Now, as Saint Francis, if a saint am I,The bow that shot these shafts a relic is;I mean the hand, which is the reason whySo many for devotion thee would kiss:And some thy glove kiss as a thing divine,This arrows' quiver, and this relic's shrine.
Of his lady's going over early to bed, so depriving him too soon of her sight
Fair sun, if you would have me praise your light,When night approacheth wherefore do you fly?Time is so short, beauties so many be,As I have need to see them day and night,That by continual view my verses mightTell all the beams of your divinity;Which praise to you and joy should be to me,You living by my verse, I by your sight;I by your sight, and not you by my verse,Need mortal skill immortal praise rehearse?No, no, though eyes were blind, and verse were dumb,Your beauty should be seen and your fame known;For by the wind which from my sighs do come,Your praises round about the world are blown.
Fair sun, if you would have me praise your light,When night approacheth wherefore do you fly?Time is so short, beauties so many be,As I have need to see them day and night,That by continual view my verses mightTell all the beams of your divinity;Which praise to you and joy should be to me,You living by my verse, I by your sight;I by your sight, and not you by my verse,Need mortal skill immortal praise rehearse?No, no, though eyes were blind, and verse were dumb,Your beauty should be seen and your fame known;For by the wind which from my sighs do come,Your praises round about the world are blown.
Complaint of his lady's sickness
Uncivil sickness, hast thou no regard,But dost presume my dearest to molest,And without leave dar'st enter in that breastWhereto sweet love approach yet never dared?Spare thou her health, which my life hath not spared;Too bitter such revenge of my unrest!Although with wrongs my thought she hath opprest,My wrongs seek not revenge, they crave rewardCease, sickness, cease in her then to remain;And come and welcome, harbour thou in meWhom love long since hath taught to suffer in!So she which hath so oft my pain increased,O God, that I might so revengèd be,By my poor pain might have her pain released!
Uncivil sickness, hast thou no regard,But dost presume my dearest to molest,And without leave dar'st enter in that breastWhereto sweet love approach yet never dared?Spare thou her health, which my life hath not spared;Too bitter such revenge of my unrest!Although with wrongs my thought she hath opprest,My wrongs seek not revenge, they crave rewardCease, sickness, cease in her then to remain;And come and welcome, harbour thou in meWhom love long since hath taught to suffer in!So she which hath so oft my pain increased,O God, that I might so revengèd be,By my poor pain might have her pain released!
[The Sonnets numbered II to VIII in this Decade are by Sidney, and were printed among theCertaine Sonetsin the 1598 edition of theArcadia.]