THE EIGHTH DECADE

As draws the golden meteor of the dayExhaled matter from the ground to heaven,And by his secret nature, there to stayThe thing fast held, and yet of hold bereaven;So by th' attractive excellence and might,Born to the power of thy transparent eyes,Drawn from myself, ravished with thy delight,Whose dumb conceits divinely sirenise,Lo, in suspense of fear and hope upholden,Diversely poised with passions that pain me,No resolution dares my thoughts embolden,Since 'tis not I, but thou that dost sustain me.O if there's none but thou can work my woe,Wilt thou be still unkind and kill me so?

Wilt thou be still unkind and kill me so,Whose humbled vows with sorrowful appealDo still persist, and did so long agoIntreat for pity with so pure a zeal?Suffice the world shall, for the world can sayHow much thy power hath power, and what it can;Never was victor-hand yet moved to slayThe rendered captive, or the yielding man.Then, O, why should thy woman-thought imposeDeath and disdain on him that yields his breath,To free his soul from discontent and woes,And humble sacrifice to a certain death?O since the world knows what the power can do,What were't for thee to save and love me too?

I meet not mine by others' discontent,For none compares with me in true devotion;Yet though my tears and sighs to her be spent,Her cruel heart disdains what they do motion.Yet though persisting in eternal hate,To aggravate the cause of my complaining,Her fury ne'er confineth with a date,I will not cease to love, for her disdaining.Such puny thoughts of unresolvèd ground,Whose inaudacity dares but base conceit,In me and my love never shall be found.Those coward thoughts unworthy minds await.But those that love well have not yet begun;Persèver ever and have never done!

Persèver ever and have never done,You weeping accent of my weary song!O do not you eternal passions shun,But be you true and everlasting long!Say that she doth requite you with disdain;Yet fortified with hope, endure your fortune;Though cruel now she will be kind again;Such haps as those, such loves as yours importune.Though she protests the faithfullest severityInexecrable beauty is inflicting,Kindness in time will pity your sincerity,Though now it be your fortune's interdicting.For some can say, whose loves have known like passion,"Women are kind by kind, and coy for fashion."

Give period to my matter of complaining,Fair wonder of our time's admiring eye,And entertain no more thy long disdaining,Or give me leave at last that I may die.For who can live, perpetually secludedFrom death to life, that loathes her discontent?Lest by some hope seducively deluded,Such thoughts aspire to fortunate event;But I that now have drawn mal-pleasant breathUnder the burden of thy cruel hate,O, I must long and linger after death,And yet I dare not give my life her date;For if I die and thou repent t' have slain me,'Twill grieve me more than if thou didst disdain me.

'Twill grieve me more than if thou didst disdain me,That I should die; and thou, because I die so.And yet to die, it should not know to pain me,If cruel beauty were content to bid so.Death to my life, life to my long despairProlonged by her, given to my love and days,Are means to tell how truly she is fair,And I can die to testify her praise.Yet not to die, though fairness me despiseth,Is cause why in complaint I thus persèver;Though death me and my love inparadiseth,By interdicting me from her for ever.I do not grieve that I am forced to die,But die to think upon the reason why.

My tears are true. Though others be divine,And sing of wars and Troy's new rising frame,Meeting heroic feet in every line,That tread high measures in the scene of fame,And I, though disaccustoming my muse,And sing but low songs in an humble vein,May one day raise my style as others use,And turn Elizon to a higher strain.When re-intombing from oblivious agesIn better stanzas her surviving wonder,I may opposed against the monster rageThat part desert and excellence asunder;That she though coy may yet survive to see,Her beauty's wonder lives again in me.

Conclusion of the whole

Sometimes in verse I praised, sometimes in verse sighed;No more shall pen with love and beauty mell,But to my heart alone my heart shall tellHow unseen flames do burn it day and night,Lest flames give light, light bring my love to sight,And my love prove my folly to excel.Wherefore my love burns like the fire of hell,Wherein is fire and yet there is no light;For if one never loved like me, then whySkill-less blames he the thing he doth not know?And he that so hath loved should favour show,For he hath been a fool as well as I.Thus shall henceforth more pain, more folly have;And folly past, may justly pardon crave.

Fair by inheritance, whom born we seeBoth in the wondrous year and on the dayWherein the fairest planet beareth sway,The heavens to thee this fortune doth decree!Thou of a world of hearts in time shall beA monarch great, and with one beauty's raySo many hosts of hearts thy face shall slay,As all the rest for love shall yield to thee,But even as Alexander when he knewHis father's conquests wept, lest he should leaveNo kingdom unto him for to subdue:So shall thy mother thee of praise bereave;So many hearts already she hath slain,As few behind to conquer shall remain.

Of the sudden surprising of his heart, and how unawares he was caught

Delight in your bright eyes my death did breed,As light and glittering weapons babes allureTo play with fire and sword, and so procureThen to be burnt and hurt ere they take heed,Thy beauty so hath made me burn and bleed;Yet shall my ashes and my blood assureThy beauty's fame forever to endure;For thy fame's life from my death doth proceed;Because my heart to ashes burnèd givethLife to thy fame, thou right a phœnix art,And like a pelican thy beauty livethBy sucking blood out of my breast and heart.Lo why with wonder we may thee compareUnto the pelican and phœnix rare!

An exhortation to the reader to come and see his mistress's beauty

Eyes curious to behold what nature can create,Come see, come see, and write what wonder you do see,Causing by true report our next posterityCurse fortune for that they were born too late!Come then and come ye all, come soon lest thatThe time should be too short and men too few should be;For all be few to write her least part's history,Though they should ever write and never write but that.Millions look on her eyes, millions think on her wit,Millions speak of her, millions write of her hand.The whole eye on the lip I do not understand;Millions too few to praise but some one part of it,As either of her eye or lip or hand to write,The light or black, the taste or red, the soft or white.

Of the excellency of his lady's voice

Lady of ladies, the delight aloneFor which to heaven earth doth no envy bear;Seeing and hearing thee, we see and hearSuch voice, such light, as never sung nor shone.The want of heaven I grant yet we may moan,Not for the pleasure of the angels there,As though in face or voice they like thee were,But that they many be, and thou but one.The basest notes which from thy voice proceed,The treble of the angels do exceed,So that I fear their choir to beautify,Lest thou to some in heaven shall sing and shine.Lo, when I hear thee sing, the reason whySighs of my breast keep time with notes of thine!

Of her excellency both in singing and instruments

Not that thy hand is soft, is sweet, is white,Thy lips sweet roses, breast sweet lily is,That love esteems these three the chiefest blissWhich nature ever made for lips' delight;But when these three to show their heavenly mightSuch wonders do, devotion then for thisCommandeth us with humble zeal to kissSuch things as work miracles in our sight.A lute of senseless wood, by nature dumb,Touched by thy hand doth speak divinely well;And from thy lips and breast sweet tunes do comeTo my dead heart, the which new life do give.Of greater wonders heard we never tellThan for the dumb to speak, the dead to live.

Of the envy others bear to his lady for the former perfections

When beauty to the world vouchsafes this bliss,To show the one whose other there is not,The whitest skins red blushing shame doth blot,And in the reddest cheeks pale envy is.The fair and foul come thus alike by this;For when the sun hath our horizon got,Venus herself doth shine no more, God wot,Than the least star that takes the light from his.The poor in beauty thus content remainTo see their jealous cause revenged in thee,And their fair foes afflicted with like pain.Lo, the clear proof of thy divinity;For unto God is only due this praiseThe highest to pluck down, the low to raise!

To his mistress, upon occasion of a Petrarch he gave her, showing her the reason why the Italian commenters dissent so much in the exposition thereof

Miracle of the world! I never will denyThat former poets praise the beauty of their days;But all those beauties were but figures of thy praise,And all those poets did of thee but prophesy.Thy coming to the world hath taught us to descryWhat Petrarch's Laura meant, for truth the lip bewrays.Lo, why th' Italians, yet which never saw thy rays,To find out Petrarch's sense such forgèd glosses try!The beauties which he in a veil enclosed beheldBut revelations were within his surest heartBy which in parables thy coming he foretold;His songs were hymns of thee, which only now beforeThy image should be sung; for thou that goddess artWhich only we without idolatry adore.

Complaint of misfortune in love only

Now, now I love indeed, and suffer moreIn one day now then I did in a year;Great flames they be which but small sparkles were,And wounded now, I was but pricked before.No marvel then, though more than heretoforeI weep and sigh; how can great wounds be thereWhere moisture runs not out? and ever, whereThe fire is great, of smoke there must be store.My heart was hitherto but like green wood,Which must be dried before it will burn bright;My former love served but my heart to dry;Now Cupid for his fire doth find it good:For now it burneth clear, and shall give lightFor all the world your beauty to espy.

Complaint of his lady's melancholiness

If that one care had our two hearts possessed,Or you once (felt) what I long sufferèd,Then should thy heart accuse in my heart's steadThe rigour of itself for mine unrest.Then should thine arm upon my shoulder rest,And weight of grief sway down thy troubled head;Then should thy tears upon my sheet be shed,And then thy heart should pant upon my breast.But when that other cares thy heart do seize,Alas, what succour gain I then by this,But double grief for thine and mine unease?Yet when thou see'st thy hurts to wound my heart,And so art taught by me what pity is,Perhaps thy heart will learn to feel my smart.

Dear, though from me your gratious looks depart,And of that comfort do myself bereave,Which both I did deserve and did receive,Triumph not over much in this my smart.Nay, rather they which now enjoy thy heartFor fear just cause of mourning should conceive,Lest thou inconstant shouldst their trust deceiveWhich like unto the weather changing art.For in foul weather birds sing often willIn hope of fair, and in fair time will cease,For fear fair time should not continue still;So they may mourn which have thy heart possessedFor fear of change, and hope of change may easeTheir hearts whom grief of change doth now molest.

If ever any justly might complainOf unrequited service, it is I;Change is the thanks I have for loyalty,And only her reward is her disdain;So as just spite did almost me constrain,Through torment her due praises to deny,For he which vexèd is with injuryBy speaking ill doth ease his heart of pain.But what, shall torture make me wrong her name?No, no, a pris'ner constant thinks it shame,Though he (were) racked his first truth to gainsay.Her true given praise my first confession is;Though her disdain do rack me night and day,This I confessed, and will deny in this.

FOOTNOTES:[A]Richard Smith was the publisher of the 1594 edition of theDiana.

[A]Richard Smith was the publisher of the 1594 edition of theDiana.

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