Loving in trueth, and fayne my love in verse to show,That the deereShee, might take some pleasure of my paine:Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,Knowledge might pittie winne, and pittie grace obtaine.I sought fit wordes to paint the blackest face of woe,Studying inventions fine, her wittes to entertaine,Oft turning others leaves, to see if thence would flowe,Some fresh and fruitfull showre, upon my Sunne-burnt braine.But wordes came halting out, wanting inventions stay,Invention Natures childe, fledde Stepdame studies blowes:And others feete, still seem’de but strangers in my way,Thus great with Childe to speake, and helplesse in my throwes,Byting my trewand penne, beating my selfe for spite:Foole saide my Muse to mee, looke in thy heart and write.Not at first sight, nor with a dribbing shot,Love gave the wound, which while I breath will bleede:But knowne, worth did in mine of time proceede,Till by degrees it had full conquest got.I sawe and lik’d, I lik’d but loved not,I lov’d, but did not straight what Love decreede:At length to Loves decrees, I forst agreede:Yet with repining at so partiall lot.Now even that foot-steppe of lost libertieIs gone, and now like slave borne Muscovite:I call it praise to suffer tyrannie,And now imploy the remnant of my witTo make my selfe believe that all is well,While with a feeling skill I paint my hell.Let Daintie wittes cry on the Sisters nine,That bravely maskt, their fancies may be tolde:Or Pinders Apes flaunt they in phrases fine,Enamling with pyde flowers their thoughts of gold:Or els let them in statelyee glorie shine,Ennobling new found tropes with problemes old:Or with strange similes, inricht each line,Of hearbes or beasts, whichIndeorAffrickehold.For me in sooth, no Muse but one I know,Phrases and Problemes from my reach do growe.And straunge things cost too deere for my poor sprites,How then? even thus inStellasface I reede,What love and beautie be, then all my deedeBut coppying is, what in her nature writes.Vertue (alas) now let me take some rest,Thou set’st a bate betweene my will and wit;If vaine love have my simple soule opprest,Leave what thou lik’st not, deale not thou with it.Thy Scepter use in some oldeCatoesbrest,Churches or Schooles are for thy seat more fit:I doe confes, (pardon a fault confest,)My mouth too tender is for thy hard bit.But if that needes, thou wilt usurping beeThe little reason that is left in mee.And still th’ effect of thy perswasions proove,I sweare, my heart such one shall shew to thee,That shrines in flesh so true a deitie,That Vertue, thou thy selfe shalt be in love.It is most true, that eyes are found to serveThe inward light: and that the heavenly partOught to be King, from whose rules who doth swerve,Rebels to nature, strive for their owne smart.It is most true, what wee callCupidsdart,An Image is, which for ourselves we carve:And fooles adore, in Temple of our hart,Till that good God make church and Church-men starve.True that true beautie vertue is in deede,Whereof this beautie can but be a shade:Which Elements with mortall mixture breede,True that on earth we are but Pilgrimes made,And should in soule, up to our Country move:True and most true, that I mustStellalove.Some Lovers speake, when they their Muses entertaineOf hopes begot, by feare, of wot not what desires,Of force of heavenly beames, infusing hellish paine;Of lyving deathes, deere woundes, faire Stormes, and friesing fyres.Some one his songs inJoveandJovesstraunge tales attyres,Bordered with Bulles and Swannes, poudered with golden raine:Another humbler witte to shepheards pipe retyres,Yet hiding royall blood, full oft in Rurall vaine.To some a sweetest plaint a sweetest stile affordes,Whiles teares poure out his inke, and sighes breatheHis paper pale despaire, and paine his penne doth move.I can speake what I feele, and feele as much as they,But thinke that all the mappe of my state I display,When trembling voice brings foorth, that I doStellalove.When nature made her chiefe worke,Stella’seyes,In collour blacke, why wrapt she beames so bright?Would she in beamy blacke like Painter wise,Frame daintiest lustre mixte of shades of light?Or did she els that sober hewe devise,In object best, to strength and knitt our sighteLeast if no vaile these brave gleames did disguise,They Sun-like should more dazell than delight.Or would she her miraculous power shewe,That whereas blacke seemes Beauties contrarie,Shee even in blacke doth make all Beauties flowerBoth so and thus; she minding Love should beePlaste ever there, gave him this mourning weede:To honour all their deathes, which for her bleede.Love borne inGreece, of late fled from his native place,Forst by a tedious proofe, that Turkish hardned hartWere no fit marke, to pearce with his fine pointed dart:And pleasd with our lost peace, staide here his fleeting race.But finding these North climes, too coldlie him imbrace,Not usde to frosen clippes, he strave to finde some partWhere with most ease and warmth, he might imploy his art.At length he preach’d himselfe inStellasjoyfull face,Whose faire skinne, beamie eyes, like morning Sunne on snow:Deceiv’d the quaking boy, who thought from so pure light,Effects of livelie heate must needes in nature growe.But shee most faire, most colde; made him thence take his flightTo my close hart; where while some fire brands he did lay,He burnt unwares his wings, and cannot fly away.Queene Vertues Court, which some callStellasface,Prepar’d by Natures cheefest furniture:Hath his front built of Alabaster pure.Gold is the covering of that statelie place.The doore, by which sometimes comes forth her graceRed Porphire is, which locke of Pearle makes sure:Whose Porches rich, with name of chekes indure,Marble mixt red and white, doe enterlace.The Windowes now, through which this heavenly guestLookes ore the world, and can finde nothing such,Which dare claime from those lights the name of best,Of touch they are, that without touch doe touch,Which Cupids selfe, from beauties mine did drawe:Of touch they are, and poore I am their strawe.Reason, in faith thou art well serv’d, that stillWould’st brabling be, with sence and love in me:I rather with thee climbe the Muses hill,Or reach the fruite of Natures chiefest tree:Or seeke heavens course, or heavens inside to see:Why should’st thou toyle, our thornie soyle to till?Leave sence and those that sences objects be,Deale thou with powers, of thoughts leave love to will.But thou wouldst needes fight both with Love and sence,With sworde of witte, giving woundes of dispraise:Till down-right blowes did foyle thy cunning fence,So soone as they strake thee withStellasrayes.Reason, thou knewest, and offered straight to prove;By reason good, good reason her to love.In truth oh Love: with what a boyish kindeThou doost proceede, in thy most serious waies;That when the heaven to thee his best displaies,Yet of that best thou leav’st the best behinde.That like a Childe that some faire booke doth findeWith gilden leaves of colloured Velom, playesOr at the most on some faire picture stares,But never heedes the fruite of Writers minde.So when thou sawest in Natures cabinet,Stella, thou straight lokest babies in her eyes:In her chekes pit, thou didst thy pitfall set,And in her brest bo-peepe or touching lyes,Playing and shining in each outward part:But foole seekst not to get into her hart.Cupidbecause thou shin’st inStellaseyes,That from her lookes thy day-nets now scapes free:That those lips swelde so full of thee they be.That her sweet breath makes all thy flames t’arise,That in her brest thy pap well sugred lyes,That her grace gracious makes thy wrongs, that shee,What word so ere shee speakes, perswades for thee:That her cleere voice, lifts thy fame to the skyes.Thou countestStellathine, like those whose powresHaving got up a breach; (by fighting well)Cry victorie, this faire day all is ours:Oh no, her heart is such a Cytadell.So fortified with wit, stor’d with disdaine:That to winne it, is all the skill and paine.Phœbuswas Judge, betweeneJove,Mars,& love,Of those three Gods whose armes the fairest were:Jovesgolden shield, did Eagle Sables beare:Whose talents held youngGanimedeabove.But in verde fielde,Marsbare a golden Speare,Which through a bleeding heart, his point did shove:Each had his Crest,MarscarriedVenusglove.Joveon his Helme the Thunderbolt did reare.Cupidthen smiles, for on his crest there lyesStellasfaire haire, her face he makes his shielde:Where Roses gueules, are borne in silver fielde.Phœbusdrewe wide the Curtaine of the skyesTo blase the last, and swore devoutly then:The first thus macht, were scarcely Gentlemen.Alas, have I not paine enough my friend,Uppon whose breast, a fiercer gripe doth tyre,Than did on him, who first stole downe the fyre;While Love on me, doth all his quiver spend,But with your rubarbe wordes you must contend,To greeve me worse in saying, that desierDoth plunge my well form’d soule, even in the mierOf sinfull thoughtes, which doe in ruine ende.If that be sinne which doth the manners frame,Well stayed with trueth, in worde and faith of deede,Readie of wit, and fearing nought but shame;If it be sin which in fixt hart dooth breede,A loathing of all lose unchastitie;Then love is sin, and let me sinfull bee.You that do search for every purling spring,Which from the rybs of oldParnassusflowes,And every flower (not sweete perhaps) which growesNeere there about, into your Poesie wring.Ye that do Dictionaries method bringInto your rymes, running in ratling rowes,You that poorePetrarchslong deceased woesWith new borne sighes, & devised wit do sing;You take wrong wayes, those far-fet helps be such,As doe bewray a want of inward tutch,And sure at length stolne goods doe come to light.But if both for your love and skill you name,You seeke to nurse at fullest brest of Fame,Stellabehold and then begin t’endite.In nature apt to like, when I did seeBeauties which were of many Carrects fine,My boyling spirits did thether soone encline,And Love I thought that I was full of thee;But finding not those restles flames in meeWhich others said did make their soules to pyne,I thought those babes of some pins hurt did whine:By my love judging what loves paines might be.But while I thus with this young Lyon plaid,Myne eyes (shall I say curst or blest) beheldStella: now shee is nam’de, neede more be sayd?In her sight I a lesson new have speld.I now have learnd love right, and learnd even so,As who by being poysond doth poyson know.His mother deereCupidoffended late,Because thatMarsgrew slacker in her love,With pricking shot he did not throughly moveTo keepe the pace of their first loving state:The boy refusde, for feare ofMarseshate;Who threatned stripes, if he his wrath did prove:But she in chafe him from her lap did shove,Brake bowe, brake shafts, whereCupidweeping sate,Till that his Grandam Nature pittying it,OfStellasbrowes made him two better bowes:And in her eyes of arrowes infinit.O how for joye he leapes, ô how he crowes;And straight therewith, like wagges new got to play:Falls to shrewde turnes, and I was in his way.With what strange checkes I in my selfe am shent,When into Reasons Audit I doe goe:And by just counts my selfe a Bankerowt knowOf all those goods which heaven to me hath lent,Unable quite, to pay even Natures rent,Which unto it by birth-right I doe owe:And which is worse, no good excuse can showe,But that my wealth I have most idely spent,My youth doth waste, my knowledge brings forth toyes,My wit doth strive, those passions to defendeWhich for reward, spoyle it with vaine annoyes;I see my course, to lose my selfe doth bende.I see and yet no greater sorrowe takeThan that I looke no more forStellassake.OnCupidsbowe, how are my hart strings bent?That see my wracke, and yet imbrace the same:When most I glorie, then I feele most shame;I willing run, yet while I runne repent;My best wittes still their owne disgrace invent,My verie ynke, turnes straight toStella’sname:And yet my words (as them my penne doth frame)Against themselves that they are vainely spent.For though she passe all things, yet what is allThat unto me, who fare like him that bothLookes to the skyes and in a ditch doth fall,O let me prop my mind yet in his grouthAnd not in nature, for best fruits unfit;Scholler saith Love bend hitherward your wit.Fly, flye my friends, I have my deathes wound, flye;See there that boy, that murthering boy I say,Who like a thiefe hid in a bush doth lye,Tyll blooddy bullet get him wrongfull pray.So, tyrant he no fitter place could spy,Nor so farre levell in so secrete stay:As that sweete blacke which veiles thy heavenly eye.There himselfe with his shot he close doth laye.Poore passenger, passe now thereby I did,And staid pleasd with prospect of the place,While that black hue from me the bad guest hid,But straight I saw motions of lightnings grace,And there descried the glisterings of his dart:But ere I could flie thence, it pearst my hart.Your words my freend right helthfull caustickes blame.My young minde marde whom Love doth windlase so:That my owne writings like bad servants showeMy wits, quick in vaine thoughts, in vertue lame;ThatPlatoI reade for nought, but if he tameSuch coltish giers; that to my birth I oweNobler desires: lest els that friendly foeGreat expectation were a traine of shame.For since madMarchgreat promise made to mee,If now theMayof my yeeres much decline,What can be hop’d my harvest time will be,Sure you say well, your wisedomes golden myneDigs deepe with learnings spade: now tell me this,Hath this world ought so faire asStellais?In highest way of heaven the Sunne did ride,Progressing then from fayre Twynns golden place,Having no maske of Clowdes before his face,But shining forth of heat in his chiefe pride,When some faire Ladies by hard promise tyde,On horsebacke met him in his furious race,Yet each prepar’de with Fannes well shading grace,From that foes wounds their tender skinnes to hide.Stellaalone, with face unarmed marcht,Either to doe like him, which open shone:Or carelesse of the welth, because her owne.Yet were the hid and meaner beauties parcht,Her dainties bare went free; the cause was this,The Sunne which others burnt, did her but kisse.The curious wits, seeing dull pensivenesBewray it selfe in my long setled eyes:Whence those same fumes of mellancholie rise,With idle paines and missing ayme do gesse;Some that know how, my spring I did adresse,Deem’d that my Muse some fruite of knowledge plyes:Others, because the Prince my service tryes,Thinke that I thinke, State errors to redresse;But harder Judges, judge ambitious rage,(Scourge of it selfe, still clyming slippery place)Holds my young braine captiv’d in golden cage.O fooles, or over-wise, alas the case;Of all my thoughts have neither stop nor start,But onelyStellaseyes, andStellashart.Rich fooles there there be, whose base and filthie hart,Lyes hatching still the goods wherein they flow:And damning their owne selves toTantal’ssmart,Welth breeding want, more rich, more wretched grow.Yet to those fooles, heaven doth such wit impart,As what their hands doe hold, their heads doe know.And knowing love, and loving lay apart,As scattered things, farre from all dangers show.But that rich foole, who by blind Fortunes lot,The richest gem of love and life enjoyes,And can with foule abuse such beauties blot:Let him deprived of sweet, but unfelt joyesExilde for aye, from those high treasures whichHe knowes not grow, in onely follie rich.The wisest scholler of the wight most wise,ByPhœbusdoome, with sugred sentence sayes:That vertue if it once meete with our eyes,Strange flames of love it in our soules would rayse.But for that man with paine this truth discries,While he each thing in sences ballance wayes,And so, nor will nor can behold those skyes,Which inward Summe to heroicke mindes displaies.Vertue of late with vertuous care to stirLove of himselfe, takesStellasshape, that heeTo mortall eyes might sweetly shine in her.It is most true, for since I her did see,Vertues great beautie in her face I prove,And finde th’ effect, for I doe burne in love.Though duskie wits dare scorne Astrologie,And fooles can thinke those lampes of purest light,Whose number, waies, greatnes, eternitie,Promising wondrous wonders to invite,To have for no cause birth-right in the skyes.But for to spangle the blacke weedes of Night,Or for some Braule which in that Chamber hie,They should still daunce to please a gazers sight.For mee I doe Nature unydle know,And know great causes, great effects procure,And know those bodies high, raigne on the low.And if these rules did fayle, proofe makes me sure,Who oft foresee my after following case,By onely those two starres inStella’sface.Because I oft in darke abstracted guise,Seeme most alone in greatest company,With dearth of words, and aunswers quite awry,To them that would make speech of speech arise;They deeme, and of their doome the rumor flies,That poyson foule of bubling pride doth lieSo in my swelling brest, that onely IFaune on my selfe, all others doe dispise:Yet pride (I thinke) doth not my soule possesse,(Which lookes too oft in this unflattering glasse)But one worse fault, ambition I confesse,That makes me oft my best freends over-passe,Unseene unheard, while thought to highest placeBends all his powers, even untoStellasgrace.You that with allegories curious frameOf others children changelings use to make,With mee those paines for good now doe not take,I list not dig so deepe for brasen fame.When I seeStella, I doe meane the samePrincesse of beautie, for whose onely sake,The raynes of love I love, though never slake;And joy therein, though Nations count it shame:I begge no subject to use eloquence,Nor in hid waies to guide Philosophie,Looke at my hands for no such quintessence,But know that I in pure simplicitie,Breath out the flames which burn within my hart,Love only leading me into this arte.Like some weake Lords Neighbord by mightie kings,To keepe themselves and their chiefe Cities free,Doe easily yeelde, that all their coast may beReadie to serve their Campe of needfull things:SoStellashart finding what power Love brings,To keepe it selfe in life and libertie,Doth willing graunt that in the Frontire heUse all to help his other conquerings.And thus her hart escapes, but thus her eyesServe him with shot, her lips his Heralds are,Her brests his Tents, legges his tryumphall Chare,Herselfe his foode, her skin his Armour brave.And I but for because my prospect lyes:Upon that coast, am given up for slave.Whether the Turkish new Moone minded be,To fill her hornes this yeere on Christian coast,How Polands King mindes without leave of hoast,To warme with ill made fire coldMuscovie,If French can yet three parts in one agree,What now the Dutch in their full diets boast,How Holland harts, now so good Townes are lost,Trust in the shade of pleasing Orange tree.How Ulster likes of the same goldenbitt,Wherewith my Father made it once halfe tame,If in the Scottish Court be weltering yet;These questions busie wits to me do frame,I combered with good manners, aunswere doe,But know not how, for still I thinke onyou.With how sad steps ô Moone thou clim’st the skyes,How silently, and with how meane a face,What may it be, that even in heavenly place,That busie Archer his sharpe Arrowes tryes?Sure if that long with love acquainted eyesCan judge of love, thou feelst of Lovers case,I reade within thy lookes thy languisht grace.To mee that feele the like, my state discries.Then even of fellowship ô Moone tell me,Is constant love deemde there but want of wit?Are beauties there, as proude as here there be?Doe they above, love to be lov’d, and yetThose Lovers scorne, whom that love doth possesse?Doe they call vertue there ungratefulnesse?Morpheusthe lively sonne of deadlie Sleepe,Witnes of life to them that living die:A Prophet oft, and oft an Historie,A Poet eake as humors flye and creepe:Since thou in me so sure a power doost keepe,That never I with clos’d up fence doe lye,But by thy worke, myStellaI discry,Teaching blind eyes both how to smile and weepe,Vouchsafe of all acquaintance this to tell,Whence hast thou Ivorie, Rubies, Pearle, and Golde,To shewherskin, lips, teeth, and head so well?(Foole aunswers he) noIndessuch treasures hold,But from thy hart, while my Sire charmeth thee,SweetStellasImage I do steale to mee.I might, unhappy word, (woe me) I might,And then would not, nor could not see my blisse:Till now, wrapt in a most infernall Night,I finde, how heavenly day (wretch) did I misse;Hart rent thy selfe, thou doost thy selfe but right.No lovelyParismade thyHelenhis,No force, no fraude, robd thee of thy delight,Nor fortune of thy fortune Author is;But to my selfe, my selfe did give the blow,While too much wit forsooth so trubled me,That I respects for both our sakes must show,And yet could not by rysing morne fore-see,How faire a day was neere, (ô punisht eyes)That I had beene more foolish, or more wise.Come let me write, and to what end? to easeA burthened hart, (how can words ease, which areThe glasses of thy daily vexing care?)Oft cruell fights well pictured forth doe please,Art not asham’d to publish thy disease?Nay, that may breede my fame, it is so rare,But will not wise men thinke thy words fonde ware?Then be they close, and they shall none displease,What idler thing than speake and not be heard?What harder thing than smart and not to speake?Peace foolish wit, with wit my wit is marde;Thus write I while I doubt to write, and wreakeMy harmes in ynkes poore losse, perhaps some findeStellasgreat power, that so confus’d my minde.What may words say? or what may words not say,Where truth it selfe must speake like flattery?Within what bounds can one his lyking stay,Where Nature doth with infinite agree?WhatNestorscounsell can my flames allay,Since Reasons selfe doth blow the coles to me?And ah, what hope that hope should once see day,WhereCupidis sworne page to Chastitie;Honour is honoured that thou dost possesseHim as thy slave, and now long needie FameDoth even grow rich, meaning myStellasname;Wit learnes intheeperfection to expresse,Notthouby praise, but praise intheeis raised,It is a praise, to praise wherethouart praised.Stella, whence doth these newe assaults arise,A conquerd, yeelding, ransackt hart to win?Whereto long since, through my long battred eyes,Whole Armies ofthybeauties entred in,And there long since, Love thy Lieuetenant lyes,My forces raz’d, thy banners rais’d withinOf conquest, what do these effects suffise,But wilt new warre uppon thine owne begin,With so sweet voyce, and by sweet nature so,In sweetest strength, so sweetly skild withall,In all sweet stratagems sweet Art can shew:That not my soule which at thy foot did fallLong since forst by thy beames; but stone nor treeBy sences priviledge can scape from thee.This night while sleepe begins, with heavie wingsTo close mine eyes, and the unbitted thoughtDoth fall to stray, and my chiefe powers are broughtTo leave the scepter of all subject things,The first that straight my fancies errour bringsUnto my minde, isStellasImage, wroughtBy Loves owne selfe, but with so curious draught,That she me thinkes not onely shines but sings:I start, looke, harke, but what inclos’d up senceWas helde in open sence it flyes away,Leaving me nought but wayling eloquence.I seeing Better sights in sighes decay,Conclude a new, and woed Sleepe againe,But him her hoast that unkind guest had slaine.Come Sleepe, ô Sleepe, the certaine knot of peace,The bathing place of wits, the balme of woe,The poore mans wealth, the prysoners release,The indifferent judge betweene the high and lowe,With shield of proofe, shield me from out the presseOf these fierce darts, Dispaire at me doth throw;O make in me those civill warres to cease:I will good trybute pay if thou do so.Take thou of me smooth pillowes, sweetest bed;A chamber deafe of noyse, and blinde of light,A rosie garland, and a wearie head.And if these things (as being thine in right)Move not thy heavie grace, thou shalt in meeLivelier than els whereStellasImage see.As good to write, as for to lie and groane,OStelladeere, how muchthypower hath wrought,That hast my minde now of the basest brought,My still kept course while others sleepe to moane;Alas if from the height of Vertues throane,Thou canst vouchsafe the influence of a thought,Upon a wretch which longthygrace hath sought,Way then how I by thee am overthrowne;And then thinke thus, althoughthybeautie beMade manifest, by such a victorie,Yet noblest Conquerers doe wreake avoide;Since thenthouhast so farre subdued me,That in my hart I offer still tothee,O doe not let thy Temple be destroide.Having this days, my horse, my hand, my LaunceGuided so well, that I obtaind the prize,Both by the judgment of the English eyes,And of some sent from that sweet enmie Fraunce,Horsmen my skill in horsmanship advaunce,Towne folke my strength: a daintier Judge appliesHis praise to flight, which from good use doth rise:Some luckie wits, impute it but to chaunce:Others, because from both sides I doe takeMy blood, from them that doe excell in this,Thinke Nature me a man at Armes did make.How farre they shoot awry; the true cause is,Stellalookt on, and from her heavenly face,Sent forth the beames, which made so faire a race.O Eyes which doe the Spheres of beautie move,Whose beames all joyes, whose joyes all vertues be:Who while they make Love conquer, conquer Love,The Schooles whereVenushath learnd Chastitie;O eyes, where humble lookes most glorious prove,Onely loved tyrants just in crueltie.Doe not, doe not, from poore me, once remove,Keepe still my Zenith, ever shine on me;For though I never see them, but straight waiesMy life forgets to nourish languisht sprights:Yet still on me (ô eyes) dart downe your rayes;And if from Majestie of sacred LightsOppressing mortall sence, my death proceede:Wreckes tryumphs best, which Love hie set doth breed.Faire eyes, sweet lips, deere hart, that foolish ICould hope byCupidshelpe, on you to pray:Since to himselfe he doth your gifts apply,As his maine force, chiefe sport, and easefull stay.For when he will see who dare him gainsay,Then with those eyes he lookes, loe by and by,Each soule doth at Loves feete his weapons lay,Glad if forherhe give them leave to die.When he will play, then inherlips he is,Where blushing red, that Loves selfe them do love,With either lip he doth the other kisseBut when he will for quiets sake removeFrom all the world,herhart is then his roome:Where well he knowes, no man to him can come.My words I know doe well set forth my minde,My minde bemones his sence of inward smart;Such smart may pittie claime of any hart;Herhart, sweete hart, is of no Tygers kinde,And yetsheheares, and I no pittie finde,But more I cry, lesse graceshedoth impart;Alas, what cause is there so overthwart,That Noblenes it selfe makes thus unkinde?I much doe gesse, yet finde no truth save this,That when the breath of my complaint doe touchThose daintie doores unto the Court of Blisse,The heavenly nature of that place is such:That once come there, the sobs of my annoyes,Are metamorphos’d straight to tunes of joyes.Stellaoft sees the verie face of woesPainted in my beclowded stormie face:But cannot skill to pittie my disgrace;No though thereof the causeher selfe sheeknowes.Yet hearing late a fable which did show,Of Lovers never knowne, (a grievous case)Pittie thereof got in her breast such place,As fromhereyes, a Spring of teares did flow.Alas, if Fancie drawne by ymag’d things,Though false, yet with free scope more grace doth breedeThen Servants wreck, where new doubts honor brings,Than thinke myDeere, that in me you doe reedeOf Lovers ruine some thrise sad Tragædie:I am not I, pittie the tale of me.I curst thee oft, I pittie now thy case,Blind hitting Boy, sincesheethat thee and meRules with a becke, so tyranniseth thee,That thou must want or foode or dwelling place;ForSheeprotests to banish theeherface.Herface (ô Love) a roge thou then should’st bee,If Love learne not alone to love and see,Without desire to feede on further grace.Alas poore wagge, that now a Scholler artTo such a Schoole-mistris, whose lessons newThou needes must misse, and so thou needes must smart;Yetdeere, let me this pardon get ofyou,So long though he from booke mich to desire.Till without Fuell,thoucan make hote fire.
Loving in trueth, and fayne my love in verse to show,That the deereShee, might take some pleasure of my paine:Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,Knowledge might pittie winne, and pittie grace obtaine.I sought fit wordes to paint the blackest face of woe,Studying inventions fine, her wittes to entertaine,Oft turning others leaves, to see if thence would flowe,Some fresh and fruitfull showre, upon my Sunne-burnt braine.But wordes came halting out, wanting inventions stay,Invention Natures childe, fledde Stepdame studies blowes:And others feete, still seem’de but strangers in my way,Thus great with Childe to speake, and helplesse in my throwes,Byting my trewand penne, beating my selfe for spite:Foole saide my Muse to mee, looke in thy heart and write.Not at first sight, nor with a dribbing shot,Love gave the wound, which while I breath will bleede:But knowne, worth did in mine of time proceede,Till by degrees it had full conquest got.I sawe and lik’d, I lik’d but loved not,I lov’d, but did not straight what Love decreede:At length to Loves decrees, I forst agreede:Yet with repining at so partiall lot.Now even that foot-steppe of lost libertieIs gone, and now like slave borne Muscovite:I call it praise to suffer tyrannie,And now imploy the remnant of my witTo make my selfe believe that all is well,While with a feeling skill I paint my hell.Let Daintie wittes cry on the Sisters nine,That bravely maskt, their fancies may be tolde:Or Pinders Apes flaunt they in phrases fine,Enamling with pyde flowers their thoughts of gold:Or els let them in statelyee glorie shine,Ennobling new found tropes with problemes old:Or with strange similes, inricht each line,Of hearbes or beasts, whichIndeorAffrickehold.For me in sooth, no Muse but one I know,Phrases and Problemes from my reach do growe.And straunge things cost too deere for my poor sprites,How then? even thus inStellasface I reede,What love and beautie be, then all my deedeBut coppying is, what in her nature writes.Vertue (alas) now let me take some rest,Thou set’st a bate betweene my will and wit;If vaine love have my simple soule opprest,Leave what thou lik’st not, deale not thou with it.Thy Scepter use in some oldeCatoesbrest,Churches or Schooles are for thy seat more fit:I doe confes, (pardon a fault confest,)My mouth too tender is for thy hard bit.But if that needes, thou wilt usurping beeThe little reason that is left in mee.And still th’ effect of thy perswasions proove,I sweare, my heart such one shall shew to thee,That shrines in flesh so true a deitie,That Vertue, thou thy selfe shalt be in love.It is most true, that eyes are found to serveThe inward light: and that the heavenly partOught to be King, from whose rules who doth swerve,Rebels to nature, strive for their owne smart.It is most true, what wee callCupidsdart,An Image is, which for ourselves we carve:And fooles adore, in Temple of our hart,Till that good God make church and Church-men starve.True that true beautie vertue is in deede,Whereof this beautie can but be a shade:Which Elements with mortall mixture breede,True that on earth we are but Pilgrimes made,And should in soule, up to our Country move:True and most true, that I mustStellalove.Some Lovers speake, when they their Muses entertaineOf hopes begot, by feare, of wot not what desires,Of force of heavenly beames, infusing hellish paine;Of lyving deathes, deere woundes, faire Stormes, and friesing fyres.Some one his songs inJoveandJovesstraunge tales attyres,Bordered with Bulles and Swannes, poudered with golden raine:Another humbler witte to shepheards pipe retyres,Yet hiding royall blood, full oft in Rurall vaine.To some a sweetest plaint a sweetest stile affordes,Whiles teares poure out his inke, and sighes breatheHis paper pale despaire, and paine his penne doth move.I can speake what I feele, and feele as much as they,But thinke that all the mappe of my state I display,When trembling voice brings foorth, that I doStellalove.When nature made her chiefe worke,Stella’seyes,In collour blacke, why wrapt she beames so bright?Would she in beamy blacke like Painter wise,Frame daintiest lustre mixte of shades of light?Or did she els that sober hewe devise,In object best, to strength and knitt our sighteLeast if no vaile these brave gleames did disguise,They Sun-like should more dazell than delight.Or would she her miraculous power shewe,That whereas blacke seemes Beauties contrarie,Shee even in blacke doth make all Beauties flowerBoth so and thus; she minding Love should beePlaste ever there, gave him this mourning weede:To honour all their deathes, which for her bleede.Love borne inGreece, of late fled from his native place,Forst by a tedious proofe, that Turkish hardned hartWere no fit marke, to pearce with his fine pointed dart:And pleasd with our lost peace, staide here his fleeting race.But finding these North climes, too coldlie him imbrace,Not usde to frosen clippes, he strave to finde some partWhere with most ease and warmth, he might imploy his art.At length he preach’d himselfe inStellasjoyfull face,Whose faire skinne, beamie eyes, like morning Sunne on snow:Deceiv’d the quaking boy, who thought from so pure light,Effects of livelie heate must needes in nature growe.But shee most faire, most colde; made him thence take his flightTo my close hart; where while some fire brands he did lay,He burnt unwares his wings, and cannot fly away.Queene Vertues Court, which some callStellasface,Prepar’d by Natures cheefest furniture:Hath his front built of Alabaster pure.Gold is the covering of that statelie place.The doore, by which sometimes comes forth her graceRed Porphire is, which locke of Pearle makes sure:Whose Porches rich, with name of chekes indure,Marble mixt red and white, doe enterlace.The Windowes now, through which this heavenly guestLookes ore the world, and can finde nothing such,Which dare claime from those lights the name of best,Of touch they are, that without touch doe touch,Which Cupids selfe, from beauties mine did drawe:Of touch they are, and poore I am their strawe.Reason, in faith thou art well serv’d, that stillWould’st brabling be, with sence and love in me:I rather with thee climbe the Muses hill,Or reach the fruite of Natures chiefest tree:Or seeke heavens course, or heavens inside to see:Why should’st thou toyle, our thornie soyle to till?Leave sence and those that sences objects be,Deale thou with powers, of thoughts leave love to will.But thou wouldst needes fight both with Love and sence,With sworde of witte, giving woundes of dispraise:Till down-right blowes did foyle thy cunning fence,So soone as they strake thee withStellasrayes.Reason, thou knewest, and offered straight to prove;By reason good, good reason her to love.In truth oh Love: with what a boyish kindeThou doost proceede, in thy most serious waies;That when the heaven to thee his best displaies,Yet of that best thou leav’st the best behinde.That like a Childe that some faire booke doth findeWith gilden leaves of colloured Velom, playesOr at the most on some faire picture stares,But never heedes the fruite of Writers minde.So when thou sawest in Natures cabinet,Stella, thou straight lokest babies in her eyes:In her chekes pit, thou didst thy pitfall set,And in her brest bo-peepe or touching lyes,Playing and shining in each outward part:But foole seekst not to get into her hart.Cupidbecause thou shin’st inStellaseyes,That from her lookes thy day-nets now scapes free:That those lips swelde so full of thee they be.That her sweet breath makes all thy flames t’arise,That in her brest thy pap well sugred lyes,That her grace gracious makes thy wrongs, that shee,What word so ere shee speakes, perswades for thee:That her cleere voice, lifts thy fame to the skyes.Thou countestStellathine, like those whose powresHaving got up a breach; (by fighting well)Cry victorie, this faire day all is ours:Oh no, her heart is such a Cytadell.So fortified with wit, stor’d with disdaine:That to winne it, is all the skill and paine.Phœbuswas Judge, betweeneJove,Mars,& love,Of those three Gods whose armes the fairest were:Jovesgolden shield, did Eagle Sables beare:Whose talents held youngGanimedeabove.But in verde fielde,Marsbare a golden Speare,Which through a bleeding heart, his point did shove:Each had his Crest,MarscarriedVenusglove.Joveon his Helme the Thunderbolt did reare.Cupidthen smiles, for on his crest there lyesStellasfaire haire, her face he makes his shielde:Where Roses gueules, are borne in silver fielde.Phœbusdrewe wide the Curtaine of the skyesTo blase the last, and swore devoutly then:The first thus macht, were scarcely Gentlemen.Alas, have I not paine enough my friend,Uppon whose breast, a fiercer gripe doth tyre,Than did on him, who first stole downe the fyre;While Love on me, doth all his quiver spend,But with your rubarbe wordes you must contend,To greeve me worse in saying, that desierDoth plunge my well form’d soule, even in the mierOf sinfull thoughtes, which doe in ruine ende.If that be sinne which doth the manners frame,Well stayed with trueth, in worde and faith of deede,Readie of wit, and fearing nought but shame;If it be sin which in fixt hart dooth breede,A loathing of all lose unchastitie;Then love is sin, and let me sinfull bee.You that do search for every purling spring,Which from the rybs of oldParnassusflowes,And every flower (not sweete perhaps) which growesNeere there about, into your Poesie wring.Ye that do Dictionaries method bringInto your rymes, running in ratling rowes,You that poorePetrarchslong deceased woesWith new borne sighes, & devised wit do sing;You take wrong wayes, those far-fet helps be such,As doe bewray a want of inward tutch,And sure at length stolne goods doe come to light.But if both for your love and skill you name,You seeke to nurse at fullest brest of Fame,Stellabehold and then begin t’endite.In nature apt to like, when I did seeBeauties which were of many Carrects fine,My boyling spirits did thether soone encline,And Love I thought that I was full of thee;But finding not those restles flames in meeWhich others said did make their soules to pyne,I thought those babes of some pins hurt did whine:By my love judging what loves paines might be.But while I thus with this young Lyon plaid,Myne eyes (shall I say curst or blest) beheldStella: now shee is nam’de, neede more be sayd?In her sight I a lesson new have speld.I now have learnd love right, and learnd even so,As who by being poysond doth poyson know.His mother deereCupidoffended late,Because thatMarsgrew slacker in her love,With pricking shot he did not throughly moveTo keepe the pace of their first loving state:The boy refusde, for feare ofMarseshate;Who threatned stripes, if he his wrath did prove:But she in chafe him from her lap did shove,Brake bowe, brake shafts, whereCupidweeping sate,Till that his Grandam Nature pittying it,OfStellasbrowes made him two better bowes:And in her eyes of arrowes infinit.O how for joye he leapes, ô how he crowes;And straight therewith, like wagges new got to play:Falls to shrewde turnes, and I was in his way.With what strange checkes I in my selfe am shent,When into Reasons Audit I doe goe:And by just counts my selfe a Bankerowt knowOf all those goods which heaven to me hath lent,Unable quite, to pay even Natures rent,Which unto it by birth-right I doe owe:And which is worse, no good excuse can showe,But that my wealth I have most idely spent,My youth doth waste, my knowledge brings forth toyes,My wit doth strive, those passions to defendeWhich for reward, spoyle it with vaine annoyes;I see my course, to lose my selfe doth bende.I see and yet no greater sorrowe takeThan that I looke no more forStellassake.OnCupidsbowe, how are my hart strings bent?That see my wracke, and yet imbrace the same:When most I glorie, then I feele most shame;I willing run, yet while I runne repent;My best wittes still their owne disgrace invent,My verie ynke, turnes straight toStella’sname:And yet my words (as them my penne doth frame)Against themselves that they are vainely spent.For though she passe all things, yet what is allThat unto me, who fare like him that bothLookes to the skyes and in a ditch doth fall,O let me prop my mind yet in his grouthAnd not in nature, for best fruits unfit;Scholler saith Love bend hitherward your wit.Fly, flye my friends, I have my deathes wound, flye;See there that boy, that murthering boy I say,Who like a thiefe hid in a bush doth lye,Tyll blooddy bullet get him wrongfull pray.So, tyrant he no fitter place could spy,Nor so farre levell in so secrete stay:As that sweete blacke which veiles thy heavenly eye.There himselfe with his shot he close doth laye.Poore passenger, passe now thereby I did,And staid pleasd with prospect of the place,While that black hue from me the bad guest hid,But straight I saw motions of lightnings grace,And there descried the glisterings of his dart:But ere I could flie thence, it pearst my hart.Your words my freend right helthfull caustickes blame.My young minde marde whom Love doth windlase so:That my owne writings like bad servants showeMy wits, quick in vaine thoughts, in vertue lame;ThatPlatoI reade for nought, but if he tameSuch coltish giers; that to my birth I oweNobler desires: lest els that friendly foeGreat expectation were a traine of shame.For since madMarchgreat promise made to mee,If now theMayof my yeeres much decline,What can be hop’d my harvest time will be,Sure you say well, your wisedomes golden myneDigs deepe with learnings spade: now tell me this,Hath this world ought so faire asStellais?In highest way of heaven the Sunne did ride,Progressing then from fayre Twynns golden place,Having no maske of Clowdes before his face,But shining forth of heat in his chiefe pride,When some faire Ladies by hard promise tyde,On horsebacke met him in his furious race,Yet each prepar’de with Fannes well shading grace,From that foes wounds their tender skinnes to hide.Stellaalone, with face unarmed marcht,Either to doe like him, which open shone:Or carelesse of the welth, because her owne.Yet were the hid and meaner beauties parcht,Her dainties bare went free; the cause was this,The Sunne which others burnt, did her but kisse.The curious wits, seeing dull pensivenesBewray it selfe in my long setled eyes:Whence those same fumes of mellancholie rise,With idle paines and missing ayme do gesse;Some that know how, my spring I did adresse,Deem’d that my Muse some fruite of knowledge plyes:Others, because the Prince my service tryes,Thinke that I thinke, State errors to redresse;But harder Judges, judge ambitious rage,(Scourge of it selfe, still clyming slippery place)Holds my young braine captiv’d in golden cage.O fooles, or over-wise, alas the case;Of all my thoughts have neither stop nor start,But onelyStellaseyes, andStellashart.Rich fooles there there be, whose base and filthie hart,Lyes hatching still the goods wherein they flow:And damning their owne selves toTantal’ssmart,Welth breeding want, more rich, more wretched grow.Yet to those fooles, heaven doth such wit impart,As what their hands doe hold, their heads doe know.And knowing love, and loving lay apart,As scattered things, farre from all dangers show.But that rich foole, who by blind Fortunes lot,The richest gem of love and life enjoyes,And can with foule abuse such beauties blot:Let him deprived of sweet, but unfelt joyesExilde for aye, from those high treasures whichHe knowes not grow, in onely follie rich.The wisest scholler of the wight most wise,ByPhœbusdoome, with sugred sentence sayes:That vertue if it once meete with our eyes,Strange flames of love it in our soules would rayse.But for that man with paine this truth discries,While he each thing in sences ballance wayes,And so, nor will nor can behold those skyes,Which inward Summe to heroicke mindes displaies.Vertue of late with vertuous care to stirLove of himselfe, takesStellasshape, that heeTo mortall eyes might sweetly shine in her.It is most true, for since I her did see,Vertues great beautie in her face I prove,And finde th’ effect, for I doe burne in love.Though duskie wits dare scorne Astrologie,And fooles can thinke those lampes of purest light,Whose number, waies, greatnes, eternitie,Promising wondrous wonders to invite,To have for no cause birth-right in the skyes.But for to spangle the blacke weedes of Night,Or for some Braule which in that Chamber hie,They should still daunce to please a gazers sight.For mee I doe Nature unydle know,And know great causes, great effects procure,And know those bodies high, raigne on the low.And if these rules did fayle, proofe makes me sure,Who oft foresee my after following case,By onely those two starres inStella’sface.Because I oft in darke abstracted guise,Seeme most alone in greatest company,With dearth of words, and aunswers quite awry,To them that would make speech of speech arise;They deeme, and of their doome the rumor flies,That poyson foule of bubling pride doth lieSo in my swelling brest, that onely IFaune on my selfe, all others doe dispise:Yet pride (I thinke) doth not my soule possesse,(Which lookes too oft in this unflattering glasse)But one worse fault, ambition I confesse,That makes me oft my best freends over-passe,Unseene unheard, while thought to highest placeBends all his powers, even untoStellasgrace.You that with allegories curious frameOf others children changelings use to make,With mee those paines for good now doe not take,I list not dig so deepe for brasen fame.When I seeStella, I doe meane the samePrincesse of beautie, for whose onely sake,The raynes of love I love, though never slake;And joy therein, though Nations count it shame:I begge no subject to use eloquence,Nor in hid waies to guide Philosophie,Looke at my hands for no such quintessence,But know that I in pure simplicitie,Breath out the flames which burn within my hart,Love only leading me into this arte.Like some weake Lords Neighbord by mightie kings,To keepe themselves and their chiefe Cities free,Doe easily yeelde, that all their coast may beReadie to serve their Campe of needfull things:SoStellashart finding what power Love brings,To keepe it selfe in life and libertie,Doth willing graunt that in the Frontire heUse all to help his other conquerings.And thus her hart escapes, but thus her eyesServe him with shot, her lips his Heralds are,Her brests his Tents, legges his tryumphall Chare,Herselfe his foode, her skin his Armour brave.And I but for because my prospect lyes:Upon that coast, am given up for slave.Whether the Turkish new Moone minded be,To fill her hornes this yeere on Christian coast,How Polands King mindes without leave of hoast,To warme with ill made fire coldMuscovie,If French can yet three parts in one agree,What now the Dutch in their full diets boast,How Holland harts, now so good Townes are lost,Trust in the shade of pleasing Orange tree.How Ulster likes of the same goldenbitt,Wherewith my Father made it once halfe tame,If in the Scottish Court be weltering yet;These questions busie wits to me do frame,I combered with good manners, aunswere doe,But know not how, for still I thinke onyou.With how sad steps ô Moone thou clim’st the skyes,How silently, and with how meane a face,What may it be, that even in heavenly place,That busie Archer his sharpe Arrowes tryes?Sure if that long with love acquainted eyesCan judge of love, thou feelst of Lovers case,I reade within thy lookes thy languisht grace.To mee that feele the like, my state discries.Then even of fellowship ô Moone tell me,Is constant love deemde there but want of wit?Are beauties there, as proude as here there be?Doe they above, love to be lov’d, and yetThose Lovers scorne, whom that love doth possesse?Doe they call vertue there ungratefulnesse?Morpheusthe lively sonne of deadlie Sleepe,Witnes of life to them that living die:A Prophet oft, and oft an Historie,A Poet eake as humors flye and creepe:Since thou in me so sure a power doost keepe,That never I with clos’d up fence doe lye,But by thy worke, myStellaI discry,Teaching blind eyes both how to smile and weepe,Vouchsafe of all acquaintance this to tell,Whence hast thou Ivorie, Rubies, Pearle, and Golde,To shewherskin, lips, teeth, and head so well?(Foole aunswers he) noIndessuch treasures hold,But from thy hart, while my Sire charmeth thee,SweetStellasImage I do steale to mee.I might, unhappy word, (woe me) I might,And then would not, nor could not see my blisse:Till now, wrapt in a most infernall Night,I finde, how heavenly day (wretch) did I misse;Hart rent thy selfe, thou doost thy selfe but right.No lovelyParismade thyHelenhis,No force, no fraude, robd thee of thy delight,Nor fortune of thy fortune Author is;But to my selfe, my selfe did give the blow,While too much wit forsooth so trubled me,That I respects for both our sakes must show,And yet could not by rysing morne fore-see,How faire a day was neere, (ô punisht eyes)That I had beene more foolish, or more wise.Come let me write, and to what end? to easeA burthened hart, (how can words ease, which areThe glasses of thy daily vexing care?)Oft cruell fights well pictured forth doe please,Art not asham’d to publish thy disease?Nay, that may breede my fame, it is so rare,But will not wise men thinke thy words fonde ware?Then be they close, and they shall none displease,What idler thing than speake and not be heard?What harder thing than smart and not to speake?Peace foolish wit, with wit my wit is marde;Thus write I while I doubt to write, and wreakeMy harmes in ynkes poore losse, perhaps some findeStellasgreat power, that so confus’d my minde.What may words say? or what may words not say,Where truth it selfe must speake like flattery?Within what bounds can one his lyking stay,Where Nature doth with infinite agree?WhatNestorscounsell can my flames allay,Since Reasons selfe doth blow the coles to me?And ah, what hope that hope should once see day,WhereCupidis sworne page to Chastitie;Honour is honoured that thou dost possesseHim as thy slave, and now long needie FameDoth even grow rich, meaning myStellasname;Wit learnes intheeperfection to expresse,Notthouby praise, but praise intheeis raised,It is a praise, to praise wherethouart praised.Stella, whence doth these newe assaults arise,A conquerd, yeelding, ransackt hart to win?Whereto long since, through my long battred eyes,Whole Armies ofthybeauties entred in,And there long since, Love thy Lieuetenant lyes,My forces raz’d, thy banners rais’d withinOf conquest, what do these effects suffise,But wilt new warre uppon thine owne begin,With so sweet voyce, and by sweet nature so,In sweetest strength, so sweetly skild withall,In all sweet stratagems sweet Art can shew:That not my soule which at thy foot did fallLong since forst by thy beames; but stone nor treeBy sences priviledge can scape from thee.This night while sleepe begins, with heavie wingsTo close mine eyes, and the unbitted thoughtDoth fall to stray, and my chiefe powers are broughtTo leave the scepter of all subject things,The first that straight my fancies errour bringsUnto my minde, isStellasImage, wroughtBy Loves owne selfe, but with so curious draught,That she me thinkes not onely shines but sings:I start, looke, harke, but what inclos’d up senceWas helde in open sence it flyes away,Leaving me nought but wayling eloquence.I seeing Better sights in sighes decay,Conclude a new, and woed Sleepe againe,But him her hoast that unkind guest had slaine.Come Sleepe, ô Sleepe, the certaine knot of peace,The bathing place of wits, the balme of woe,The poore mans wealth, the prysoners release,The indifferent judge betweene the high and lowe,With shield of proofe, shield me from out the presseOf these fierce darts, Dispaire at me doth throw;O make in me those civill warres to cease:I will good trybute pay if thou do so.Take thou of me smooth pillowes, sweetest bed;A chamber deafe of noyse, and blinde of light,A rosie garland, and a wearie head.And if these things (as being thine in right)Move not thy heavie grace, thou shalt in meeLivelier than els whereStellasImage see.As good to write, as for to lie and groane,OStelladeere, how muchthypower hath wrought,That hast my minde now of the basest brought,My still kept course while others sleepe to moane;Alas if from the height of Vertues throane,Thou canst vouchsafe the influence of a thought,Upon a wretch which longthygrace hath sought,Way then how I by thee am overthrowne;And then thinke thus, althoughthybeautie beMade manifest, by such a victorie,Yet noblest Conquerers doe wreake avoide;Since thenthouhast so farre subdued me,That in my hart I offer still tothee,O doe not let thy Temple be destroide.Having this days, my horse, my hand, my LaunceGuided so well, that I obtaind the prize,Both by the judgment of the English eyes,And of some sent from that sweet enmie Fraunce,Horsmen my skill in horsmanship advaunce,Towne folke my strength: a daintier Judge appliesHis praise to flight, which from good use doth rise:Some luckie wits, impute it but to chaunce:Others, because from both sides I doe takeMy blood, from them that doe excell in this,Thinke Nature me a man at Armes did make.How farre they shoot awry; the true cause is,Stellalookt on, and from her heavenly face,Sent forth the beames, which made so faire a race.O Eyes which doe the Spheres of beautie move,Whose beames all joyes, whose joyes all vertues be:Who while they make Love conquer, conquer Love,The Schooles whereVenushath learnd Chastitie;O eyes, where humble lookes most glorious prove,Onely loved tyrants just in crueltie.Doe not, doe not, from poore me, once remove,Keepe still my Zenith, ever shine on me;For though I never see them, but straight waiesMy life forgets to nourish languisht sprights:Yet still on me (ô eyes) dart downe your rayes;And if from Majestie of sacred LightsOppressing mortall sence, my death proceede:Wreckes tryumphs best, which Love hie set doth breed.Faire eyes, sweet lips, deere hart, that foolish ICould hope byCupidshelpe, on you to pray:Since to himselfe he doth your gifts apply,As his maine force, chiefe sport, and easefull stay.For when he will see who dare him gainsay,Then with those eyes he lookes, loe by and by,Each soule doth at Loves feete his weapons lay,Glad if forherhe give them leave to die.When he will play, then inherlips he is,Where blushing red, that Loves selfe them do love,With either lip he doth the other kisseBut when he will for quiets sake removeFrom all the world,herhart is then his roome:Where well he knowes, no man to him can come.My words I know doe well set forth my minde,My minde bemones his sence of inward smart;Such smart may pittie claime of any hart;Herhart, sweete hart, is of no Tygers kinde,And yetsheheares, and I no pittie finde,But more I cry, lesse graceshedoth impart;Alas, what cause is there so overthwart,That Noblenes it selfe makes thus unkinde?I much doe gesse, yet finde no truth save this,That when the breath of my complaint doe touchThose daintie doores unto the Court of Blisse,The heavenly nature of that place is such:That once come there, the sobs of my annoyes,Are metamorphos’d straight to tunes of joyes.Stellaoft sees the verie face of woesPainted in my beclowded stormie face:But cannot skill to pittie my disgrace;No though thereof the causeher selfe sheeknowes.Yet hearing late a fable which did show,Of Lovers never knowne, (a grievous case)Pittie thereof got in her breast such place,As fromhereyes, a Spring of teares did flow.Alas, if Fancie drawne by ymag’d things,Though false, yet with free scope more grace doth breedeThen Servants wreck, where new doubts honor brings,Than thinke myDeere, that in me you doe reedeOf Lovers ruine some thrise sad Tragædie:I am not I, pittie the tale of me.I curst thee oft, I pittie now thy case,Blind hitting Boy, sincesheethat thee and meRules with a becke, so tyranniseth thee,That thou must want or foode or dwelling place;ForSheeprotests to banish theeherface.Herface (ô Love) a roge thou then should’st bee,If Love learne not alone to love and see,Without desire to feede on further grace.Alas poore wagge, that now a Scholler artTo such a Schoole-mistris, whose lessons newThou needes must misse, and so thou needes must smart;Yetdeere, let me this pardon get ofyou,So long though he from booke mich to desire.Till without Fuell,thoucan make hote fire.
Loving in trueth, and fayne my love in verse to show,That the deereShee, might take some pleasure of my paine:Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,Knowledge might pittie winne, and pittie grace obtaine.I sought fit wordes to paint the blackest face of woe,Studying inventions fine, her wittes to entertaine,Oft turning others leaves, to see if thence would flowe,Some fresh and fruitfull showre, upon my Sunne-burnt braine.But wordes came halting out, wanting inventions stay,Invention Natures childe, fledde Stepdame studies blowes:And others feete, still seem’de but strangers in my way,Thus great with Childe to speake, and helplesse in my throwes,Byting my trewand penne, beating my selfe for spite:Foole saide my Muse to mee, looke in thy heart and write.
Loving in trueth, and fayne my love in verse to show,
That the deereShee, might take some pleasure of my paine:
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pittie winne, and pittie grace obtaine.
I sought fit wordes to paint the blackest face of woe,
Studying inventions fine, her wittes to entertaine,
Oft turning others leaves, to see if thence would flowe,
Some fresh and fruitfull showre, upon my Sunne-burnt braine.
But wordes came halting out, wanting inventions stay,
Invention Natures childe, fledde Stepdame studies blowes:
And others feete, still seem’de but strangers in my way,
Thus great with Childe to speake, and helplesse in my throwes,
Byting my trewand penne, beating my selfe for spite:
Foole saide my Muse to mee, looke in thy heart and write.
Not at first sight, nor with a dribbing shot,Love gave the wound, which while I breath will bleede:But knowne, worth did in mine of time proceede,Till by degrees it had full conquest got.I sawe and lik’d, I lik’d but loved not,I lov’d, but did not straight what Love decreede:At length to Loves decrees, I forst agreede:Yet with repining at so partiall lot.Now even that foot-steppe of lost libertieIs gone, and now like slave borne Muscovite:I call it praise to suffer tyrannie,And now imploy the remnant of my witTo make my selfe believe that all is well,While with a feeling skill I paint my hell.
Not at first sight, nor with a dribbing shot,
Love gave the wound, which while I breath will bleede:
But knowne, worth did in mine of time proceede,
Till by degrees it had full conquest got.
I sawe and lik’d, I lik’d but loved not,
I lov’d, but did not straight what Love decreede:
At length to Loves decrees, I forst agreede:
Yet with repining at so partiall lot.
Now even that foot-steppe of lost libertie
Is gone, and now like slave borne Muscovite:
I call it praise to suffer tyrannie,
And now imploy the remnant of my wit
To make my selfe believe that all is well,
While with a feeling skill I paint my hell.
Let Daintie wittes cry on the Sisters nine,That bravely maskt, their fancies may be tolde:Or Pinders Apes flaunt they in phrases fine,Enamling with pyde flowers their thoughts of gold:Or els let them in statelyee glorie shine,Ennobling new found tropes with problemes old:Or with strange similes, inricht each line,Of hearbes or beasts, whichIndeorAffrickehold.For me in sooth, no Muse but one I know,Phrases and Problemes from my reach do growe.And straunge things cost too deere for my poor sprites,How then? even thus inStellasface I reede,What love and beautie be, then all my deedeBut coppying is, what in her nature writes.
Let Daintie wittes cry on the Sisters nine,
That bravely maskt, their fancies may be tolde:
Or Pinders Apes flaunt they in phrases fine,
Enamling with pyde flowers their thoughts of gold:
Or els let them in statelyee glorie shine,
Ennobling new found tropes with problemes old:
Or with strange similes, inricht each line,
Of hearbes or beasts, whichIndeorAffrickehold.
For me in sooth, no Muse but one I know,
Phrases and Problemes from my reach do growe.
And straunge things cost too deere for my poor sprites,
How then? even thus inStellasface I reede,
What love and beautie be, then all my deede
But coppying is, what in her nature writes.
Vertue (alas) now let me take some rest,Thou set’st a bate betweene my will and wit;If vaine love have my simple soule opprest,Leave what thou lik’st not, deale not thou with it.Thy Scepter use in some oldeCatoesbrest,Churches or Schooles are for thy seat more fit:I doe confes, (pardon a fault confest,)My mouth too tender is for thy hard bit.But if that needes, thou wilt usurping beeThe little reason that is left in mee.And still th’ effect of thy perswasions proove,I sweare, my heart such one shall shew to thee,That shrines in flesh so true a deitie,That Vertue, thou thy selfe shalt be in love.
Vertue (alas) now let me take some rest,
Thou set’st a bate betweene my will and wit;
If vaine love have my simple soule opprest,
Leave what thou lik’st not, deale not thou with it.
Thy Scepter use in some oldeCatoesbrest,
Churches or Schooles are for thy seat more fit:
I doe confes, (pardon a fault confest,)
My mouth too tender is for thy hard bit.
But if that needes, thou wilt usurping bee
The little reason that is left in mee.
And still th’ effect of thy perswasions proove,
I sweare, my heart such one shall shew to thee,
That shrines in flesh so true a deitie,
That Vertue, thou thy selfe shalt be in love.
It is most true, that eyes are found to serveThe inward light: and that the heavenly partOught to be King, from whose rules who doth swerve,Rebels to nature, strive for their owne smart.It is most true, what wee callCupidsdart,An Image is, which for ourselves we carve:And fooles adore, in Temple of our hart,Till that good God make church and Church-men starve.True that true beautie vertue is in deede,Whereof this beautie can but be a shade:Which Elements with mortall mixture breede,True that on earth we are but Pilgrimes made,And should in soule, up to our Country move:True and most true, that I mustStellalove.
It is most true, that eyes are found to serve
The inward light: and that the heavenly part
Ought to be King, from whose rules who doth swerve,
Rebels to nature, strive for their owne smart.
It is most true, what wee callCupidsdart,
An Image is, which for ourselves we carve:
And fooles adore, in Temple of our hart,
Till that good God make church and Church-men starve.
True that true beautie vertue is in deede,
Whereof this beautie can but be a shade:
Which Elements with mortall mixture breede,
True that on earth we are but Pilgrimes made,
And should in soule, up to our Country move:
True and most true, that I mustStellalove.
Some Lovers speake, when they their Muses entertaineOf hopes begot, by feare, of wot not what desires,Of force of heavenly beames, infusing hellish paine;Of lyving deathes, deere woundes, faire Stormes, and friesing fyres.Some one his songs inJoveandJovesstraunge tales attyres,Bordered with Bulles and Swannes, poudered with golden raine:Another humbler witte to shepheards pipe retyres,Yet hiding royall blood, full oft in Rurall vaine.To some a sweetest plaint a sweetest stile affordes,Whiles teares poure out his inke, and sighes breatheHis paper pale despaire, and paine his penne doth move.I can speake what I feele, and feele as much as they,But thinke that all the mappe of my state I display,When trembling voice brings foorth, that I doStellalove.
Some Lovers speake, when they their Muses entertaine
Of hopes begot, by feare, of wot not what desires,
Of force of heavenly beames, infusing hellish paine;
Of lyving deathes, deere woundes, faire Stormes, and friesing fyres.
Some one his songs inJoveandJovesstraunge tales attyres,
Bordered with Bulles and Swannes, poudered with golden raine:
Another humbler witte to shepheards pipe retyres,
Yet hiding royall blood, full oft in Rurall vaine.
To some a sweetest plaint a sweetest stile affordes,
Whiles teares poure out his inke, and sighes breathe
His paper pale despaire, and paine his penne doth move.
I can speake what I feele, and feele as much as they,
But thinke that all the mappe of my state I display,
When trembling voice brings foorth, that I doStellalove.
When nature made her chiefe worke,Stella’seyes,In collour blacke, why wrapt she beames so bright?Would she in beamy blacke like Painter wise,Frame daintiest lustre mixte of shades of light?Or did she els that sober hewe devise,In object best, to strength and knitt our sighteLeast if no vaile these brave gleames did disguise,They Sun-like should more dazell than delight.Or would she her miraculous power shewe,That whereas blacke seemes Beauties contrarie,Shee even in blacke doth make all Beauties flowerBoth so and thus; she minding Love should beePlaste ever there, gave him this mourning weede:To honour all their deathes, which for her bleede.
When nature made her chiefe worke,Stella’seyes,
In collour blacke, why wrapt she beames so bright?
Would she in beamy blacke like Painter wise,
Frame daintiest lustre mixte of shades of light?
Or did she els that sober hewe devise,
In object best, to strength and knitt our sighte
Least if no vaile these brave gleames did disguise,
They Sun-like should more dazell than delight.
Or would she her miraculous power shewe,
That whereas blacke seemes Beauties contrarie,
Shee even in blacke doth make all Beauties flower
Both so and thus; she minding Love should bee
Plaste ever there, gave him this mourning weede:
To honour all their deathes, which for her bleede.
Love borne inGreece, of late fled from his native place,Forst by a tedious proofe, that Turkish hardned hartWere no fit marke, to pearce with his fine pointed dart:And pleasd with our lost peace, staide here his fleeting race.But finding these North climes, too coldlie him imbrace,Not usde to frosen clippes, he strave to finde some partWhere with most ease and warmth, he might imploy his art.At length he preach’d himselfe inStellasjoyfull face,Whose faire skinne, beamie eyes, like morning Sunne on snow:Deceiv’d the quaking boy, who thought from so pure light,Effects of livelie heate must needes in nature growe.But shee most faire, most colde; made him thence take his flightTo my close hart; where while some fire brands he did lay,He burnt unwares his wings, and cannot fly away.
Love borne inGreece, of late fled from his native place,
Forst by a tedious proofe, that Turkish hardned hart
Were no fit marke, to pearce with his fine pointed dart:
And pleasd with our lost peace, staide here his fleeting race.
But finding these North climes, too coldlie him imbrace,
Not usde to frosen clippes, he strave to finde some part
Where with most ease and warmth, he might imploy his art.
At length he preach’d himselfe inStellasjoyfull face,
Whose faire skinne, beamie eyes, like morning Sunne on snow:
Deceiv’d the quaking boy, who thought from so pure light,
Effects of livelie heate must needes in nature growe.
But shee most faire, most colde; made him thence take his flight
To my close hart; where while some fire brands he did lay,
He burnt unwares his wings, and cannot fly away.
Queene Vertues Court, which some callStellasface,Prepar’d by Natures cheefest furniture:Hath his front built of Alabaster pure.Gold is the covering of that statelie place.The doore, by which sometimes comes forth her graceRed Porphire is, which locke of Pearle makes sure:Whose Porches rich, with name of chekes indure,Marble mixt red and white, doe enterlace.The Windowes now, through which this heavenly guestLookes ore the world, and can finde nothing such,Which dare claime from those lights the name of best,Of touch they are, that without touch doe touch,Which Cupids selfe, from beauties mine did drawe:Of touch they are, and poore I am their strawe.
Queene Vertues Court, which some callStellasface,
Prepar’d by Natures cheefest furniture:
Hath his front built of Alabaster pure.
Gold is the covering of that statelie place.
The doore, by which sometimes comes forth her grace
Red Porphire is, which locke of Pearle makes sure:
Whose Porches rich, with name of chekes indure,
Marble mixt red and white, doe enterlace.
The Windowes now, through which this heavenly guest
Lookes ore the world, and can finde nothing such,
Which dare claime from those lights the name of best,
Of touch they are, that without touch doe touch,
Which Cupids selfe, from beauties mine did drawe:
Of touch they are, and poore I am their strawe.
Reason, in faith thou art well serv’d, that stillWould’st brabling be, with sence and love in me:I rather with thee climbe the Muses hill,Or reach the fruite of Natures chiefest tree:Or seeke heavens course, or heavens inside to see:Why should’st thou toyle, our thornie soyle to till?Leave sence and those that sences objects be,Deale thou with powers, of thoughts leave love to will.But thou wouldst needes fight both with Love and sence,With sworde of witte, giving woundes of dispraise:Till down-right blowes did foyle thy cunning fence,So soone as they strake thee withStellasrayes.Reason, thou knewest, and offered straight to prove;By reason good, good reason her to love.
Reason, in faith thou art well serv’d, that still
Would’st brabling be, with sence and love in me:
I rather with thee climbe the Muses hill,
Or reach the fruite of Natures chiefest tree:
Or seeke heavens course, or heavens inside to see:
Why should’st thou toyle, our thornie soyle to till?
Leave sence and those that sences objects be,
Deale thou with powers, of thoughts leave love to will.
But thou wouldst needes fight both with Love and sence,
With sworde of witte, giving woundes of dispraise:
Till down-right blowes did foyle thy cunning fence,
So soone as they strake thee withStellasrayes.
Reason, thou knewest, and offered straight to prove;
By reason good, good reason her to love.
In truth oh Love: with what a boyish kindeThou doost proceede, in thy most serious waies;That when the heaven to thee his best displaies,Yet of that best thou leav’st the best behinde.That like a Childe that some faire booke doth findeWith gilden leaves of colloured Velom, playesOr at the most on some faire picture stares,But never heedes the fruite of Writers minde.So when thou sawest in Natures cabinet,Stella, thou straight lokest babies in her eyes:In her chekes pit, thou didst thy pitfall set,And in her brest bo-peepe or touching lyes,Playing and shining in each outward part:But foole seekst not to get into her hart.
In truth oh Love: with what a boyish kinde
Thou doost proceede, in thy most serious waies;
That when the heaven to thee his best displaies,
Yet of that best thou leav’st the best behinde.
That like a Childe that some faire booke doth finde
With gilden leaves of colloured Velom, playes
Or at the most on some faire picture stares,
But never heedes the fruite of Writers minde.
So when thou sawest in Natures cabinet,
Stella, thou straight lokest babies in her eyes:
In her chekes pit, thou didst thy pitfall set,
And in her brest bo-peepe or touching lyes,
Playing and shining in each outward part:
But foole seekst not to get into her hart.
Cupidbecause thou shin’st inStellaseyes,That from her lookes thy day-nets now scapes free:That those lips swelde so full of thee they be.That her sweet breath makes all thy flames t’arise,That in her brest thy pap well sugred lyes,That her grace gracious makes thy wrongs, that shee,What word so ere shee speakes, perswades for thee:That her cleere voice, lifts thy fame to the skyes.Thou countestStellathine, like those whose powresHaving got up a breach; (by fighting well)Cry victorie, this faire day all is ours:Oh no, her heart is such a Cytadell.So fortified with wit, stor’d with disdaine:That to winne it, is all the skill and paine.
Cupidbecause thou shin’st inStellaseyes,
That from her lookes thy day-nets now scapes free:
That those lips swelde so full of thee they be.
That her sweet breath makes all thy flames t’arise,
That in her brest thy pap well sugred lyes,
That her grace gracious makes thy wrongs, that shee,
What word so ere shee speakes, perswades for thee:
That her cleere voice, lifts thy fame to the skyes.
Thou countestStellathine, like those whose powres
Having got up a breach; (by fighting well)
Cry victorie, this faire day all is ours:
Oh no, her heart is such a Cytadell.
So fortified with wit, stor’d with disdaine:
That to winne it, is all the skill and paine.
Phœbuswas Judge, betweeneJove,Mars,& love,Of those three Gods whose armes the fairest were:Jovesgolden shield, did Eagle Sables beare:Whose talents held youngGanimedeabove.But in verde fielde,Marsbare a golden Speare,Which through a bleeding heart, his point did shove:Each had his Crest,MarscarriedVenusglove.Joveon his Helme the Thunderbolt did reare.Cupidthen smiles, for on his crest there lyesStellasfaire haire, her face he makes his shielde:Where Roses gueules, are borne in silver fielde.Phœbusdrewe wide the Curtaine of the skyesTo blase the last, and swore devoutly then:The first thus macht, were scarcely Gentlemen.
Phœbuswas Judge, betweeneJove,Mars,& love,
Of those three Gods whose armes the fairest were:
Jovesgolden shield, did Eagle Sables beare:
Whose talents held youngGanimedeabove.
But in verde fielde,Marsbare a golden Speare,
Which through a bleeding heart, his point did shove:
Each had his Crest,MarscarriedVenusglove.
Joveon his Helme the Thunderbolt did reare.
Cupidthen smiles, for on his crest there lyes
Stellasfaire haire, her face he makes his shielde:
Where Roses gueules, are borne in silver fielde.
Phœbusdrewe wide the Curtaine of the skyes
To blase the last, and swore devoutly then:
The first thus macht, were scarcely Gentlemen.
Alas, have I not paine enough my friend,Uppon whose breast, a fiercer gripe doth tyre,Than did on him, who first stole downe the fyre;While Love on me, doth all his quiver spend,But with your rubarbe wordes you must contend,To greeve me worse in saying, that desierDoth plunge my well form’d soule, even in the mierOf sinfull thoughtes, which doe in ruine ende.If that be sinne which doth the manners frame,Well stayed with trueth, in worde and faith of deede,Readie of wit, and fearing nought but shame;If it be sin which in fixt hart dooth breede,A loathing of all lose unchastitie;Then love is sin, and let me sinfull bee.
Alas, have I not paine enough my friend,
Uppon whose breast, a fiercer gripe doth tyre,
Than did on him, who first stole downe the fyre;
While Love on me, doth all his quiver spend,
But with your rubarbe wordes you must contend,
To greeve me worse in saying, that desier
Doth plunge my well form’d soule, even in the mier
Of sinfull thoughtes, which doe in ruine ende.
If that be sinne which doth the manners frame,
Well stayed with trueth, in worde and faith of deede,
Readie of wit, and fearing nought but shame;
If it be sin which in fixt hart dooth breede,
A loathing of all lose unchastitie;
Then love is sin, and let me sinfull bee.
You that do search for every purling spring,Which from the rybs of oldParnassusflowes,And every flower (not sweete perhaps) which growesNeere there about, into your Poesie wring.Ye that do Dictionaries method bringInto your rymes, running in ratling rowes,You that poorePetrarchslong deceased woesWith new borne sighes, & devised wit do sing;You take wrong wayes, those far-fet helps be such,As doe bewray a want of inward tutch,And sure at length stolne goods doe come to light.But if both for your love and skill you name,You seeke to nurse at fullest brest of Fame,Stellabehold and then begin t’endite.
You that do search for every purling spring,
Which from the rybs of oldParnassusflowes,
And every flower (not sweete perhaps) which growes
Neere there about, into your Poesie wring.
Ye that do Dictionaries method bring
Into your rymes, running in ratling rowes,
You that poorePetrarchslong deceased woes
With new borne sighes, & devised wit do sing;
You take wrong wayes, those far-fet helps be such,
As doe bewray a want of inward tutch,
And sure at length stolne goods doe come to light.
But if both for your love and skill you name,
You seeke to nurse at fullest brest of Fame,
Stellabehold and then begin t’endite.
In nature apt to like, when I did seeBeauties which were of many Carrects fine,My boyling spirits did thether soone encline,And Love I thought that I was full of thee;But finding not those restles flames in meeWhich others said did make their soules to pyne,I thought those babes of some pins hurt did whine:By my love judging what loves paines might be.But while I thus with this young Lyon plaid,Myne eyes (shall I say curst or blest) beheldStella: now shee is nam’de, neede more be sayd?In her sight I a lesson new have speld.I now have learnd love right, and learnd even so,As who by being poysond doth poyson know.
In nature apt to like, when I did see
Beauties which were of many Carrects fine,
My boyling spirits did thether soone encline,
And Love I thought that I was full of thee;
But finding not those restles flames in mee
Which others said did make their soules to pyne,
I thought those babes of some pins hurt did whine:
By my love judging what loves paines might be.
But while I thus with this young Lyon plaid,
Myne eyes (shall I say curst or blest) beheld
Stella: now shee is nam’de, neede more be sayd?
In her sight I a lesson new have speld.
I now have learnd love right, and learnd even so,
As who by being poysond doth poyson know.
His mother deereCupidoffended late,Because thatMarsgrew slacker in her love,With pricking shot he did not throughly moveTo keepe the pace of their first loving state:The boy refusde, for feare ofMarseshate;Who threatned stripes, if he his wrath did prove:But she in chafe him from her lap did shove,Brake bowe, brake shafts, whereCupidweeping sate,Till that his Grandam Nature pittying it,OfStellasbrowes made him two better bowes:And in her eyes of arrowes infinit.O how for joye he leapes, ô how he crowes;And straight therewith, like wagges new got to play:Falls to shrewde turnes, and I was in his way.
His mother deereCupidoffended late,
Because thatMarsgrew slacker in her love,
With pricking shot he did not throughly move
To keepe the pace of their first loving state:
The boy refusde, for feare ofMarseshate;
Who threatned stripes, if he his wrath did prove:
But she in chafe him from her lap did shove,
Brake bowe, brake shafts, whereCupidweeping sate,
Till that his Grandam Nature pittying it,
OfStellasbrowes made him two better bowes:
And in her eyes of arrowes infinit.
O how for joye he leapes, ô how he crowes;
And straight therewith, like wagges new got to play:
Falls to shrewde turnes, and I was in his way.
With what strange checkes I in my selfe am shent,When into Reasons Audit I doe goe:And by just counts my selfe a Bankerowt knowOf all those goods which heaven to me hath lent,Unable quite, to pay even Natures rent,Which unto it by birth-right I doe owe:And which is worse, no good excuse can showe,But that my wealth I have most idely spent,My youth doth waste, my knowledge brings forth toyes,My wit doth strive, those passions to defendeWhich for reward, spoyle it with vaine annoyes;I see my course, to lose my selfe doth bende.I see and yet no greater sorrowe takeThan that I looke no more forStellassake.
With what strange checkes I in my selfe am shent,
When into Reasons Audit I doe goe:
And by just counts my selfe a Bankerowt know
Of all those goods which heaven to me hath lent,
Unable quite, to pay even Natures rent,
Which unto it by birth-right I doe owe:
And which is worse, no good excuse can showe,
But that my wealth I have most idely spent,
My youth doth waste, my knowledge brings forth toyes,
My wit doth strive, those passions to defende
Which for reward, spoyle it with vaine annoyes;
I see my course, to lose my selfe doth bende.
I see and yet no greater sorrowe take
Than that I looke no more forStellassake.
OnCupidsbowe, how are my hart strings bent?That see my wracke, and yet imbrace the same:When most I glorie, then I feele most shame;I willing run, yet while I runne repent;My best wittes still their owne disgrace invent,My verie ynke, turnes straight toStella’sname:And yet my words (as them my penne doth frame)Against themselves that they are vainely spent.For though she passe all things, yet what is allThat unto me, who fare like him that bothLookes to the skyes and in a ditch doth fall,O let me prop my mind yet in his grouthAnd not in nature, for best fruits unfit;Scholler saith Love bend hitherward your wit.
OnCupidsbowe, how are my hart strings bent?
That see my wracke, and yet imbrace the same:
When most I glorie, then I feele most shame;
I willing run, yet while I runne repent;
My best wittes still their owne disgrace invent,
My verie ynke, turnes straight toStella’sname:
And yet my words (as them my penne doth frame)
Against themselves that they are vainely spent.
For though she passe all things, yet what is all
That unto me, who fare like him that both
Lookes to the skyes and in a ditch doth fall,
O let me prop my mind yet in his grouth
And not in nature, for best fruits unfit;
Scholler saith Love bend hitherward your wit.
Fly, flye my friends, I have my deathes wound, flye;See there that boy, that murthering boy I say,Who like a thiefe hid in a bush doth lye,Tyll blooddy bullet get him wrongfull pray.So, tyrant he no fitter place could spy,Nor so farre levell in so secrete stay:As that sweete blacke which veiles thy heavenly eye.There himselfe with his shot he close doth laye.Poore passenger, passe now thereby I did,And staid pleasd with prospect of the place,While that black hue from me the bad guest hid,But straight I saw motions of lightnings grace,And there descried the glisterings of his dart:But ere I could flie thence, it pearst my hart.
Fly, flye my friends, I have my deathes wound, flye;
See there that boy, that murthering boy I say,
Who like a thiefe hid in a bush doth lye,
Tyll blooddy bullet get him wrongfull pray.
So, tyrant he no fitter place could spy,
Nor so farre levell in so secrete stay:
As that sweete blacke which veiles thy heavenly eye.
There himselfe with his shot he close doth laye.
Poore passenger, passe now thereby I did,
And staid pleasd with prospect of the place,
While that black hue from me the bad guest hid,
But straight I saw motions of lightnings grace,
And there descried the glisterings of his dart:
But ere I could flie thence, it pearst my hart.
Your words my freend right helthfull caustickes blame.My young minde marde whom Love doth windlase so:That my owne writings like bad servants showeMy wits, quick in vaine thoughts, in vertue lame;ThatPlatoI reade for nought, but if he tameSuch coltish giers; that to my birth I oweNobler desires: lest els that friendly foeGreat expectation were a traine of shame.For since madMarchgreat promise made to mee,If now theMayof my yeeres much decline,What can be hop’d my harvest time will be,Sure you say well, your wisedomes golden myneDigs deepe with learnings spade: now tell me this,Hath this world ought so faire asStellais?
Your words my freend right helthfull caustickes blame.
My young minde marde whom Love doth windlase so:
That my owne writings like bad servants showe
My wits, quick in vaine thoughts, in vertue lame;
ThatPlatoI reade for nought, but if he tame
Such coltish giers; that to my birth I owe
Nobler desires: lest els that friendly foe
Great expectation were a traine of shame.
For since madMarchgreat promise made to mee,
If now theMayof my yeeres much decline,
What can be hop’d my harvest time will be,
Sure you say well, your wisedomes golden myne
Digs deepe with learnings spade: now tell me this,
Hath this world ought so faire asStellais?
In highest way of heaven the Sunne did ride,Progressing then from fayre Twynns golden place,Having no maske of Clowdes before his face,But shining forth of heat in his chiefe pride,When some faire Ladies by hard promise tyde,On horsebacke met him in his furious race,Yet each prepar’de with Fannes well shading grace,From that foes wounds their tender skinnes to hide.Stellaalone, with face unarmed marcht,Either to doe like him, which open shone:Or carelesse of the welth, because her owne.Yet were the hid and meaner beauties parcht,Her dainties bare went free; the cause was this,The Sunne which others burnt, did her but kisse.
In highest way of heaven the Sunne did ride,
Progressing then from fayre Twynns golden place,
Having no maske of Clowdes before his face,
But shining forth of heat in his chiefe pride,
When some faire Ladies by hard promise tyde,
On horsebacke met him in his furious race,
Yet each prepar’de with Fannes well shading grace,
From that foes wounds their tender skinnes to hide.
Stellaalone, with face unarmed marcht,
Either to doe like him, which open shone:
Or carelesse of the welth, because her owne.
Yet were the hid and meaner beauties parcht,
Her dainties bare went free; the cause was this,
The Sunne which others burnt, did her but kisse.
The curious wits, seeing dull pensivenesBewray it selfe in my long setled eyes:Whence those same fumes of mellancholie rise,With idle paines and missing ayme do gesse;Some that know how, my spring I did adresse,Deem’d that my Muse some fruite of knowledge plyes:Others, because the Prince my service tryes,Thinke that I thinke, State errors to redresse;But harder Judges, judge ambitious rage,(Scourge of it selfe, still clyming slippery place)Holds my young braine captiv’d in golden cage.O fooles, or over-wise, alas the case;Of all my thoughts have neither stop nor start,But onelyStellaseyes, andStellashart.
The curious wits, seeing dull pensivenes
Bewray it selfe in my long setled eyes:
Whence those same fumes of mellancholie rise,
With idle paines and missing ayme do gesse;
Some that know how, my spring I did adresse,
Deem’d that my Muse some fruite of knowledge plyes:
Others, because the Prince my service tryes,
Thinke that I thinke, State errors to redresse;
But harder Judges, judge ambitious rage,
(Scourge of it selfe, still clyming slippery place)
Holds my young braine captiv’d in golden cage.
O fooles, or over-wise, alas the case;
Of all my thoughts have neither stop nor start,
But onelyStellaseyes, andStellashart.
Rich fooles there there be, whose base and filthie hart,Lyes hatching still the goods wherein they flow:And damning their owne selves toTantal’ssmart,Welth breeding want, more rich, more wretched grow.Yet to those fooles, heaven doth such wit impart,As what their hands doe hold, their heads doe know.And knowing love, and loving lay apart,As scattered things, farre from all dangers show.But that rich foole, who by blind Fortunes lot,The richest gem of love and life enjoyes,And can with foule abuse such beauties blot:Let him deprived of sweet, but unfelt joyesExilde for aye, from those high treasures whichHe knowes not grow, in onely follie rich.
Rich fooles there there be, whose base and filthie hart,
Lyes hatching still the goods wherein they flow:
And damning their owne selves toTantal’ssmart,
Welth breeding want, more rich, more wretched grow.
Yet to those fooles, heaven doth such wit impart,
As what their hands doe hold, their heads doe know.
And knowing love, and loving lay apart,
As scattered things, farre from all dangers show.
But that rich foole, who by blind Fortunes lot,
The richest gem of love and life enjoyes,
And can with foule abuse such beauties blot:
Let him deprived of sweet, but unfelt joyes
Exilde for aye, from those high treasures which
He knowes not grow, in onely follie rich.
The wisest scholler of the wight most wise,ByPhœbusdoome, with sugred sentence sayes:That vertue if it once meete with our eyes,Strange flames of love it in our soules would rayse.But for that man with paine this truth discries,While he each thing in sences ballance wayes,And so, nor will nor can behold those skyes,Which inward Summe to heroicke mindes displaies.Vertue of late with vertuous care to stirLove of himselfe, takesStellasshape, that heeTo mortall eyes might sweetly shine in her.It is most true, for since I her did see,Vertues great beautie in her face I prove,And finde th’ effect, for I doe burne in love.
The wisest scholler of the wight most wise,
ByPhœbusdoome, with sugred sentence sayes:
That vertue if it once meete with our eyes,
Strange flames of love it in our soules would rayse.
But for that man with paine this truth discries,
While he each thing in sences ballance wayes,
And so, nor will nor can behold those skyes,
Which inward Summe to heroicke mindes displaies.
Vertue of late with vertuous care to stir
Love of himselfe, takesStellasshape, that hee
To mortall eyes might sweetly shine in her.
It is most true, for since I her did see,
Vertues great beautie in her face I prove,
And finde th’ effect, for I doe burne in love.
Though duskie wits dare scorne Astrologie,And fooles can thinke those lampes of purest light,Whose number, waies, greatnes, eternitie,Promising wondrous wonders to invite,To have for no cause birth-right in the skyes.But for to spangle the blacke weedes of Night,Or for some Braule which in that Chamber hie,They should still daunce to please a gazers sight.For mee I doe Nature unydle know,And know great causes, great effects procure,And know those bodies high, raigne on the low.And if these rules did fayle, proofe makes me sure,Who oft foresee my after following case,By onely those two starres inStella’sface.
Though duskie wits dare scorne Astrologie,
And fooles can thinke those lampes of purest light,
Whose number, waies, greatnes, eternitie,
Promising wondrous wonders to invite,
To have for no cause birth-right in the skyes.
But for to spangle the blacke weedes of Night,
Or for some Braule which in that Chamber hie,
They should still daunce to please a gazers sight.
For mee I doe Nature unydle know,
And know great causes, great effects procure,
And know those bodies high, raigne on the low.
And if these rules did fayle, proofe makes me sure,
Who oft foresee my after following case,
By onely those two starres inStella’sface.
Because I oft in darke abstracted guise,Seeme most alone in greatest company,With dearth of words, and aunswers quite awry,To them that would make speech of speech arise;They deeme, and of their doome the rumor flies,That poyson foule of bubling pride doth lieSo in my swelling brest, that onely IFaune on my selfe, all others doe dispise:Yet pride (I thinke) doth not my soule possesse,(Which lookes too oft in this unflattering glasse)But one worse fault, ambition I confesse,That makes me oft my best freends over-passe,Unseene unheard, while thought to highest placeBends all his powers, even untoStellasgrace.
Because I oft in darke abstracted guise,
Seeme most alone in greatest company,
With dearth of words, and aunswers quite awry,
To them that would make speech of speech arise;
They deeme, and of their doome the rumor flies,
That poyson foule of bubling pride doth lie
So in my swelling brest, that onely I
Faune on my selfe, all others doe dispise:
Yet pride (I thinke) doth not my soule possesse,
(Which lookes too oft in this unflattering glasse)
But one worse fault, ambition I confesse,
That makes me oft my best freends over-passe,
Unseene unheard, while thought to highest place
Bends all his powers, even untoStellasgrace.
You that with allegories curious frameOf others children changelings use to make,With mee those paines for good now doe not take,I list not dig so deepe for brasen fame.When I seeStella, I doe meane the samePrincesse of beautie, for whose onely sake,The raynes of love I love, though never slake;And joy therein, though Nations count it shame:I begge no subject to use eloquence,Nor in hid waies to guide Philosophie,Looke at my hands for no such quintessence,But know that I in pure simplicitie,Breath out the flames which burn within my hart,Love only leading me into this arte.
You that with allegories curious frame
Of others children changelings use to make,
With mee those paines for good now doe not take,
I list not dig so deepe for brasen fame.
When I seeStella, I doe meane the same
Princesse of beautie, for whose onely sake,
The raynes of love I love, though never slake;
And joy therein, though Nations count it shame:
I begge no subject to use eloquence,
Nor in hid waies to guide Philosophie,
Looke at my hands for no such quintessence,
But know that I in pure simplicitie,
Breath out the flames which burn within my hart,
Love only leading me into this arte.
Like some weake Lords Neighbord by mightie kings,To keepe themselves and their chiefe Cities free,Doe easily yeelde, that all their coast may beReadie to serve their Campe of needfull things:SoStellashart finding what power Love brings,To keepe it selfe in life and libertie,Doth willing graunt that in the Frontire heUse all to help his other conquerings.And thus her hart escapes, but thus her eyesServe him with shot, her lips his Heralds are,Her brests his Tents, legges his tryumphall Chare,Herselfe his foode, her skin his Armour brave.And I but for because my prospect lyes:Upon that coast, am given up for slave.
Like some weake Lords Neighbord by mightie kings,
To keepe themselves and their chiefe Cities free,
Doe easily yeelde, that all their coast may be
Readie to serve their Campe of needfull things:
SoStellashart finding what power Love brings,
To keepe it selfe in life and libertie,
Doth willing graunt that in the Frontire he
Use all to help his other conquerings.
And thus her hart escapes, but thus her eyes
Serve him with shot, her lips his Heralds are,
Her brests his Tents, legges his tryumphall Chare,
Herselfe his foode, her skin his Armour brave.
And I but for because my prospect lyes:
Upon that coast, am given up for slave.
Whether the Turkish new Moone minded be,To fill her hornes this yeere on Christian coast,How Polands King mindes without leave of hoast,To warme with ill made fire coldMuscovie,If French can yet three parts in one agree,What now the Dutch in their full diets boast,How Holland harts, now so good Townes are lost,Trust in the shade of pleasing Orange tree.How Ulster likes of the same goldenbitt,Wherewith my Father made it once halfe tame,If in the Scottish Court be weltering yet;These questions busie wits to me do frame,I combered with good manners, aunswere doe,But know not how, for still I thinke onyou.
Whether the Turkish new Moone minded be,
To fill her hornes this yeere on Christian coast,
How Polands King mindes without leave of hoast,
To warme with ill made fire coldMuscovie,
If French can yet three parts in one agree,
What now the Dutch in their full diets boast,
How Holland harts, now so good Townes are lost,
Trust in the shade of pleasing Orange tree.
How Ulster likes of the same goldenbitt,
Wherewith my Father made it once halfe tame,
If in the Scottish Court be weltering yet;
These questions busie wits to me do frame,
I combered with good manners, aunswere doe,
But know not how, for still I thinke onyou.
With how sad steps ô Moone thou clim’st the skyes,How silently, and with how meane a face,What may it be, that even in heavenly place,That busie Archer his sharpe Arrowes tryes?Sure if that long with love acquainted eyesCan judge of love, thou feelst of Lovers case,I reade within thy lookes thy languisht grace.To mee that feele the like, my state discries.Then even of fellowship ô Moone tell me,Is constant love deemde there but want of wit?Are beauties there, as proude as here there be?Doe they above, love to be lov’d, and yetThose Lovers scorne, whom that love doth possesse?Doe they call vertue there ungratefulnesse?
With how sad steps ô Moone thou clim’st the skyes,
How silently, and with how meane a face,
What may it be, that even in heavenly place,
That busie Archer his sharpe Arrowes tryes?
Sure if that long with love acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feelst of Lovers case,
I reade within thy lookes thy languisht grace.
To mee that feele the like, my state discries.
Then even of fellowship ô Moone tell me,
Is constant love deemde there but want of wit?
Are beauties there, as proude as here there be?
Doe they above, love to be lov’d, and yet
Those Lovers scorne, whom that love doth possesse?
Doe they call vertue there ungratefulnesse?
Morpheusthe lively sonne of deadlie Sleepe,Witnes of life to them that living die:A Prophet oft, and oft an Historie,A Poet eake as humors flye and creepe:Since thou in me so sure a power doost keepe,That never I with clos’d up fence doe lye,But by thy worke, myStellaI discry,Teaching blind eyes both how to smile and weepe,Vouchsafe of all acquaintance this to tell,Whence hast thou Ivorie, Rubies, Pearle, and Golde,To shewherskin, lips, teeth, and head so well?(Foole aunswers he) noIndessuch treasures hold,But from thy hart, while my Sire charmeth thee,SweetStellasImage I do steale to mee.
Morpheusthe lively sonne of deadlie Sleepe,
Witnes of life to them that living die:
A Prophet oft, and oft an Historie,
A Poet eake as humors flye and creepe:
Since thou in me so sure a power doost keepe,
That never I with clos’d up fence doe lye,
But by thy worke, myStellaI discry,
Teaching blind eyes both how to smile and weepe,
Vouchsafe of all acquaintance this to tell,
Whence hast thou Ivorie, Rubies, Pearle, and Golde,
To shewherskin, lips, teeth, and head so well?
(Foole aunswers he) noIndessuch treasures hold,
But from thy hart, while my Sire charmeth thee,
SweetStellasImage I do steale to mee.
I might, unhappy word, (woe me) I might,And then would not, nor could not see my blisse:Till now, wrapt in a most infernall Night,I finde, how heavenly day (wretch) did I misse;Hart rent thy selfe, thou doost thy selfe but right.No lovelyParismade thyHelenhis,No force, no fraude, robd thee of thy delight,Nor fortune of thy fortune Author is;But to my selfe, my selfe did give the blow,While too much wit forsooth so trubled me,That I respects for both our sakes must show,And yet could not by rysing morne fore-see,How faire a day was neere, (ô punisht eyes)That I had beene more foolish, or more wise.
I might, unhappy word, (woe me) I might,
And then would not, nor could not see my blisse:
Till now, wrapt in a most infernall Night,
I finde, how heavenly day (wretch) did I misse;
Hart rent thy selfe, thou doost thy selfe but right.
No lovelyParismade thyHelenhis,
No force, no fraude, robd thee of thy delight,
Nor fortune of thy fortune Author is;
But to my selfe, my selfe did give the blow,
While too much wit forsooth so trubled me,
That I respects for both our sakes must show,
And yet could not by rysing morne fore-see,
How faire a day was neere, (ô punisht eyes)
That I had beene more foolish, or more wise.
Come let me write, and to what end? to easeA burthened hart, (how can words ease, which areThe glasses of thy daily vexing care?)Oft cruell fights well pictured forth doe please,Art not asham’d to publish thy disease?Nay, that may breede my fame, it is so rare,But will not wise men thinke thy words fonde ware?Then be they close, and they shall none displease,What idler thing than speake and not be heard?What harder thing than smart and not to speake?Peace foolish wit, with wit my wit is marde;Thus write I while I doubt to write, and wreakeMy harmes in ynkes poore losse, perhaps some findeStellasgreat power, that so confus’d my minde.
Come let me write, and to what end? to ease
A burthened hart, (how can words ease, which are
The glasses of thy daily vexing care?)
Oft cruell fights well pictured forth doe please,
Art not asham’d to publish thy disease?
Nay, that may breede my fame, it is so rare,
But will not wise men thinke thy words fonde ware?
Then be they close, and they shall none displease,
What idler thing than speake and not be heard?
What harder thing than smart and not to speake?
Peace foolish wit, with wit my wit is marde;
Thus write I while I doubt to write, and wreake
My harmes in ynkes poore losse, perhaps some finde
Stellasgreat power, that so confus’d my minde.
What may words say? or what may words not say,Where truth it selfe must speake like flattery?Within what bounds can one his lyking stay,Where Nature doth with infinite agree?WhatNestorscounsell can my flames allay,Since Reasons selfe doth blow the coles to me?And ah, what hope that hope should once see day,WhereCupidis sworne page to Chastitie;Honour is honoured that thou dost possesseHim as thy slave, and now long needie FameDoth even grow rich, meaning myStellasname;Wit learnes intheeperfection to expresse,Notthouby praise, but praise intheeis raised,It is a praise, to praise wherethouart praised.
What may words say? or what may words not say,
Where truth it selfe must speake like flattery?
Within what bounds can one his lyking stay,
Where Nature doth with infinite agree?
WhatNestorscounsell can my flames allay,
Since Reasons selfe doth blow the coles to me?
And ah, what hope that hope should once see day,
WhereCupidis sworne page to Chastitie;
Honour is honoured that thou dost possesse
Him as thy slave, and now long needie Fame
Doth even grow rich, meaning myStellasname;
Wit learnes intheeperfection to expresse,
Notthouby praise, but praise intheeis raised,
It is a praise, to praise wherethouart praised.
Stella, whence doth these newe assaults arise,A conquerd, yeelding, ransackt hart to win?Whereto long since, through my long battred eyes,Whole Armies ofthybeauties entred in,And there long since, Love thy Lieuetenant lyes,My forces raz’d, thy banners rais’d withinOf conquest, what do these effects suffise,But wilt new warre uppon thine owne begin,With so sweet voyce, and by sweet nature so,In sweetest strength, so sweetly skild withall,In all sweet stratagems sweet Art can shew:That not my soule which at thy foot did fallLong since forst by thy beames; but stone nor treeBy sences priviledge can scape from thee.
Stella, whence doth these newe assaults arise,
A conquerd, yeelding, ransackt hart to win?
Whereto long since, through my long battred eyes,
Whole Armies ofthybeauties entred in,
And there long since, Love thy Lieuetenant lyes,
My forces raz’d, thy banners rais’d within
Of conquest, what do these effects suffise,
But wilt new warre uppon thine owne begin,
With so sweet voyce, and by sweet nature so,
In sweetest strength, so sweetly skild withall,
In all sweet stratagems sweet Art can shew:
That not my soule which at thy foot did fall
Long since forst by thy beames; but stone nor tree
By sences priviledge can scape from thee.
This night while sleepe begins, with heavie wingsTo close mine eyes, and the unbitted thoughtDoth fall to stray, and my chiefe powers are broughtTo leave the scepter of all subject things,The first that straight my fancies errour bringsUnto my minde, isStellasImage, wroughtBy Loves owne selfe, but with so curious draught,That she me thinkes not onely shines but sings:I start, looke, harke, but what inclos’d up senceWas helde in open sence it flyes away,Leaving me nought but wayling eloquence.I seeing Better sights in sighes decay,Conclude a new, and woed Sleepe againe,But him her hoast that unkind guest had slaine.
This night while sleepe begins, with heavie wings
To close mine eyes, and the unbitted thought
Doth fall to stray, and my chiefe powers are brought
To leave the scepter of all subject things,
The first that straight my fancies errour brings
Unto my minde, isStellasImage, wrought
By Loves owne selfe, but with so curious draught,
That she me thinkes not onely shines but sings:
I start, looke, harke, but what inclos’d up sence
Was helde in open sence it flyes away,
Leaving me nought but wayling eloquence.
I seeing Better sights in sighes decay,
Conclude a new, and woed Sleepe againe,
But him her hoast that unkind guest had slaine.
Come Sleepe, ô Sleepe, the certaine knot of peace,The bathing place of wits, the balme of woe,The poore mans wealth, the prysoners release,The indifferent judge betweene the high and lowe,With shield of proofe, shield me from out the presseOf these fierce darts, Dispaire at me doth throw;O make in me those civill warres to cease:I will good trybute pay if thou do so.Take thou of me smooth pillowes, sweetest bed;A chamber deafe of noyse, and blinde of light,A rosie garland, and a wearie head.And if these things (as being thine in right)Move not thy heavie grace, thou shalt in meeLivelier than els whereStellasImage see.
Come Sleepe, ô Sleepe, the certaine knot of peace,
The bathing place of wits, the balme of woe,
The poore mans wealth, the prysoners release,
The indifferent judge betweene the high and lowe,
With shield of proofe, shield me from out the presse
Of these fierce darts, Dispaire at me doth throw;
O make in me those civill warres to cease:
I will good trybute pay if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillowes, sweetest bed;
A chamber deafe of noyse, and blinde of light,
A rosie garland, and a wearie head.
And if these things (as being thine in right)
Move not thy heavie grace, thou shalt in mee
Livelier than els whereStellasImage see.
As good to write, as for to lie and groane,OStelladeere, how muchthypower hath wrought,That hast my minde now of the basest brought,My still kept course while others sleepe to moane;Alas if from the height of Vertues throane,Thou canst vouchsafe the influence of a thought,Upon a wretch which longthygrace hath sought,Way then how I by thee am overthrowne;And then thinke thus, althoughthybeautie beMade manifest, by such a victorie,Yet noblest Conquerers doe wreake avoide;Since thenthouhast so farre subdued me,That in my hart I offer still tothee,O doe not let thy Temple be destroide.
As good to write, as for to lie and groane,
OStelladeere, how muchthypower hath wrought,
That hast my minde now of the basest brought,
My still kept course while others sleepe to moane;
Alas if from the height of Vertues throane,
Thou canst vouchsafe the influence of a thought,
Upon a wretch which longthygrace hath sought,
Way then how I by thee am overthrowne;
And then thinke thus, althoughthybeautie be
Made manifest, by such a victorie,
Yet noblest Conquerers doe wreake avoide;
Since thenthouhast so farre subdued me,
That in my hart I offer still tothee,
O doe not let thy Temple be destroide.
Having this days, my horse, my hand, my LaunceGuided so well, that I obtaind the prize,Both by the judgment of the English eyes,And of some sent from that sweet enmie Fraunce,Horsmen my skill in horsmanship advaunce,Towne folke my strength: a daintier Judge appliesHis praise to flight, which from good use doth rise:Some luckie wits, impute it but to chaunce:Others, because from both sides I doe takeMy blood, from them that doe excell in this,Thinke Nature me a man at Armes did make.How farre they shoot awry; the true cause is,Stellalookt on, and from her heavenly face,Sent forth the beames, which made so faire a race.
Having this days, my horse, my hand, my Launce
Guided so well, that I obtaind the prize,
Both by the judgment of the English eyes,
And of some sent from that sweet enmie Fraunce,
Horsmen my skill in horsmanship advaunce,
Towne folke my strength: a daintier Judge applies
His praise to flight, which from good use doth rise:
Some luckie wits, impute it but to chaunce:
Others, because from both sides I doe take
My blood, from them that doe excell in this,
Thinke Nature me a man at Armes did make.
How farre they shoot awry; the true cause is,
Stellalookt on, and from her heavenly face,
Sent forth the beames, which made so faire a race.
O Eyes which doe the Spheres of beautie move,Whose beames all joyes, whose joyes all vertues be:Who while they make Love conquer, conquer Love,The Schooles whereVenushath learnd Chastitie;O eyes, where humble lookes most glorious prove,Onely loved tyrants just in crueltie.Doe not, doe not, from poore me, once remove,Keepe still my Zenith, ever shine on me;For though I never see them, but straight waiesMy life forgets to nourish languisht sprights:Yet still on me (ô eyes) dart downe your rayes;And if from Majestie of sacred LightsOppressing mortall sence, my death proceede:Wreckes tryumphs best, which Love hie set doth breed.
O Eyes which doe the Spheres of beautie move,
Whose beames all joyes, whose joyes all vertues be:
Who while they make Love conquer, conquer Love,
The Schooles whereVenushath learnd Chastitie;
O eyes, where humble lookes most glorious prove,
Onely loved tyrants just in crueltie.
Doe not, doe not, from poore me, once remove,
Keepe still my Zenith, ever shine on me;
For though I never see them, but straight waies
My life forgets to nourish languisht sprights:
Yet still on me (ô eyes) dart downe your rayes;
And if from Majestie of sacred Lights
Oppressing mortall sence, my death proceede:
Wreckes tryumphs best, which Love hie set doth breed.
Faire eyes, sweet lips, deere hart, that foolish ICould hope byCupidshelpe, on you to pray:Since to himselfe he doth your gifts apply,As his maine force, chiefe sport, and easefull stay.For when he will see who dare him gainsay,Then with those eyes he lookes, loe by and by,Each soule doth at Loves feete his weapons lay,Glad if forherhe give them leave to die.When he will play, then inherlips he is,Where blushing red, that Loves selfe them do love,With either lip he doth the other kisseBut when he will for quiets sake removeFrom all the world,herhart is then his roome:Where well he knowes, no man to him can come.
Faire eyes, sweet lips, deere hart, that foolish I
Could hope byCupidshelpe, on you to pray:
Since to himselfe he doth your gifts apply,
As his maine force, chiefe sport, and easefull stay.
For when he will see who dare him gainsay,
Then with those eyes he lookes, loe by and by,
Each soule doth at Loves feete his weapons lay,
Glad if forherhe give them leave to die.
When he will play, then inherlips he is,
Where blushing red, that Loves selfe them do love,
With either lip he doth the other kisse
But when he will for quiets sake remove
From all the world,herhart is then his roome:
Where well he knowes, no man to him can come.
My words I know doe well set forth my minde,My minde bemones his sence of inward smart;Such smart may pittie claime of any hart;Herhart, sweete hart, is of no Tygers kinde,And yetsheheares, and I no pittie finde,But more I cry, lesse graceshedoth impart;Alas, what cause is there so overthwart,That Noblenes it selfe makes thus unkinde?I much doe gesse, yet finde no truth save this,That when the breath of my complaint doe touchThose daintie doores unto the Court of Blisse,The heavenly nature of that place is such:That once come there, the sobs of my annoyes,Are metamorphos’d straight to tunes of joyes.
My words I know doe well set forth my minde,
My minde bemones his sence of inward smart;
Such smart may pittie claime of any hart;
Herhart, sweete hart, is of no Tygers kinde,
And yetsheheares, and I no pittie finde,
But more I cry, lesse graceshedoth impart;
Alas, what cause is there so overthwart,
That Noblenes it selfe makes thus unkinde?
I much doe gesse, yet finde no truth save this,
That when the breath of my complaint doe touch
Those daintie doores unto the Court of Blisse,
The heavenly nature of that place is such:
That once come there, the sobs of my annoyes,
Are metamorphos’d straight to tunes of joyes.
Stellaoft sees the verie face of woesPainted in my beclowded stormie face:But cannot skill to pittie my disgrace;No though thereof the causeher selfe sheeknowes.Yet hearing late a fable which did show,Of Lovers never knowne, (a grievous case)Pittie thereof got in her breast such place,As fromhereyes, a Spring of teares did flow.Alas, if Fancie drawne by ymag’d things,Though false, yet with free scope more grace doth breedeThen Servants wreck, where new doubts honor brings,Than thinke myDeere, that in me you doe reedeOf Lovers ruine some thrise sad Tragædie:I am not I, pittie the tale of me.
Stellaoft sees the verie face of woes
Painted in my beclowded stormie face:
But cannot skill to pittie my disgrace;
No though thereof the causeher selfe sheeknowes.
Yet hearing late a fable which did show,
Of Lovers never knowne, (a grievous case)
Pittie thereof got in her breast such place,
As fromhereyes, a Spring of teares did flow.
Alas, if Fancie drawne by ymag’d things,
Though false, yet with free scope more grace doth breede
Then Servants wreck, where new doubts honor brings,
Than thinke myDeere, that in me you doe reede
Of Lovers ruine some thrise sad Tragædie:
I am not I, pittie the tale of me.
I curst thee oft, I pittie now thy case,Blind hitting Boy, sincesheethat thee and meRules with a becke, so tyranniseth thee,That thou must want or foode or dwelling place;ForSheeprotests to banish theeherface.Herface (ô Love) a roge thou then should’st bee,If Love learne not alone to love and see,Without desire to feede on further grace.Alas poore wagge, that now a Scholler artTo such a Schoole-mistris, whose lessons newThou needes must misse, and so thou needes must smart;Yetdeere, let me this pardon get ofyou,So long though he from booke mich to desire.Till without Fuell,thoucan make hote fire.
I curst thee oft, I pittie now thy case,
Blind hitting Boy, sincesheethat thee and me
Rules with a becke, so tyranniseth thee,
That thou must want or foode or dwelling place;
ForSheeprotests to banish theeherface.
Herface (ô Love) a roge thou then should’st bee,
If Love learne not alone to love and see,
Without desire to feede on further grace.
Alas poore wagge, that now a Scholler art
To such a Schoole-mistris, whose lessons new
Thou needes must misse, and so thou needes must smart;
Yetdeere, let me this pardon get ofyou,
So long though he from booke mich to desire.
Till without Fuell,thoucan make hote fire.