What, have I thus betraide my libertie,Can those black beames, such burning marks engraveIn my free side, or am I borne a slave,Whose necke becomes such yoke of tyrannie?Or want I sence to feele my miserie,Or spirit, disdaine of such disdaine to have,Who for long faith the daily helpe I crave,May get no almes, but scorne of beggerie.Vertue awake, beautie but beautie is;I may, I must, I can, I will, I doeLeave following that which it is gaine to misse,Let her goe: soft, but there she comes, goe to,Unkind I love you, not, (O mee) that eyeDoth make my hart give to my tongue a lye.Soules joy, bend not those morning starres from me,Where vertue is made strong by beauties might,Where love is chastnes, paine doth learne delight,And humblenes growes on with majestie;What ever may ensue, O let me beCopartner of the ritches of that sight:Let not mine eyes be driven from that light;ô looke, ô shine, ô let me die and see,For though I oft my selfe of them bemone,That through my hart their beamie darts be gone,Whose curelesse wounds even nowe most freshly bleede;Yet since my deaths wound is already got,Deere killer, spare notthysweete cruell shot,A kinde of grace it is to slaye with speede.I on my horse, and Love on me doth trieOur horsmanship, while by strange worke I prove,A horsman to my horse, a horse to Love;And now mans wrongs in me poore beast discry.The raines wherewith my ryder doth me tieAre reverent thoughts, which bit of reverence move,Curbde in with feare, but with gilt bosse aboveOf hope, which makes it seeme faire to the eye:The wande is will, thou fancie saddle art,Girt fast by memorie; and while I spurreMy horse, he spurres with sharpe desires my hart,He sits me fast how ever I doe sturre,And now hath made me to his hand so right,That in the manage, my selfe do take delight.Stella, the fulnes of my thoughts of theeCannot be stayed within my panting brest:But they do swell and struggle forth of me,Till that in words thy figure be exprest;And yet as soone as they so formed be,According to my Lord Loves owne behest,With sad eyes I their weake proportion seeTo portract what within this world is best.So that I cannot chuse but write my minde,And cannot chuse but put out what I write,While those poore babes their death in birth doe find;And now my penne these lynes had dashed quite,But that they stop his furie from the same:Because their fore-front beares sweetStellasname.Pardon mine eares, both I and they doe pray,So mayyourtongue full flauntingly proceede,To them that doe such entertainments neede;So mayyoustill have somewhat new to say.On sillie me, doe notyouburthen layOf all the grave conceiptsyourbraine doth breede,But find someHercules, to beard (in steedeOfAtlastyrde)yourwisedomes heavenly sway.For me while you discourse of courtly tydes,Of cunningst Fishers in most troubled streames,Of straying waves when valiant errour guides:Meane while my hart confers withStellasbeames,And is even woe that so sweet Comedie,By such unfuted speech, should hindered be.A Strife is growne betweene Vertue and Love,While each pretends, thatStellamust be his;Her eyes, her lips, her all, saith Love doe this,Since they doe weare his badge, most firmely prove;But Vertue thus, that title doth disprove.ThatStella, (ô deere name) thatStellais,That vertuous Soule, sure heyre of heavenly Blisse:Not this faire outside, which our hart doth move;And therefore, thoughherbeauty andhergrace,Be Loves indeede, inStellasselfe he mayBy no pretence claime any manner place.Well Love, since this Demurre our sute doth staie.Let Vertue have thatStellasselfe, yet thus,That Vertue but that body graunt to us.In Martiall sportes I had my cunning tryde,And yet to breake more Staves I did mee adresseWhile that the peopl’s showtes: I must confesse,Youth, luck, and praise, even filld my vaines with pride;WhenCupidhaving me his slave descride,InMarshis liverie, prauncing in the presse.What now sir foole said he (I would no lesse)Looke heere I say; I lookt, andStellaspide:Who hard by through a window sent forth light;My hart then quake, then daz’led were my eyes.One hand forgot to rule, th’ other to fight,No Trumpet sound I heard, nor freendly cries;My foe came on, and beate the ayre for mee,Till that her blush, taught me my shame to see.Because I breathe not love to every one,Nor doe not use sette Colours for to weare:Nor nourish speciall locks with vowed haire,Nor give each speech a full point of a grone,The Courtly Nymphes acquainted with the moneOf them, which in their lips Loves Standard beare:What he, (say they of me) now I dare sweare,He cannot love: no, no, let him alone.And thinke so still, soStellaknow my minde.Professe in deede, I do notCupid’sart.But you faire Maides, at length this true shall find,That his right badge, is but worne in the hart.Dumbe Swans, not chattering Pyes doe Lovers prove,They love in deed, who quake to say they love.Fie schoole of Patience, fie, your Lesson isFar far too long, to learne it without booke:What, a whole weeke, without one peece of looke?And thinke I should not your large precepts misse,When I might reade those Letters faire of blisse,Which inherface teach vertue, I could brooke,Somewhat thy leaden counsels which I tooke:As of a freend that meant not much amisse:But now alas, that I doe wanthersight,What doost thou thinke that I can ever take,In thy colde stuffe, a phlegmatick delight?No Patience, if thou wilt my good, then makeHer come, and heare with patience my desiresAnd then with patience bid me beare my fire.Muses, I oft invoked your whole ayde,With choisest flowres, my speech t’engarland so,That it disguisde, in true (but naked) show,Might winne some grace in your sweet skill arraide;And oft whole troupes of saddest words I stayde,Striving abroade, a forraging to goe,Untill by your inspiring I might know,How their blacke banners might be best displaid.But now I meane no more your helpe to trye.Nor other sugering of speech to prove,But onhername uncessantly to cry.For let me but nameherwhom I doe love,So sweete sounde straight my eares and hart doe hit,That I well finde no eloquence like it.Woe having made with many sighs his owneEach sense of mine; each gift, each power of mindeGrowne now his slaves, he forst them out to findeThe throwest words, fit for woes selfe to groneHoping that when they might findeStellaalone,Beforeshecould prepare to be unkind,Hersoule (armed with such a daintie rinde,)Should soone be hurt with sharpnes of the mone.Sheheard my plaints, and did not onely heare.But them, so sweet isshe, most sweetly sing,With that faire brest, making Woes darknes cleere,A prittie case I hoped her to bring,To feele my griefe, and she with face and voice,So sweetes my paines, that my paines me rejoyce.Doubt there hath beene, when with his golden chaineThe Orator so farre mens harts doth bind:That no pace els their guided steps can find;But as in them more shorte or slacke doth raine.Whether with words this sou’raigntte be gaine,Clothde with fine tropes with strongest reason lin’d,Or els pronouncing grace, wherewith his mindePrints his owne lively forme, in rudest braine.Now judge by this, in pearcing phrases lateTh’ Anatomie of all my woes I wrate,Stellassweete breath the same to me did reede.Oh voyce, oh face mauger my speeches might,With wooed woe, most ravishing delight,Even in sad mee a joy to me did breede.Deere, why make you more of a dogge than me?If he doe love, alas I burne in love;If he waite well, I never thence would move;If he be faire, yet but a dogge can be;Little he is, so little worth is he:He barkes, my songs thyne owne voyce oft doth prove;Bidden, (perhaps) he fetcheththeea glove?But I unbid, fetch even my soule totheeYet while I languish, him that bosome clips,That lap doth lap, nay lets in spight of spightThis sour-breath’d mate tast of those sugred lips;Alas, ifyougraunt onely such delightTo witles things, then Love I hope, (since witBecomes a clogge) will soone ease me of it.When my good Angell guides me to the placewhere al my good I do inStellasee,That Heaven of joyes throwes only downe on meThundred disdaines, and Lightning of disgrace;But when the ruggedst step of fortunes raceMakes me fall fromhersight, then sweetlysheWith words, whereing theMusesTreasures be,Shewes love and pittie to my absent case.Now I (witt-beaten long, by hardest fate)So dull am, that I cannot looke intoThe ground of this fierce love, and loving hate?Then some good body tell me how to do,Whose presence absence, absence presence is:Blest in my curse, and curssed in my blisse.Oft with true sighes, oft with uncalled teares,Now with slow words, now with dumbe eloquence,IStellaseyes assailde, invadehereares,But this at last ishersweete breath’d defence,That who indeede a sound affection beares,So captives to his Saint both soule and sence,That wholieHers, all selfnes he forbeares.Thence his desire he learnes, his lives course thence,Now since this chast love, hates this love in mee;With chastned minde I needes must shew, that sheeShall quickly me from what she hates remove.O DoctorCupid, thou for me reply:Driven els to graunt by Angell Sophistry,That I love not, without I leave to love.Late tyr’d with woe, even ready for to pineWith rage of love, I call my Love unkinde.Sheein whose eyes, love though unfelt doth shine,Sweetely saide, I true love in her should finde.I joyed, but straight thus watred was my wine:That love she did, but with a love not blinde.Which would not let me, whome she lov’d decline.From Nobler course, fit for my birth and minde.And therefore her loves Authoritie;Wild me those Tempests of vaine love to flee:And Anchor fast my selfe on vertues shore.Alas if this the onely mettall be,Of love newe coyn’d to help my beggery:Deere, love me not, that you may love me more.Oh Grammer rules, oh now your vertues showe,So Children still read you with awfull eyes,As my young Dove may in your precepts wise,Her graunt to me by her owne vertue knowe.For late with hart most hie, with eyes most lowe;I crav’d the thing which ever she denies.Shee lightning Love, displayingVenusskyes,Least one should not be heard twise, said no no.Sing then my Muse, now I do Pæan sing.Heavens Envy not at my high triumphing:But Grammers force with sweete successe confirme,For Grammer sayes (ah this deereStellaway)For Grammer sayes (to Grammer who sayes nay)That in one speech, two negatives affirme.No more my deere, no more these Counsels try,O give my passions leave to runne their race:Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace.Let Folke orecharg’d with braine against me cry,Let Cloudes be dimme, my face breake in my eye,Let me no steps but of lost labour try,Let all the earth in scorne recount my race;But doe not will me from my love to fly.I do not envieAristotleswit,Nor do aspire toCæsarsbleeding fame:Nor ought to care though some above me sit;Nor hope nor with another course to frame:But that which once may winne thy cruell hart,Thou art my wit; and thou my vertue art.Love, by sure proofe I may call thee unkinde,That gives no better cares to my just cryes:Thou whom to me, such my good turnes shouldst binde,As I may well recount, but none can prise.For when nak’d boy, hou couldst no harbour findeIn this olde world, (growne now so to be wise)I lodg’de thee in my heart: and being blindeBy nature borne, I gave to thee my eyes.Mine eyes, my light, my life, my hart alas,If so great services may scorned be:Yet let this thought thy Tygrish courage passe,That I perhaps am somewhat kin to thee:Since in thine armes, if learn’d fame truth hath spred,Thou bearst the Arrowe, I the Arrowhed.And doe I see some cause a hope to feedeOr doth the tedious burthen of long woeIn weakned mindes, quick apprehension breedeOf every Image which may comfort showe.I cannot brag of word, much lesse of deede,Fortune wheels still with me in one sort slowe.My wealth no more, and no whit lesse my neede,Desier, still on stilts of feare doth goe.And yet amids all feares, a hope there isStolne to my hart: since last faire night (nay day)Stellaseyes sent to me the beames of blisse,Looking on mee, while I looke other way:But when mine eyes backe to their heaven did move:They fled with blush, which guiltie seem’d of love:Hope art thou true or doost thou flatter me?DothStellanow beginne, with pitteous eyeThe raigne of this her conquest to espie?Will shee take time before all wracked be?Her eye speech is translated thus by thee.But failste thou not in phrase so heavenly hye?Looke on againe, the faire text better prie;What blushing notes dost thou in Margent see?What sighes stolne out, or kild before full borneHast thou found such and such like arguments?Or art thou els to comfort me forsworne?Well how so thou interpret the contents,I am resolv’d thy error to maintaine:Rather than by more trueth to get more paine.Stella, the only Plannet of my lightLight of my life, and life of my desire,Cheife good, whereto my hope doth onely spire,World of my wealth and heaven of my delight.Why doost thou spend the Treasure of thy spriteWith voice more fit to wedAmphyonsLyre?Seeking to quench in me the noble fyre,Fed by thy worth and kindled by thy sight.And all in vaine, for while thy breath most sweeteWith choisest words, thy words with reasons rare:Thy reasons firmely set, are vertues feete,Labor to kill in me this killing careOh thinke I then, what Paradise of joyIt is, so faire a vertue to enjoye.Oh joy, too high for my Love still to showe,Oh blisse, fit for a nobler seat than meeEnvie put out thine eyes, least thou doe seeWhatOceansof delight in me doth flowe.My friend that oft saw’st through all maskes, my woe,Come, come, and let me poure myself on thee:Gone is the winter of my miserie.My spring appeares, ô see what heere doth growe,ForStellahath with wordes (where faith doth shine)Of her high hart given me the MonarchieI, I, ô I may say that she is mine.And though she give but thus condicionally,This Realme of blisse, while vertues course I take,No Kings be Crownd, but they some covenant make.My Muse may well grudge at my heavenly joy,Yf still I force her in sad rymes to creepe:She oft hath drunke my teares, now hopes t’enjoyNectarof mirth, since IlovesCup do keepe.Sonnets be not bound Prentice to annoy,Trebbles sing high, so well as bases deepe:Griefe but Loves winter liverie is, the boyHath cheekes to smile, so well as eyes weepe.Come then my Muse, shew the height of delightIn well raisde noates my pen the best it mayShall paint out joy, though but in blacke and white.Cease eager Muse, peace pen for my sake stay.I give you heere my hand for truth of this:Wise silence is best Musique unto blisse.Who will in fayrest booke of nature know,How Vertue may best lodgde in Beautie bee,Let him but learne of love to read in theeStellathose faire lines which true goodnes showe.There shall he finde all vices overthrowe:Not by rude force, but sweetest soveraigntieOf reason, from whose light, the night birdes flie,That inward Sunne in thine eyes shineth so.And not content to be perfections heir,Thy selfe doth strive all mindes that way to move:Who marke in thee what is in deede most faire,So while thy beautie drives my hart to love,As fast thy vertue bends that love to good:But ah, Desire still cryes, give me some food.Desire, though thou mine olde companion art,And oft so clinges to my pure Love, that IOne from the other scarcely can discry:While each doth blowe the fier of my hart:Now from thy fellowship I needs must part.Venusis taught withDianswings to flye,I must no more in thy sweete passions lie,Vertues golde now, must head myCupidsdart,Service and honour wonder with delight,Feare to offend, well worthie to appeare:Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my spright,These things are left me by my onely deare.But thou Desire, because thou wouldst have all:Now banisht art, yet alas how shall?Love still a Boy, and oft a wanton is,Schoolde only by his Mothers tender eye:What wonder then if he his lesson misse,When for so soft a rod deare play he trye.And yet my starre, because a sugred kisse,In sport I sucke, while she a sleepe did lye:Doth lowre, naye chide, nay threat for onely this:Sweet it was saucy love, not humble I.But no scuse serves, she makes her wrath appeare,In Beauties throne, see now who dares come neereThose scarlet Judges, threatning blooddie paine.O heavenly Foole, thy most kisse worthy faceAnger invests with such a lovely grace,That Angers selfe I needes must kisse againe.I Never dranke ofAganippewell,Nor never did in shade ofTempesit:And Muses scorne with vulgar braines to dwell,Poore Lay-man I, for sacred rites unfit.Some doe I heare of Poets fury tell,But God wot, wot not what they meane by it:And this I sweare by blackest brooke of hell,I am no Pickepurse of an others wit.How fals it than, that with so smooth an easeMy thoughts I speake? And what I speake doth floweIn verse; and that my verse best wittes doth please,Gesse we the cause. What is it this? fie no,Or so? much lesse. How then? sure thus it is,My Lips are sure inspir’d withStellaskisse.Of all the Kings that ever heere did raigne,Edwardnamde fourth, as first in praise I name:Not for his faire outside, nor well linde braine,Although lesse guift, imp feathers oft no fame.Nor that he could young wise, wise valliant frameHis Syres revenge, joynde with a kingdomes gaine:And gaind byMars, could yet madMarsso tame,That ballance waide what sword did late obtaine.Nor that he made the Flower de lys so fraide,Though strongly hedgd of bloody Lyons pawes:That wittieLewesto him a tribuite paide;Nor this nor that, nor any such small cause,But onely, for this worthy King durst prove,To loose his Crowne, rather then fayle his Love.Sheecomes, and straight therewith her shining twins do moveTheir raies to me: who in her tedious absence layBenighted in cold woe; but now appeares my shining day,The only light of joy, the only warmth of Love,Sheecomes with light and warmth, which likeAuroraprove;Of gentle force, so that my eyes dare gladly playWith such a rosy Morne: whose beames most freshly gayScorch not; but onely doe darke chilling spirits remove.But loe, while I do speake it groweth noone with mee,Her flamy glittering lights increase with time and place:My heart cryes ah it burnes, mine eyes now dazled be:No winde, no shade can coole: what helpe then in my case?But with short breath, long lookes, staide feete, and walking hed,Pray that my Sunne goe downe with me her beames to bed.Those lookes, whose beames be joy, whose motion is delight,That face whose lecture shewes what perfect Beautie is:That presence which doth give darke hearts a living light,That grace, whichVenusweepes that shee her selfe doth misse.That hand, which without touch, holdes more thanAtlasmight,Those lips, which makes deathes pay a meane prise for a kisse:That skin, whose past-praise hue scornes this poore tearme of whit,Those words which doe sublime the quintessence of blisse.That voice which makes the soule plant himselfe in the eares,That conversation sweet, where such high comforts be:As constru’d in true speech; the name of heaven it beares:Makes me in my best thoughts and quiet judgements see,That in no more but these I might be fully blest:Yet ah, my maiden Muse doth blush to tell the best.Oh how the pleasant ayres of true love beeInflicted by those vapours, which ariseFrom out that noysome gulfe: which gaping liesBetweene the jawes of hellish Jelousey.A Monster, others harmes, selfe misery.Beauties plague, Vertues scurge, succour of lyes:Who his owne joy to his owne heart applyes,And onely cherish doth with injuries:Who since he hath by natures speciall grace,So pearsing pawes as spoyle when they embrace,So nimble feete as stirre though still on thornes,So manie eyes aye seeking their owne woe.So ample eares, that never good newes knowe,Is it not ill that such a divell wants hornes?Sweete kisse, thy sweetes I faine would sweetely indite,Which even of sweetnes, sweetest sweeter art;Pleasing’st consort, where each sense holds a part,With coopling Doves guidesVenuschariot right,Best charge and brav’st retraite inCupidssight.A double key which openeth to the hart,Most ritch when most his ritches it imparte.Nest of yong joyes, Scholemaster of delight,Teaching the meanes at once to take and give,The friendly fray where blowes do wound and heale,The prettie death while each in other live,Poore hopes first wealth a stage of promised weale.Breakefast of love, but loe, loe where shee isCease we to praise, now praie wee for a kisse.Sweet swelling lip well maiest thou swell in prideSince best wittes thinke it witt thee to admire,Natures praise, vertues stall,Cupidscolde fire,Whence words, not words but heavenly graces slide,The newePernassuswhere theMusesbyde:Sweeteness of Musicke, Wisomes beautifier,Breather of life, and fastner of desire,Where Beauties blush in Honors graine is dyde.Thus much my hart compeld my mouth to say:But now, spite of my heart my tongue will stay,Loathing al lyes, doubting this flatterieis,And no spurre can this restie race renewe;Without how farre this praise is short of you,Sweete lipp you teach my mouth with one sweete kisse.O Kisse which doth those ruddie gemmes impart,Or Gemmes or fruits of new found Parradise,Breathing all blisse and sweetnes to the hart,Teaching dumbe lips a nobler exercise.O kisse which soules even soules together tiesBy links of Love, and onely natures Art,How faine would I paint thee to all mens eies,Or of thy gifts at least shade out some part?But shee forbids, with blushing words shee saies,Shee builds her fame on higher seated praise:But my heart burnes, I cannot silent be,Then since deare life, you faine would have me peace.And I (mad with delight) want wit to cease,Stop you my mouth with still still kissing me.Nymph of the garden where all beauties be,Beauties which do in excellencie passe,His who till death lockt in a watry glasse,Or hirs whom nak’d the Trojan boy did see.Sweete garden Nymph that keepes the Cherrie tree,Whose fruit doth far the Hesperian tast surpasse,Most sweete faire, most faire sweete, do not alasseFrom comming neere these Cherries banish mee,For though full of desire, emptie of wit,Admitted late by your best graced grace,I caught at one of them an hungry bit,Pardon that fault, once more graunt me the place,And so I sweare even by the same delite,I will but kisse, I never more will bite.Good brotherPhilipI have forborne you long,I was content you should in favour creepe,While craftely you seemed your Cut to keepe,As though that faire soft hand did you great wrong:I beare with envy, yet I heare your song,When in hir necke you did love ditties peepe,Nay, (more foole I) oft suffred you to sleepe,In lillies nest where Loves selfe lies a long,What? doth high place ambitious thoughts augment?Is saucines reward of curtesie?Cannot such grace your silly selfe content,But you must needes with those lips billing be?And through those lips drinke Nectar from that tung,Leave thatSyr Phipplest off your necke be wrung.High way since you my chiefePernassusbe,And that my Muse to some eares not unmeete,Tempers her words to trampling horses feete,More often than to a Chamber melodie,Now blessed you beare onwards blessed me,To her where I my heart safeliest shall meete,My Muse and I must you of duetie greete,With thanks and wishes wishing thankfully;Be you still carefull kept by publike heede,By no encrochment wrongd, nor time forgot,Nor blam’d for bloud, nor sham’d for sinfull deede,And that you know I envie you no lot,Of highest wish, I wish you so much blisse,Hundreds of yeares youStellasfeete may kisse.I see the house my harte thy selfe containe,Beware full Sailes drown not thy tottering Barge,Least joy by nature apt, (spirites to enlarge)Thee to thy wracke beyond thy limits straine,Nor doe like Lords whose weake confused braine,Not pointing to fit folks each undercharge,While every office themselves will discharge,With doing all leave nothing done but paine,But give apt servants their due place; let eyeSee beauties totall summe summ’d in their face,Let eares heare speach which will to wonder tye,Let breath suck up those sweetes, let armes imbraceThe Globe of weale, lipps Lov’s Indentures make.Thou but of all the kingly tribute take.Alas whence comes this change of lookes? If Ihave chang’d desert, let mine owne conscience beA still felt plague to selfe condemning mee:Let woe grype on my heart, shame load mine eye:But if all faith like spotlesErminelyeSafe in my soule (which onely doth to theeAs his sole object of felicitieWith wings of Love in aire of wonder flie.)O case your hand, treat not so hard your slave,In Justice, paines come not till faults do call:Or if I needs (sweet Judge) must torments have,Use something else to chasten mee withall,Than those blest eyes where all my hopes do dwell,No doome shall make ones Heaven become his Hell.When I was forst fromStellaever deare,Stella, foode of my thoughts, hart of my hart:Stella, whose eyes make all my temples cleare,By Yron lawes, of duetie to depart,Alas I found that shee with mee did smart:I sawe that teares did in her eyes appeare:I sawe that sighes her sweetest lips did part:And her sad words my sadded sense did heare.For mee, I weepe to see Pearles scattered so:I sighd her sighes, and wailed for her woe:Yet swamme in joy such love in her was seene.Thus while the effect most bitter was to mee,And nothing than that cause more sweet could be,I had beene vext, if vext I had not beene.Out Traytour absence dar’st thou counsell meeFrom my deare Captainnesse to runne away,Because in brave arraye here marcheth sheeThat to winne mee oft showes a present paye.Is Faith so weake, or is such force in thee?When Sunne is hid, can Starres such beames displaie?Cannot Heavens foode once felt keepe stomacks freeFrom base desire on earthly cares to praie?Tush absence, while thy mistes eclypse that light,My Orphan sense flyes to the inward sight:Where memorie settes foorth the beames of Love,That where before heart lov’d and eyes did see,In heart my sight and Love now coupled be,United powres make eche the stronger prove.Now that of absence the most yrksome night,With darkest shade doth overcome the daie:SinceStella’seyes wont to give mee my daie,Leaving myHemisphereleaves mee in night,Each day seemes long, and longs for long staied night:The night as tedious, wooes th’approch of day:Tyr’d with the dustie toyles of busie day,Languisht with horrors of the silent night,Suffering the evils both of daie and night,While no night is more darke than is my day,Nor no day hath lesse quiet then my night:With such bad mixture of my night and daie,That living thus in blackest Winter night,I feele the flames of hottest Sommers daie.Stella, thinke not that I by verse seeke fame,Who seeke, who hope, who love, who like, but thee:Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my historie,If thou praise not, all other praise is shame.Nor so ambitious am I, as to frameA nest for my yong praise in Lawrell tree,In trueth I sweare, I wish not there should begraved in my Epitaph a Poets name.Nor if I would could I just title makeThat anie laud thereof to me should groweWithout my Plumes from others wings I take;For nothing from my wit or will doth flowe:Since all my words thy beautie doth indite,And Love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.Stella, while now by honours cruell might,I am from you (light of my light) misled,And that faire you, my Sunne thus overspredWith absence vale I live in sorrowes night.If this darke place yet shewe by candle lightSome Beauties peece, as amber collourd hed,Milke hands, rose cheekes, or lips more sweet more red,Or seeming jett black, but in blacknes brightThey please I doe confesse, they please mine eyes,But whie? because of you they moddels be;Moddels such be wood globes of glistering skyes.Deare therefore be not jealous over me,If you heare that they seeme my heart to move,Not them, no no, but you in them I love.
What, have I thus betraide my libertie,Can those black beames, such burning marks engraveIn my free side, or am I borne a slave,Whose necke becomes such yoke of tyrannie?Or want I sence to feele my miserie,Or spirit, disdaine of such disdaine to have,Who for long faith the daily helpe I crave,May get no almes, but scorne of beggerie.Vertue awake, beautie but beautie is;I may, I must, I can, I will, I doeLeave following that which it is gaine to misse,Let her goe: soft, but there she comes, goe to,Unkind I love you, not, (O mee) that eyeDoth make my hart give to my tongue a lye.Soules joy, bend not those morning starres from me,Where vertue is made strong by beauties might,Where love is chastnes, paine doth learne delight,And humblenes growes on with majestie;What ever may ensue, O let me beCopartner of the ritches of that sight:Let not mine eyes be driven from that light;ô looke, ô shine, ô let me die and see,For though I oft my selfe of them bemone,That through my hart their beamie darts be gone,Whose curelesse wounds even nowe most freshly bleede;Yet since my deaths wound is already got,Deere killer, spare notthysweete cruell shot,A kinde of grace it is to slaye with speede.I on my horse, and Love on me doth trieOur horsmanship, while by strange worke I prove,A horsman to my horse, a horse to Love;And now mans wrongs in me poore beast discry.The raines wherewith my ryder doth me tieAre reverent thoughts, which bit of reverence move,Curbde in with feare, but with gilt bosse aboveOf hope, which makes it seeme faire to the eye:The wande is will, thou fancie saddle art,Girt fast by memorie; and while I spurreMy horse, he spurres with sharpe desires my hart,He sits me fast how ever I doe sturre,And now hath made me to his hand so right,That in the manage, my selfe do take delight.Stella, the fulnes of my thoughts of theeCannot be stayed within my panting brest:But they do swell and struggle forth of me,Till that in words thy figure be exprest;And yet as soone as they so formed be,According to my Lord Loves owne behest,With sad eyes I their weake proportion seeTo portract what within this world is best.So that I cannot chuse but write my minde,And cannot chuse but put out what I write,While those poore babes their death in birth doe find;And now my penne these lynes had dashed quite,But that they stop his furie from the same:Because their fore-front beares sweetStellasname.Pardon mine eares, both I and they doe pray,So mayyourtongue full flauntingly proceede,To them that doe such entertainments neede;So mayyoustill have somewhat new to say.On sillie me, doe notyouburthen layOf all the grave conceiptsyourbraine doth breede,But find someHercules, to beard (in steedeOfAtlastyrde)yourwisedomes heavenly sway.For me while you discourse of courtly tydes,Of cunningst Fishers in most troubled streames,Of straying waves when valiant errour guides:Meane while my hart confers withStellasbeames,And is even woe that so sweet Comedie,By such unfuted speech, should hindered be.A Strife is growne betweene Vertue and Love,While each pretends, thatStellamust be his;Her eyes, her lips, her all, saith Love doe this,Since they doe weare his badge, most firmely prove;But Vertue thus, that title doth disprove.ThatStella, (ô deere name) thatStellais,That vertuous Soule, sure heyre of heavenly Blisse:Not this faire outside, which our hart doth move;And therefore, thoughherbeauty andhergrace,Be Loves indeede, inStellasselfe he mayBy no pretence claime any manner place.Well Love, since this Demurre our sute doth staie.Let Vertue have thatStellasselfe, yet thus,That Vertue but that body graunt to us.In Martiall sportes I had my cunning tryde,And yet to breake more Staves I did mee adresseWhile that the peopl’s showtes: I must confesse,Youth, luck, and praise, even filld my vaines with pride;WhenCupidhaving me his slave descride,InMarshis liverie, prauncing in the presse.What now sir foole said he (I would no lesse)Looke heere I say; I lookt, andStellaspide:Who hard by through a window sent forth light;My hart then quake, then daz’led were my eyes.One hand forgot to rule, th’ other to fight,No Trumpet sound I heard, nor freendly cries;My foe came on, and beate the ayre for mee,Till that her blush, taught me my shame to see.Because I breathe not love to every one,Nor doe not use sette Colours for to weare:Nor nourish speciall locks with vowed haire,Nor give each speech a full point of a grone,The Courtly Nymphes acquainted with the moneOf them, which in their lips Loves Standard beare:What he, (say they of me) now I dare sweare,He cannot love: no, no, let him alone.And thinke so still, soStellaknow my minde.Professe in deede, I do notCupid’sart.But you faire Maides, at length this true shall find,That his right badge, is but worne in the hart.Dumbe Swans, not chattering Pyes doe Lovers prove,They love in deed, who quake to say they love.Fie schoole of Patience, fie, your Lesson isFar far too long, to learne it without booke:What, a whole weeke, without one peece of looke?And thinke I should not your large precepts misse,When I might reade those Letters faire of blisse,Which inherface teach vertue, I could brooke,Somewhat thy leaden counsels which I tooke:As of a freend that meant not much amisse:But now alas, that I doe wanthersight,What doost thou thinke that I can ever take,In thy colde stuffe, a phlegmatick delight?No Patience, if thou wilt my good, then makeHer come, and heare with patience my desiresAnd then with patience bid me beare my fire.Muses, I oft invoked your whole ayde,With choisest flowres, my speech t’engarland so,That it disguisde, in true (but naked) show,Might winne some grace in your sweet skill arraide;And oft whole troupes of saddest words I stayde,Striving abroade, a forraging to goe,Untill by your inspiring I might know,How their blacke banners might be best displaid.But now I meane no more your helpe to trye.Nor other sugering of speech to prove,But onhername uncessantly to cry.For let me but nameherwhom I doe love,So sweete sounde straight my eares and hart doe hit,That I well finde no eloquence like it.Woe having made with many sighs his owneEach sense of mine; each gift, each power of mindeGrowne now his slaves, he forst them out to findeThe throwest words, fit for woes selfe to groneHoping that when they might findeStellaalone,Beforeshecould prepare to be unkind,Hersoule (armed with such a daintie rinde,)Should soone be hurt with sharpnes of the mone.Sheheard my plaints, and did not onely heare.But them, so sweet isshe, most sweetly sing,With that faire brest, making Woes darknes cleere,A prittie case I hoped her to bring,To feele my griefe, and she with face and voice,So sweetes my paines, that my paines me rejoyce.Doubt there hath beene, when with his golden chaineThe Orator so farre mens harts doth bind:That no pace els their guided steps can find;But as in them more shorte or slacke doth raine.Whether with words this sou’raigntte be gaine,Clothde with fine tropes with strongest reason lin’d,Or els pronouncing grace, wherewith his mindePrints his owne lively forme, in rudest braine.Now judge by this, in pearcing phrases lateTh’ Anatomie of all my woes I wrate,Stellassweete breath the same to me did reede.Oh voyce, oh face mauger my speeches might,With wooed woe, most ravishing delight,Even in sad mee a joy to me did breede.Deere, why make you more of a dogge than me?If he doe love, alas I burne in love;If he waite well, I never thence would move;If he be faire, yet but a dogge can be;Little he is, so little worth is he:He barkes, my songs thyne owne voyce oft doth prove;Bidden, (perhaps) he fetcheththeea glove?But I unbid, fetch even my soule totheeYet while I languish, him that bosome clips,That lap doth lap, nay lets in spight of spightThis sour-breath’d mate tast of those sugred lips;Alas, ifyougraunt onely such delightTo witles things, then Love I hope, (since witBecomes a clogge) will soone ease me of it.When my good Angell guides me to the placewhere al my good I do inStellasee,That Heaven of joyes throwes only downe on meThundred disdaines, and Lightning of disgrace;But when the ruggedst step of fortunes raceMakes me fall fromhersight, then sweetlysheWith words, whereing theMusesTreasures be,Shewes love and pittie to my absent case.Now I (witt-beaten long, by hardest fate)So dull am, that I cannot looke intoThe ground of this fierce love, and loving hate?Then some good body tell me how to do,Whose presence absence, absence presence is:Blest in my curse, and curssed in my blisse.Oft with true sighes, oft with uncalled teares,Now with slow words, now with dumbe eloquence,IStellaseyes assailde, invadehereares,But this at last ishersweete breath’d defence,That who indeede a sound affection beares,So captives to his Saint both soule and sence,That wholieHers, all selfnes he forbeares.Thence his desire he learnes, his lives course thence,Now since this chast love, hates this love in mee;With chastned minde I needes must shew, that sheeShall quickly me from what she hates remove.O DoctorCupid, thou for me reply:Driven els to graunt by Angell Sophistry,That I love not, without I leave to love.Late tyr’d with woe, even ready for to pineWith rage of love, I call my Love unkinde.Sheein whose eyes, love though unfelt doth shine,Sweetely saide, I true love in her should finde.I joyed, but straight thus watred was my wine:That love she did, but with a love not blinde.Which would not let me, whome she lov’d decline.From Nobler course, fit for my birth and minde.And therefore her loves Authoritie;Wild me those Tempests of vaine love to flee:And Anchor fast my selfe on vertues shore.Alas if this the onely mettall be,Of love newe coyn’d to help my beggery:Deere, love me not, that you may love me more.Oh Grammer rules, oh now your vertues showe,So Children still read you with awfull eyes,As my young Dove may in your precepts wise,Her graunt to me by her owne vertue knowe.For late with hart most hie, with eyes most lowe;I crav’d the thing which ever she denies.Shee lightning Love, displayingVenusskyes,Least one should not be heard twise, said no no.Sing then my Muse, now I do Pæan sing.Heavens Envy not at my high triumphing:But Grammers force with sweete successe confirme,For Grammer sayes (ah this deereStellaway)For Grammer sayes (to Grammer who sayes nay)That in one speech, two negatives affirme.No more my deere, no more these Counsels try,O give my passions leave to runne their race:Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace.Let Folke orecharg’d with braine against me cry,Let Cloudes be dimme, my face breake in my eye,Let me no steps but of lost labour try,Let all the earth in scorne recount my race;But doe not will me from my love to fly.I do not envieAristotleswit,Nor do aspire toCæsarsbleeding fame:Nor ought to care though some above me sit;Nor hope nor with another course to frame:But that which once may winne thy cruell hart,Thou art my wit; and thou my vertue art.Love, by sure proofe I may call thee unkinde,That gives no better cares to my just cryes:Thou whom to me, such my good turnes shouldst binde,As I may well recount, but none can prise.For when nak’d boy, hou couldst no harbour findeIn this olde world, (growne now so to be wise)I lodg’de thee in my heart: and being blindeBy nature borne, I gave to thee my eyes.Mine eyes, my light, my life, my hart alas,If so great services may scorned be:Yet let this thought thy Tygrish courage passe,That I perhaps am somewhat kin to thee:Since in thine armes, if learn’d fame truth hath spred,Thou bearst the Arrowe, I the Arrowhed.And doe I see some cause a hope to feedeOr doth the tedious burthen of long woeIn weakned mindes, quick apprehension breedeOf every Image which may comfort showe.I cannot brag of word, much lesse of deede,Fortune wheels still with me in one sort slowe.My wealth no more, and no whit lesse my neede,Desier, still on stilts of feare doth goe.And yet amids all feares, a hope there isStolne to my hart: since last faire night (nay day)Stellaseyes sent to me the beames of blisse,Looking on mee, while I looke other way:But when mine eyes backe to their heaven did move:They fled with blush, which guiltie seem’d of love:Hope art thou true or doost thou flatter me?DothStellanow beginne, with pitteous eyeThe raigne of this her conquest to espie?Will shee take time before all wracked be?Her eye speech is translated thus by thee.But failste thou not in phrase so heavenly hye?Looke on againe, the faire text better prie;What blushing notes dost thou in Margent see?What sighes stolne out, or kild before full borneHast thou found such and such like arguments?Or art thou els to comfort me forsworne?Well how so thou interpret the contents,I am resolv’d thy error to maintaine:Rather than by more trueth to get more paine.Stella, the only Plannet of my lightLight of my life, and life of my desire,Cheife good, whereto my hope doth onely spire,World of my wealth and heaven of my delight.Why doost thou spend the Treasure of thy spriteWith voice more fit to wedAmphyonsLyre?Seeking to quench in me the noble fyre,Fed by thy worth and kindled by thy sight.And all in vaine, for while thy breath most sweeteWith choisest words, thy words with reasons rare:Thy reasons firmely set, are vertues feete,Labor to kill in me this killing careOh thinke I then, what Paradise of joyIt is, so faire a vertue to enjoye.Oh joy, too high for my Love still to showe,Oh blisse, fit for a nobler seat than meeEnvie put out thine eyes, least thou doe seeWhatOceansof delight in me doth flowe.My friend that oft saw’st through all maskes, my woe,Come, come, and let me poure myself on thee:Gone is the winter of my miserie.My spring appeares, ô see what heere doth growe,ForStellahath with wordes (where faith doth shine)Of her high hart given me the MonarchieI, I, ô I may say that she is mine.And though she give but thus condicionally,This Realme of blisse, while vertues course I take,No Kings be Crownd, but they some covenant make.My Muse may well grudge at my heavenly joy,Yf still I force her in sad rymes to creepe:She oft hath drunke my teares, now hopes t’enjoyNectarof mirth, since IlovesCup do keepe.Sonnets be not bound Prentice to annoy,Trebbles sing high, so well as bases deepe:Griefe but Loves winter liverie is, the boyHath cheekes to smile, so well as eyes weepe.Come then my Muse, shew the height of delightIn well raisde noates my pen the best it mayShall paint out joy, though but in blacke and white.Cease eager Muse, peace pen for my sake stay.I give you heere my hand for truth of this:Wise silence is best Musique unto blisse.Who will in fayrest booke of nature know,How Vertue may best lodgde in Beautie bee,Let him but learne of love to read in theeStellathose faire lines which true goodnes showe.There shall he finde all vices overthrowe:Not by rude force, but sweetest soveraigntieOf reason, from whose light, the night birdes flie,That inward Sunne in thine eyes shineth so.And not content to be perfections heir,Thy selfe doth strive all mindes that way to move:Who marke in thee what is in deede most faire,So while thy beautie drives my hart to love,As fast thy vertue bends that love to good:But ah, Desire still cryes, give me some food.Desire, though thou mine olde companion art,And oft so clinges to my pure Love, that IOne from the other scarcely can discry:While each doth blowe the fier of my hart:Now from thy fellowship I needs must part.Venusis taught withDianswings to flye,I must no more in thy sweete passions lie,Vertues golde now, must head myCupidsdart,Service and honour wonder with delight,Feare to offend, well worthie to appeare:Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my spright,These things are left me by my onely deare.But thou Desire, because thou wouldst have all:Now banisht art, yet alas how shall?Love still a Boy, and oft a wanton is,Schoolde only by his Mothers tender eye:What wonder then if he his lesson misse,When for so soft a rod deare play he trye.And yet my starre, because a sugred kisse,In sport I sucke, while she a sleepe did lye:Doth lowre, naye chide, nay threat for onely this:Sweet it was saucy love, not humble I.But no scuse serves, she makes her wrath appeare,In Beauties throne, see now who dares come neereThose scarlet Judges, threatning blooddie paine.O heavenly Foole, thy most kisse worthy faceAnger invests with such a lovely grace,That Angers selfe I needes must kisse againe.I Never dranke ofAganippewell,Nor never did in shade ofTempesit:And Muses scorne with vulgar braines to dwell,Poore Lay-man I, for sacred rites unfit.Some doe I heare of Poets fury tell,But God wot, wot not what they meane by it:And this I sweare by blackest brooke of hell,I am no Pickepurse of an others wit.How fals it than, that with so smooth an easeMy thoughts I speake? And what I speake doth floweIn verse; and that my verse best wittes doth please,Gesse we the cause. What is it this? fie no,Or so? much lesse. How then? sure thus it is,My Lips are sure inspir’d withStellaskisse.Of all the Kings that ever heere did raigne,Edwardnamde fourth, as first in praise I name:Not for his faire outside, nor well linde braine,Although lesse guift, imp feathers oft no fame.Nor that he could young wise, wise valliant frameHis Syres revenge, joynde with a kingdomes gaine:And gaind byMars, could yet madMarsso tame,That ballance waide what sword did late obtaine.Nor that he made the Flower de lys so fraide,Though strongly hedgd of bloody Lyons pawes:That wittieLewesto him a tribuite paide;Nor this nor that, nor any such small cause,But onely, for this worthy King durst prove,To loose his Crowne, rather then fayle his Love.Sheecomes, and straight therewith her shining twins do moveTheir raies to me: who in her tedious absence layBenighted in cold woe; but now appeares my shining day,The only light of joy, the only warmth of Love,Sheecomes with light and warmth, which likeAuroraprove;Of gentle force, so that my eyes dare gladly playWith such a rosy Morne: whose beames most freshly gayScorch not; but onely doe darke chilling spirits remove.But loe, while I do speake it groweth noone with mee,Her flamy glittering lights increase with time and place:My heart cryes ah it burnes, mine eyes now dazled be:No winde, no shade can coole: what helpe then in my case?But with short breath, long lookes, staide feete, and walking hed,Pray that my Sunne goe downe with me her beames to bed.Those lookes, whose beames be joy, whose motion is delight,That face whose lecture shewes what perfect Beautie is:That presence which doth give darke hearts a living light,That grace, whichVenusweepes that shee her selfe doth misse.That hand, which without touch, holdes more thanAtlasmight,Those lips, which makes deathes pay a meane prise for a kisse:That skin, whose past-praise hue scornes this poore tearme of whit,Those words which doe sublime the quintessence of blisse.That voice which makes the soule plant himselfe in the eares,That conversation sweet, where such high comforts be:As constru’d in true speech; the name of heaven it beares:Makes me in my best thoughts and quiet judgements see,That in no more but these I might be fully blest:Yet ah, my maiden Muse doth blush to tell the best.Oh how the pleasant ayres of true love beeInflicted by those vapours, which ariseFrom out that noysome gulfe: which gaping liesBetweene the jawes of hellish Jelousey.A Monster, others harmes, selfe misery.Beauties plague, Vertues scurge, succour of lyes:Who his owne joy to his owne heart applyes,And onely cherish doth with injuries:Who since he hath by natures speciall grace,So pearsing pawes as spoyle when they embrace,So nimble feete as stirre though still on thornes,So manie eyes aye seeking their owne woe.So ample eares, that never good newes knowe,Is it not ill that such a divell wants hornes?Sweete kisse, thy sweetes I faine would sweetely indite,Which even of sweetnes, sweetest sweeter art;Pleasing’st consort, where each sense holds a part,With coopling Doves guidesVenuschariot right,Best charge and brav’st retraite inCupidssight.A double key which openeth to the hart,Most ritch when most his ritches it imparte.Nest of yong joyes, Scholemaster of delight,Teaching the meanes at once to take and give,The friendly fray where blowes do wound and heale,The prettie death while each in other live,Poore hopes first wealth a stage of promised weale.Breakefast of love, but loe, loe where shee isCease we to praise, now praie wee for a kisse.Sweet swelling lip well maiest thou swell in prideSince best wittes thinke it witt thee to admire,Natures praise, vertues stall,Cupidscolde fire,Whence words, not words but heavenly graces slide,The newePernassuswhere theMusesbyde:Sweeteness of Musicke, Wisomes beautifier,Breather of life, and fastner of desire,Where Beauties blush in Honors graine is dyde.Thus much my hart compeld my mouth to say:But now, spite of my heart my tongue will stay,Loathing al lyes, doubting this flatterieis,And no spurre can this restie race renewe;Without how farre this praise is short of you,Sweete lipp you teach my mouth with one sweete kisse.O Kisse which doth those ruddie gemmes impart,Or Gemmes or fruits of new found Parradise,Breathing all blisse and sweetnes to the hart,Teaching dumbe lips a nobler exercise.O kisse which soules even soules together tiesBy links of Love, and onely natures Art,How faine would I paint thee to all mens eies,Or of thy gifts at least shade out some part?But shee forbids, with blushing words shee saies,Shee builds her fame on higher seated praise:But my heart burnes, I cannot silent be,Then since deare life, you faine would have me peace.And I (mad with delight) want wit to cease,Stop you my mouth with still still kissing me.Nymph of the garden where all beauties be,Beauties which do in excellencie passe,His who till death lockt in a watry glasse,Or hirs whom nak’d the Trojan boy did see.Sweete garden Nymph that keepes the Cherrie tree,Whose fruit doth far the Hesperian tast surpasse,Most sweete faire, most faire sweete, do not alasseFrom comming neere these Cherries banish mee,For though full of desire, emptie of wit,Admitted late by your best graced grace,I caught at one of them an hungry bit,Pardon that fault, once more graunt me the place,And so I sweare even by the same delite,I will but kisse, I never more will bite.Good brotherPhilipI have forborne you long,I was content you should in favour creepe,While craftely you seemed your Cut to keepe,As though that faire soft hand did you great wrong:I beare with envy, yet I heare your song,When in hir necke you did love ditties peepe,Nay, (more foole I) oft suffred you to sleepe,In lillies nest where Loves selfe lies a long,What? doth high place ambitious thoughts augment?Is saucines reward of curtesie?Cannot such grace your silly selfe content,But you must needes with those lips billing be?And through those lips drinke Nectar from that tung,Leave thatSyr Phipplest off your necke be wrung.High way since you my chiefePernassusbe,And that my Muse to some eares not unmeete,Tempers her words to trampling horses feete,More often than to a Chamber melodie,Now blessed you beare onwards blessed me,To her where I my heart safeliest shall meete,My Muse and I must you of duetie greete,With thanks and wishes wishing thankfully;Be you still carefull kept by publike heede,By no encrochment wrongd, nor time forgot,Nor blam’d for bloud, nor sham’d for sinfull deede,And that you know I envie you no lot,Of highest wish, I wish you so much blisse,Hundreds of yeares youStellasfeete may kisse.I see the house my harte thy selfe containe,Beware full Sailes drown not thy tottering Barge,Least joy by nature apt, (spirites to enlarge)Thee to thy wracke beyond thy limits straine,Nor doe like Lords whose weake confused braine,Not pointing to fit folks each undercharge,While every office themselves will discharge,With doing all leave nothing done but paine,But give apt servants their due place; let eyeSee beauties totall summe summ’d in their face,Let eares heare speach which will to wonder tye,Let breath suck up those sweetes, let armes imbraceThe Globe of weale, lipps Lov’s Indentures make.Thou but of all the kingly tribute take.Alas whence comes this change of lookes? If Ihave chang’d desert, let mine owne conscience beA still felt plague to selfe condemning mee:Let woe grype on my heart, shame load mine eye:But if all faith like spotlesErminelyeSafe in my soule (which onely doth to theeAs his sole object of felicitieWith wings of Love in aire of wonder flie.)O case your hand, treat not so hard your slave,In Justice, paines come not till faults do call:Or if I needs (sweet Judge) must torments have,Use something else to chasten mee withall,Than those blest eyes where all my hopes do dwell,No doome shall make ones Heaven become his Hell.When I was forst fromStellaever deare,Stella, foode of my thoughts, hart of my hart:Stella, whose eyes make all my temples cleare,By Yron lawes, of duetie to depart,Alas I found that shee with mee did smart:I sawe that teares did in her eyes appeare:I sawe that sighes her sweetest lips did part:And her sad words my sadded sense did heare.For mee, I weepe to see Pearles scattered so:I sighd her sighes, and wailed for her woe:Yet swamme in joy such love in her was seene.Thus while the effect most bitter was to mee,And nothing than that cause more sweet could be,I had beene vext, if vext I had not beene.Out Traytour absence dar’st thou counsell meeFrom my deare Captainnesse to runne away,Because in brave arraye here marcheth sheeThat to winne mee oft showes a present paye.Is Faith so weake, or is such force in thee?When Sunne is hid, can Starres such beames displaie?Cannot Heavens foode once felt keepe stomacks freeFrom base desire on earthly cares to praie?Tush absence, while thy mistes eclypse that light,My Orphan sense flyes to the inward sight:Where memorie settes foorth the beames of Love,That where before heart lov’d and eyes did see,In heart my sight and Love now coupled be,United powres make eche the stronger prove.Now that of absence the most yrksome night,With darkest shade doth overcome the daie:SinceStella’seyes wont to give mee my daie,Leaving myHemisphereleaves mee in night,Each day seemes long, and longs for long staied night:The night as tedious, wooes th’approch of day:Tyr’d with the dustie toyles of busie day,Languisht with horrors of the silent night,Suffering the evils both of daie and night,While no night is more darke than is my day,Nor no day hath lesse quiet then my night:With such bad mixture of my night and daie,That living thus in blackest Winter night,I feele the flames of hottest Sommers daie.Stella, thinke not that I by verse seeke fame,Who seeke, who hope, who love, who like, but thee:Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my historie,If thou praise not, all other praise is shame.Nor so ambitious am I, as to frameA nest for my yong praise in Lawrell tree,In trueth I sweare, I wish not there should begraved in my Epitaph a Poets name.Nor if I would could I just title makeThat anie laud thereof to me should groweWithout my Plumes from others wings I take;For nothing from my wit or will doth flowe:Since all my words thy beautie doth indite,And Love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.Stella, while now by honours cruell might,I am from you (light of my light) misled,And that faire you, my Sunne thus overspredWith absence vale I live in sorrowes night.If this darke place yet shewe by candle lightSome Beauties peece, as amber collourd hed,Milke hands, rose cheekes, or lips more sweet more red,Or seeming jett black, but in blacknes brightThey please I doe confesse, they please mine eyes,But whie? because of you they moddels be;Moddels such be wood globes of glistering skyes.Deare therefore be not jealous over me,If you heare that they seeme my heart to move,Not them, no no, but you in them I love.
What, have I thus betraide my libertie,Can those black beames, such burning marks engraveIn my free side, or am I borne a slave,Whose necke becomes such yoke of tyrannie?Or want I sence to feele my miserie,Or spirit, disdaine of such disdaine to have,Who for long faith the daily helpe I crave,May get no almes, but scorne of beggerie.Vertue awake, beautie but beautie is;I may, I must, I can, I will, I doeLeave following that which it is gaine to misse,Let her goe: soft, but there she comes, goe to,Unkind I love you, not, (O mee) that eyeDoth make my hart give to my tongue a lye.
What, have I thus betraide my libertie,
Can those black beames, such burning marks engrave
In my free side, or am I borne a slave,
Whose necke becomes such yoke of tyrannie?
Or want I sence to feele my miserie,
Or spirit, disdaine of such disdaine to have,
Who for long faith the daily helpe I crave,
May get no almes, but scorne of beggerie.
Vertue awake, beautie but beautie is;
I may, I must, I can, I will, I doe
Leave following that which it is gaine to misse,
Let her goe: soft, but there she comes, goe to,
Unkind I love you, not, (O mee) that eye
Doth make my hart give to my tongue a lye.
Soules joy, bend not those morning starres from me,Where vertue is made strong by beauties might,Where love is chastnes, paine doth learne delight,And humblenes growes on with majestie;What ever may ensue, O let me beCopartner of the ritches of that sight:Let not mine eyes be driven from that light;ô looke, ô shine, ô let me die and see,For though I oft my selfe of them bemone,That through my hart their beamie darts be gone,Whose curelesse wounds even nowe most freshly bleede;Yet since my deaths wound is already got,Deere killer, spare notthysweete cruell shot,A kinde of grace it is to slaye with speede.
Soules joy, bend not those morning starres from me,
Where vertue is made strong by beauties might,
Where love is chastnes, paine doth learne delight,
And humblenes growes on with majestie;
What ever may ensue, O let me be
Copartner of the ritches of that sight:
Let not mine eyes be driven from that light;
ô looke, ô shine, ô let me die and see,
For though I oft my selfe of them bemone,
That through my hart their beamie darts be gone,
Whose curelesse wounds even nowe most freshly bleede;
Yet since my deaths wound is already got,
Deere killer, spare notthysweete cruell shot,
A kinde of grace it is to slaye with speede.
I on my horse, and Love on me doth trieOur horsmanship, while by strange worke I prove,A horsman to my horse, a horse to Love;And now mans wrongs in me poore beast discry.The raines wherewith my ryder doth me tieAre reverent thoughts, which bit of reverence move,Curbde in with feare, but with gilt bosse aboveOf hope, which makes it seeme faire to the eye:The wande is will, thou fancie saddle art,Girt fast by memorie; and while I spurreMy horse, he spurres with sharpe desires my hart,He sits me fast how ever I doe sturre,And now hath made me to his hand so right,That in the manage, my selfe do take delight.
I on my horse, and Love on me doth trie
Our horsmanship, while by strange worke I prove,
A horsman to my horse, a horse to Love;
And now mans wrongs in me poore beast discry.
The raines wherewith my ryder doth me tie
Are reverent thoughts, which bit of reverence move,
Curbde in with feare, but with gilt bosse above
Of hope, which makes it seeme faire to the eye:
The wande is will, thou fancie saddle art,
Girt fast by memorie; and while I spurre
My horse, he spurres with sharpe desires my hart,
He sits me fast how ever I doe sturre,
And now hath made me to his hand so right,
That in the manage, my selfe do take delight.
Stella, the fulnes of my thoughts of theeCannot be stayed within my panting brest:But they do swell and struggle forth of me,Till that in words thy figure be exprest;And yet as soone as they so formed be,According to my Lord Loves owne behest,With sad eyes I their weake proportion seeTo portract what within this world is best.So that I cannot chuse but write my minde,And cannot chuse but put out what I write,While those poore babes their death in birth doe find;And now my penne these lynes had dashed quite,But that they stop his furie from the same:Because their fore-front beares sweetStellasname.
Stella, the fulnes of my thoughts of thee
Cannot be stayed within my panting brest:
But they do swell and struggle forth of me,
Till that in words thy figure be exprest;
And yet as soone as they so formed be,
According to my Lord Loves owne behest,
With sad eyes I their weake proportion see
To portract what within this world is best.
So that I cannot chuse but write my minde,
And cannot chuse but put out what I write,
While those poore babes their death in birth doe find;
And now my penne these lynes had dashed quite,
But that they stop his furie from the same:
Because their fore-front beares sweetStellasname.
Pardon mine eares, both I and they doe pray,So mayyourtongue full flauntingly proceede,To them that doe such entertainments neede;So mayyoustill have somewhat new to say.On sillie me, doe notyouburthen layOf all the grave conceiptsyourbraine doth breede,But find someHercules, to beard (in steedeOfAtlastyrde)yourwisedomes heavenly sway.For me while you discourse of courtly tydes,Of cunningst Fishers in most troubled streames,Of straying waves when valiant errour guides:Meane while my hart confers withStellasbeames,And is even woe that so sweet Comedie,By such unfuted speech, should hindered be.
Pardon mine eares, both I and they doe pray,
So mayyourtongue full flauntingly proceede,
To them that doe such entertainments neede;
So mayyoustill have somewhat new to say.
On sillie me, doe notyouburthen lay
Of all the grave conceiptsyourbraine doth breede,
But find someHercules, to beard (in steede
OfAtlastyrde)yourwisedomes heavenly sway.
For me while you discourse of courtly tydes,
Of cunningst Fishers in most troubled streames,
Of straying waves when valiant errour guides:
Meane while my hart confers withStellasbeames,
And is even woe that so sweet Comedie,
By such unfuted speech, should hindered be.
A Strife is growne betweene Vertue and Love,While each pretends, thatStellamust be his;Her eyes, her lips, her all, saith Love doe this,Since they doe weare his badge, most firmely prove;But Vertue thus, that title doth disprove.ThatStella, (ô deere name) thatStellais,That vertuous Soule, sure heyre of heavenly Blisse:Not this faire outside, which our hart doth move;And therefore, thoughherbeauty andhergrace,Be Loves indeede, inStellasselfe he mayBy no pretence claime any manner place.Well Love, since this Demurre our sute doth staie.Let Vertue have thatStellasselfe, yet thus,That Vertue but that body graunt to us.
A Strife is growne betweene Vertue and Love,
While each pretends, thatStellamust be his;
Her eyes, her lips, her all, saith Love doe this,
Since they doe weare his badge, most firmely prove;
But Vertue thus, that title doth disprove.
ThatStella, (ô deere name) thatStellais,
That vertuous Soule, sure heyre of heavenly Blisse:
Not this faire outside, which our hart doth move;
And therefore, thoughherbeauty andhergrace,
Be Loves indeede, inStellasselfe he may
By no pretence claime any manner place.
Well Love, since this Demurre our sute doth staie.
Let Vertue have thatStellasselfe, yet thus,
That Vertue but that body graunt to us.
In Martiall sportes I had my cunning tryde,And yet to breake more Staves I did mee adresseWhile that the peopl’s showtes: I must confesse,Youth, luck, and praise, even filld my vaines with pride;WhenCupidhaving me his slave descride,InMarshis liverie, prauncing in the presse.What now sir foole said he (I would no lesse)Looke heere I say; I lookt, andStellaspide:Who hard by through a window sent forth light;My hart then quake, then daz’led were my eyes.One hand forgot to rule, th’ other to fight,No Trumpet sound I heard, nor freendly cries;My foe came on, and beate the ayre for mee,Till that her blush, taught me my shame to see.
In Martiall sportes I had my cunning tryde,
And yet to breake more Staves I did mee adresse
While that the peopl’s showtes: I must confesse,
Youth, luck, and praise, even filld my vaines with pride;
WhenCupidhaving me his slave descride,
InMarshis liverie, prauncing in the presse.
What now sir foole said he (I would no lesse)
Looke heere I say; I lookt, andStellaspide:
Who hard by through a window sent forth light;
My hart then quake, then daz’led were my eyes.
One hand forgot to rule, th’ other to fight,
No Trumpet sound I heard, nor freendly cries;
My foe came on, and beate the ayre for mee,
Till that her blush, taught me my shame to see.
Because I breathe not love to every one,Nor doe not use sette Colours for to weare:Nor nourish speciall locks with vowed haire,Nor give each speech a full point of a grone,The Courtly Nymphes acquainted with the moneOf them, which in their lips Loves Standard beare:What he, (say they of me) now I dare sweare,He cannot love: no, no, let him alone.And thinke so still, soStellaknow my minde.Professe in deede, I do notCupid’sart.But you faire Maides, at length this true shall find,That his right badge, is but worne in the hart.Dumbe Swans, not chattering Pyes doe Lovers prove,They love in deed, who quake to say they love.
Because I breathe not love to every one,
Nor doe not use sette Colours for to weare:
Nor nourish speciall locks with vowed haire,
Nor give each speech a full point of a grone,
The Courtly Nymphes acquainted with the mone
Of them, which in their lips Loves Standard beare:
What he, (say they of me) now I dare sweare,
He cannot love: no, no, let him alone.
And thinke so still, soStellaknow my minde.
Professe in deede, I do notCupid’sart.
But you faire Maides, at length this true shall find,
That his right badge, is but worne in the hart.
Dumbe Swans, not chattering Pyes doe Lovers prove,
They love in deed, who quake to say they love.
Fie schoole of Patience, fie, your Lesson isFar far too long, to learne it without booke:What, a whole weeke, without one peece of looke?And thinke I should not your large precepts misse,When I might reade those Letters faire of blisse,Which inherface teach vertue, I could brooke,Somewhat thy leaden counsels which I tooke:As of a freend that meant not much amisse:But now alas, that I doe wanthersight,What doost thou thinke that I can ever take,In thy colde stuffe, a phlegmatick delight?No Patience, if thou wilt my good, then makeHer come, and heare with patience my desiresAnd then with patience bid me beare my fire.
Fie schoole of Patience, fie, your Lesson is
Far far too long, to learne it without booke:
What, a whole weeke, without one peece of looke?
And thinke I should not your large precepts misse,
When I might reade those Letters faire of blisse,
Which inherface teach vertue, I could brooke,
Somewhat thy leaden counsels which I tooke:
As of a freend that meant not much amisse:
But now alas, that I doe wanthersight,
What doost thou thinke that I can ever take,
In thy colde stuffe, a phlegmatick delight?
No Patience, if thou wilt my good, then make
Her come, and heare with patience my desires
And then with patience bid me beare my fire.
Muses, I oft invoked your whole ayde,With choisest flowres, my speech t’engarland so,That it disguisde, in true (but naked) show,Might winne some grace in your sweet skill arraide;And oft whole troupes of saddest words I stayde,Striving abroade, a forraging to goe,Untill by your inspiring I might know,How their blacke banners might be best displaid.But now I meane no more your helpe to trye.Nor other sugering of speech to prove,But onhername uncessantly to cry.For let me but nameherwhom I doe love,So sweete sounde straight my eares and hart doe hit,That I well finde no eloquence like it.
Muses, I oft invoked your whole ayde,
With choisest flowres, my speech t’engarland so,
That it disguisde, in true (but naked) show,
Might winne some grace in your sweet skill arraide;
And oft whole troupes of saddest words I stayde,
Striving abroade, a forraging to goe,
Untill by your inspiring I might know,
How their blacke banners might be best displaid.
But now I meane no more your helpe to trye.
Nor other sugering of speech to prove,
But onhername uncessantly to cry.
For let me but nameherwhom I doe love,
So sweete sounde straight my eares and hart doe hit,
That I well finde no eloquence like it.
Woe having made with many sighs his owneEach sense of mine; each gift, each power of mindeGrowne now his slaves, he forst them out to findeThe throwest words, fit for woes selfe to groneHoping that when they might findeStellaalone,Beforeshecould prepare to be unkind,Hersoule (armed with such a daintie rinde,)Should soone be hurt with sharpnes of the mone.Sheheard my plaints, and did not onely heare.But them, so sweet isshe, most sweetly sing,With that faire brest, making Woes darknes cleere,A prittie case I hoped her to bring,To feele my griefe, and she with face and voice,So sweetes my paines, that my paines me rejoyce.
Woe having made with many sighs his owne
Each sense of mine; each gift, each power of minde
Growne now his slaves, he forst them out to finde
The throwest words, fit for woes selfe to grone
Hoping that when they might findeStellaalone,
Beforeshecould prepare to be unkind,
Hersoule (armed with such a daintie rinde,)
Should soone be hurt with sharpnes of the mone.
Sheheard my plaints, and did not onely heare.
But them, so sweet isshe, most sweetly sing,
With that faire brest, making Woes darknes cleere,
A prittie case I hoped her to bring,
To feele my griefe, and she with face and voice,
So sweetes my paines, that my paines me rejoyce.
Doubt there hath beene, when with his golden chaineThe Orator so farre mens harts doth bind:That no pace els their guided steps can find;But as in them more shorte or slacke doth raine.Whether with words this sou’raigntte be gaine,Clothde with fine tropes with strongest reason lin’d,Or els pronouncing grace, wherewith his mindePrints his owne lively forme, in rudest braine.Now judge by this, in pearcing phrases lateTh’ Anatomie of all my woes I wrate,Stellassweete breath the same to me did reede.Oh voyce, oh face mauger my speeches might,With wooed woe, most ravishing delight,Even in sad mee a joy to me did breede.
Doubt there hath beene, when with his golden chaine
The Orator so farre mens harts doth bind:
That no pace els their guided steps can find;
But as in them more shorte or slacke doth raine.
Whether with words this sou’raigntte be gaine,
Clothde with fine tropes with strongest reason lin’d,
Or els pronouncing grace, wherewith his minde
Prints his owne lively forme, in rudest braine.
Now judge by this, in pearcing phrases late
Th’ Anatomie of all my woes I wrate,
Stellassweete breath the same to me did reede.
Oh voyce, oh face mauger my speeches might,
With wooed woe, most ravishing delight,
Even in sad mee a joy to me did breede.
Deere, why make you more of a dogge than me?If he doe love, alas I burne in love;If he waite well, I never thence would move;If he be faire, yet but a dogge can be;Little he is, so little worth is he:He barkes, my songs thyne owne voyce oft doth prove;Bidden, (perhaps) he fetcheththeea glove?But I unbid, fetch even my soule totheeYet while I languish, him that bosome clips,That lap doth lap, nay lets in spight of spightThis sour-breath’d mate tast of those sugred lips;Alas, ifyougraunt onely such delightTo witles things, then Love I hope, (since witBecomes a clogge) will soone ease me of it.
Deere, why make you more of a dogge than me?
If he doe love, alas I burne in love;
If he waite well, I never thence would move;
If he be faire, yet but a dogge can be;
Little he is, so little worth is he:
He barkes, my songs thyne owne voyce oft doth prove;
Bidden, (perhaps) he fetcheththeea glove?
But I unbid, fetch even my soule tothee
Yet while I languish, him that bosome clips,
That lap doth lap, nay lets in spight of spight
This sour-breath’d mate tast of those sugred lips;
Alas, ifyougraunt onely such delight
To witles things, then Love I hope, (since wit
Becomes a clogge) will soone ease me of it.
When my good Angell guides me to the placewhere al my good I do inStellasee,That Heaven of joyes throwes only downe on meThundred disdaines, and Lightning of disgrace;But when the ruggedst step of fortunes raceMakes me fall fromhersight, then sweetlysheWith words, whereing theMusesTreasures be,Shewes love and pittie to my absent case.Now I (witt-beaten long, by hardest fate)So dull am, that I cannot looke intoThe ground of this fierce love, and loving hate?Then some good body tell me how to do,Whose presence absence, absence presence is:Blest in my curse, and curssed in my blisse.
When my good Angell guides me to the place
where al my good I do inStellasee,
That Heaven of joyes throwes only downe on me
Thundred disdaines, and Lightning of disgrace;
But when the ruggedst step of fortunes race
Makes me fall fromhersight, then sweetlyshe
With words, whereing theMusesTreasures be,
Shewes love and pittie to my absent case.
Now I (witt-beaten long, by hardest fate)
So dull am, that I cannot looke into
The ground of this fierce love, and loving hate?
Then some good body tell me how to do,
Whose presence absence, absence presence is:
Blest in my curse, and curssed in my blisse.
Oft with true sighes, oft with uncalled teares,Now with slow words, now with dumbe eloquence,IStellaseyes assailde, invadehereares,But this at last ishersweete breath’d defence,That who indeede a sound affection beares,So captives to his Saint both soule and sence,That wholieHers, all selfnes he forbeares.Thence his desire he learnes, his lives course thence,Now since this chast love, hates this love in mee;With chastned minde I needes must shew, that sheeShall quickly me from what she hates remove.O DoctorCupid, thou for me reply:Driven els to graunt by Angell Sophistry,That I love not, without I leave to love.
Oft with true sighes, oft with uncalled teares,
Now with slow words, now with dumbe eloquence,
IStellaseyes assailde, invadehereares,
But this at last ishersweete breath’d defence,
That who indeede a sound affection beares,
So captives to his Saint both soule and sence,
That wholieHers, all selfnes he forbeares.
Thence his desire he learnes, his lives course thence,
Now since this chast love, hates this love in mee;
With chastned minde I needes must shew, that shee
Shall quickly me from what she hates remove.
O DoctorCupid, thou for me reply:
Driven els to graunt by Angell Sophistry,
That I love not, without I leave to love.
Late tyr’d with woe, even ready for to pineWith rage of love, I call my Love unkinde.Sheein whose eyes, love though unfelt doth shine,Sweetely saide, I true love in her should finde.I joyed, but straight thus watred was my wine:That love she did, but with a love not blinde.Which would not let me, whome she lov’d decline.From Nobler course, fit for my birth and minde.And therefore her loves Authoritie;Wild me those Tempests of vaine love to flee:And Anchor fast my selfe on vertues shore.Alas if this the onely mettall be,Of love newe coyn’d to help my beggery:Deere, love me not, that you may love me more.
Late tyr’d with woe, even ready for to pine
With rage of love, I call my Love unkinde.
Sheein whose eyes, love though unfelt doth shine,
Sweetely saide, I true love in her should finde.
I joyed, but straight thus watred was my wine:
That love she did, but with a love not blinde.
Which would not let me, whome she lov’d decline.
From Nobler course, fit for my birth and minde.
And therefore her loves Authoritie;
Wild me those Tempests of vaine love to flee:
And Anchor fast my selfe on vertues shore.
Alas if this the onely mettall be,
Of love newe coyn’d to help my beggery:
Deere, love me not, that you may love me more.
Oh Grammer rules, oh now your vertues showe,So Children still read you with awfull eyes,As my young Dove may in your precepts wise,Her graunt to me by her owne vertue knowe.For late with hart most hie, with eyes most lowe;I crav’d the thing which ever she denies.Shee lightning Love, displayingVenusskyes,Least one should not be heard twise, said no no.Sing then my Muse, now I do Pæan sing.Heavens Envy not at my high triumphing:But Grammers force with sweete successe confirme,For Grammer sayes (ah this deereStellaway)For Grammer sayes (to Grammer who sayes nay)That in one speech, two negatives affirme.
Oh Grammer rules, oh now your vertues showe,
So Children still read you with awfull eyes,
As my young Dove may in your precepts wise,
Her graunt to me by her owne vertue knowe.
For late with hart most hie, with eyes most lowe;
I crav’d the thing which ever she denies.
Shee lightning Love, displayingVenusskyes,
Least one should not be heard twise, said no no.
Sing then my Muse, now I do Pæan sing.
Heavens Envy not at my high triumphing:
But Grammers force with sweete successe confirme,
For Grammer sayes (ah this deereStellaway)
For Grammer sayes (to Grammer who sayes nay)
That in one speech, two negatives affirme.
No more my deere, no more these Counsels try,O give my passions leave to runne their race:Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace.Let Folke orecharg’d with braine against me cry,Let Cloudes be dimme, my face breake in my eye,Let me no steps but of lost labour try,Let all the earth in scorne recount my race;But doe not will me from my love to fly.I do not envieAristotleswit,Nor do aspire toCæsarsbleeding fame:Nor ought to care though some above me sit;Nor hope nor with another course to frame:But that which once may winne thy cruell hart,Thou art my wit; and thou my vertue art.
No more my deere, no more these Counsels try,
O give my passions leave to runne their race:
Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace.
Let Folke orecharg’d with braine against me cry,
Let Cloudes be dimme, my face breake in my eye,
Let me no steps but of lost labour try,
Let all the earth in scorne recount my race;
But doe not will me from my love to fly.
I do not envieAristotleswit,
Nor do aspire toCæsarsbleeding fame:
Nor ought to care though some above me sit;
Nor hope nor with another course to frame:
But that which once may winne thy cruell hart,
Thou art my wit; and thou my vertue art.
Love, by sure proofe I may call thee unkinde,That gives no better cares to my just cryes:Thou whom to me, such my good turnes shouldst binde,As I may well recount, but none can prise.For when nak’d boy, hou couldst no harbour findeIn this olde world, (growne now so to be wise)I lodg’de thee in my heart: and being blindeBy nature borne, I gave to thee my eyes.Mine eyes, my light, my life, my hart alas,If so great services may scorned be:Yet let this thought thy Tygrish courage passe,That I perhaps am somewhat kin to thee:Since in thine armes, if learn’d fame truth hath spred,Thou bearst the Arrowe, I the Arrowhed.
Love, by sure proofe I may call thee unkinde,
That gives no better cares to my just cryes:
Thou whom to me, such my good turnes shouldst binde,
As I may well recount, but none can prise.
For when nak’d boy, hou couldst no harbour finde
In this olde world, (growne now so to be wise)
I lodg’de thee in my heart: and being blinde
By nature borne, I gave to thee my eyes.
Mine eyes, my light, my life, my hart alas,
If so great services may scorned be:
Yet let this thought thy Tygrish courage passe,
That I perhaps am somewhat kin to thee:
Since in thine armes, if learn’d fame truth hath spred,
Thou bearst the Arrowe, I the Arrowhed.
And doe I see some cause a hope to feedeOr doth the tedious burthen of long woeIn weakned mindes, quick apprehension breedeOf every Image which may comfort showe.I cannot brag of word, much lesse of deede,Fortune wheels still with me in one sort slowe.My wealth no more, and no whit lesse my neede,Desier, still on stilts of feare doth goe.And yet amids all feares, a hope there isStolne to my hart: since last faire night (nay day)Stellaseyes sent to me the beames of blisse,Looking on mee, while I looke other way:But when mine eyes backe to their heaven did move:They fled with blush, which guiltie seem’d of love:
And doe I see some cause a hope to feede
Or doth the tedious burthen of long woe
In weakned mindes, quick apprehension breede
Of every Image which may comfort showe.
I cannot brag of word, much lesse of deede,
Fortune wheels still with me in one sort slowe.
My wealth no more, and no whit lesse my neede,
Desier, still on stilts of feare doth goe.
And yet amids all feares, a hope there is
Stolne to my hart: since last faire night (nay day)
Stellaseyes sent to me the beames of blisse,
Looking on mee, while I looke other way:
But when mine eyes backe to their heaven did move:
They fled with blush, which guiltie seem’d of love:
Hope art thou true or doost thou flatter me?DothStellanow beginne, with pitteous eyeThe raigne of this her conquest to espie?Will shee take time before all wracked be?Her eye speech is translated thus by thee.But failste thou not in phrase so heavenly hye?Looke on againe, the faire text better prie;What blushing notes dost thou in Margent see?What sighes stolne out, or kild before full borneHast thou found such and such like arguments?Or art thou els to comfort me forsworne?Well how so thou interpret the contents,I am resolv’d thy error to maintaine:Rather than by more trueth to get more paine.
Hope art thou true or doost thou flatter me?
DothStellanow beginne, with pitteous eye
The raigne of this her conquest to espie?
Will shee take time before all wracked be?
Her eye speech is translated thus by thee.
But failste thou not in phrase so heavenly hye?
Looke on againe, the faire text better prie;
What blushing notes dost thou in Margent see?
What sighes stolne out, or kild before full borne
Hast thou found such and such like arguments?
Or art thou els to comfort me forsworne?
Well how so thou interpret the contents,
I am resolv’d thy error to maintaine:
Rather than by more trueth to get more paine.
Stella, the only Plannet of my lightLight of my life, and life of my desire,Cheife good, whereto my hope doth onely spire,World of my wealth and heaven of my delight.Why doost thou spend the Treasure of thy spriteWith voice more fit to wedAmphyonsLyre?Seeking to quench in me the noble fyre,Fed by thy worth and kindled by thy sight.And all in vaine, for while thy breath most sweeteWith choisest words, thy words with reasons rare:Thy reasons firmely set, are vertues feete,Labor to kill in me this killing careOh thinke I then, what Paradise of joyIt is, so faire a vertue to enjoye.
Stella, the only Plannet of my light
Light of my life, and life of my desire,
Cheife good, whereto my hope doth onely spire,
World of my wealth and heaven of my delight.
Why doost thou spend the Treasure of thy sprite
With voice more fit to wedAmphyonsLyre?
Seeking to quench in me the noble fyre,
Fed by thy worth and kindled by thy sight.
And all in vaine, for while thy breath most sweete
With choisest words, thy words with reasons rare:
Thy reasons firmely set, are vertues feete,
Labor to kill in me this killing care
Oh thinke I then, what Paradise of joy
It is, so faire a vertue to enjoye.
Oh joy, too high for my Love still to showe,Oh blisse, fit for a nobler seat than meeEnvie put out thine eyes, least thou doe seeWhatOceansof delight in me doth flowe.My friend that oft saw’st through all maskes, my woe,Come, come, and let me poure myself on thee:Gone is the winter of my miserie.My spring appeares, ô see what heere doth growe,ForStellahath with wordes (where faith doth shine)Of her high hart given me the MonarchieI, I, ô I may say that she is mine.And though she give but thus condicionally,This Realme of blisse, while vertues course I take,No Kings be Crownd, but they some covenant make.
Oh joy, too high for my Love still to showe,
Oh blisse, fit for a nobler seat than mee
Envie put out thine eyes, least thou doe see
WhatOceansof delight in me doth flowe.
My friend that oft saw’st through all maskes, my woe,
Come, come, and let me poure myself on thee:
Gone is the winter of my miserie.
My spring appeares, ô see what heere doth growe,
ForStellahath with wordes (where faith doth shine)
Of her high hart given me the Monarchie
I, I, ô I may say that she is mine.
And though she give but thus condicionally,
This Realme of blisse, while vertues course I take,
No Kings be Crownd, but they some covenant make.
My Muse may well grudge at my heavenly joy,Yf still I force her in sad rymes to creepe:She oft hath drunke my teares, now hopes t’enjoyNectarof mirth, since IlovesCup do keepe.Sonnets be not bound Prentice to annoy,Trebbles sing high, so well as bases deepe:Griefe but Loves winter liverie is, the boyHath cheekes to smile, so well as eyes weepe.Come then my Muse, shew the height of delightIn well raisde noates my pen the best it mayShall paint out joy, though but in blacke and white.Cease eager Muse, peace pen for my sake stay.I give you heere my hand for truth of this:Wise silence is best Musique unto blisse.
My Muse may well grudge at my heavenly joy,
Yf still I force her in sad rymes to creepe:
She oft hath drunke my teares, now hopes t’enjoy
Nectarof mirth, since IlovesCup do keepe.
Sonnets be not bound Prentice to annoy,
Trebbles sing high, so well as bases deepe:
Griefe but Loves winter liverie is, the boy
Hath cheekes to smile, so well as eyes weepe.
Come then my Muse, shew the height of delight
In well raisde noates my pen the best it may
Shall paint out joy, though but in blacke and white.
Cease eager Muse, peace pen for my sake stay.
I give you heere my hand for truth of this:
Wise silence is best Musique unto blisse.
Who will in fayrest booke of nature know,How Vertue may best lodgde in Beautie bee,Let him but learne of love to read in theeStellathose faire lines which true goodnes showe.There shall he finde all vices overthrowe:Not by rude force, but sweetest soveraigntieOf reason, from whose light, the night birdes flie,That inward Sunne in thine eyes shineth so.And not content to be perfections heir,Thy selfe doth strive all mindes that way to move:Who marke in thee what is in deede most faire,So while thy beautie drives my hart to love,As fast thy vertue bends that love to good:But ah, Desire still cryes, give me some food.
Who will in fayrest booke of nature know,
How Vertue may best lodgde in Beautie bee,
Let him but learne of love to read in thee
Stellathose faire lines which true goodnes showe.
There shall he finde all vices overthrowe:
Not by rude force, but sweetest soveraigntie
Of reason, from whose light, the night birdes flie,
That inward Sunne in thine eyes shineth so.
And not content to be perfections heir,
Thy selfe doth strive all mindes that way to move:
Who marke in thee what is in deede most faire,
So while thy beautie drives my hart to love,
As fast thy vertue bends that love to good:
But ah, Desire still cryes, give me some food.
Desire, though thou mine olde companion art,And oft so clinges to my pure Love, that IOne from the other scarcely can discry:While each doth blowe the fier of my hart:Now from thy fellowship I needs must part.Venusis taught withDianswings to flye,I must no more in thy sweete passions lie,Vertues golde now, must head myCupidsdart,Service and honour wonder with delight,Feare to offend, well worthie to appeare:Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my spright,These things are left me by my onely deare.But thou Desire, because thou wouldst have all:Now banisht art, yet alas how shall?
Desire, though thou mine olde companion art,
And oft so clinges to my pure Love, that I
One from the other scarcely can discry:
While each doth blowe the fier of my hart:
Now from thy fellowship I needs must part.
Venusis taught withDianswings to flye,
I must no more in thy sweete passions lie,
Vertues golde now, must head myCupidsdart,
Service and honour wonder with delight,
Feare to offend, well worthie to appeare:
Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my spright,
These things are left me by my onely deare.
But thou Desire, because thou wouldst have all:
Now banisht art, yet alas how shall?
Love still a Boy, and oft a wanton is,Schoolde only by his Mothers tender eye:What wonder then if he his lesson misse,When for so soft a rod deare play he trye.And yet my starre, because a sugred kisse,In sport I sucke, while she a sleepe did lye:Doth lowre, naye chide, nay threat for onely this:Sweet it was saucy love, not humble I.But no scuse serves, she makes her wrath appeare,In Beauties throne, see now who dares come neereThose scarlet Judges, threatning blooddie paine.O heavenly Foole, thy most kisse worthy faceAnger invests with such a lovely grace,That Angers selfe I needes must kisse againe.
Love still a Boy, and oft a wanton is,
Schoolde only by his Mothers tender eye:
What wonder then if he his lesson misse,
When for so soft a rod deare play he trye.
And yet my starre, because a sugred kisse,
In sport I sucke, while she a sleepe did lye:
Doth lowre, naye chide, nay threat for onely this:
Sweet it was saucy love, not humble I.
But no scuse serves, she makes her wrath appeare,
In Beauties throne, see now who dares come neere
Those scarlet Judges, threatning blooddie paine.
O heavenly Foole, thy most kisse worthy face
Anger invests with such a lovely grace,
That Angers selfe I needes must kisse againe.
I Never dranke ofAganippewell,Nor never did in shade ofTempesit:And Muses scorne with vulgar braines to dwell,Poore Lay-man I, for sacred rites unfit.Some doe I heare of Poets fury tell,But God wot, wot not what they meane by it:And this I sweare by blackest brooke of hell,I am no Pickepurse of an others wit.How fals it than, that with so smooth an easeMy thoughts I speake? And what I speake doth floweIn verse; and that my verse best wittes doth please,Gesse we the cause. What is it this? fie no,Or so? much lesse. How then? sure thus it is,My Lips are sure inspir’d withStellaskisse.
I Never dranke ofAganippewell,
Nor never did in shade ofTempesit:
And Muses scorne with vulgar braines to dwell,
Poore Lay-man I, for sacred rites unfit.
Some doe I heare of Poets fury tell,
But God wot, wot not what they meane by it:
And this I sweare by blackest brooke of hell,
I am no Pickepurse of an others wit.
How fals it than, that with so smooth an ease
My thoughts I speake? And what I speake doth flowe
In verse; and that my verse best wittes doth please,
Gesse we the cause. What is it this? fie no,
Or so? much lesse. How then? sure thus it is,
My Lips are sure inspir’d withStellaskisse.
Of all the Kings that ever heere did raigne,Edwardnamde fourth, as first in praise I name:Not for his faire outside, nor well linde braine,Although lesse guift, imp feathers oft no fame.Nor that he could young wise, wise valliant frameHis Syres revenge, joynde with a kingdomes gaine:And gaind byMars, could yet madMarsso tame,That ballance waide what sword did late obtaine.Nor that he made the Flower de lys so fraide,Though strongly hedgd of bloody Lyons pawes:That wittieLewesto him a tribuite paide;Nor this nor that, nor any such small cause,But onely, for this worthy King durst prove,To loose his Crowne, rather then fayle his Love.
Of all the Kings that ever heere did raigne,
Edwardnamde fourth, as first in praise I name:
Not for his faire outside, nor well linde braine,
Although lesse guift, imp feathers oft no fame.
Nor that he could young wise, wise valliant frame
His Syres revenge, joynde with a kingdomes gaine:
And gaind byMars, could yet madMarsso tame,
That ballance waide what sword did late obtaine.
Nor that he made the Flower de lys so fraide,
Though strongly hedgd of bloody Lyons pawes:
That wittieLewesto him a tribuite paide;
Nor this nor that, nor any such small cause,
But onely, for this worthy King durst prove,
To loose his Crowne, rather then fayle his Love.
Sheecomes, and straight therewith her shining twins do moveTheir raies to me: who in her tedious absence layBenighted in cold woe; but now appeares my shining day,The only light of joy, the only warmth of Love,Sheecomes with light and warmth, which likeAuroraprove;Of gentle force, so that my eyes dare gladly playWith such a rosy Morne: whose beames most freshly gayScorch not; but onely doe darke chilling spirits remove.But loe, while I do speake it groweth noone with mee,Her flamy glittering lights increase with time and place:My heart cryes ah it burnes, mine eyes now dazled be:No winde, no shade can coole: what helpe then in my case?But with short breath, long lookes, staide feete, and walking hed,Pray that my Sunne goe downe with me her beames to bed.
Sheecomes, and straight therewith her shining twins do move
Their raies to me: who in her tedious absence lay
Benighted in cold woe; but now appeares my shining day,
The only light of joy, the only warmth of Love,
Sheecomes with light and warmth, which likeAuroraprove;
Of gentle force, so that my eyes dare gladly play
With such a rosy Morne: whose beames most freshly gay
Scorch not; but onely doe darke chilling spirits remove.
But loe, while I do speake it groweth noone with mee,
Her flamy glittering lights increase with time and place:
My heart cryes ah it burnes, mine eyes now dazled be:
No winde, no shade can coole: what helpe then in my case?
But with short breath, long lookes, staide feete, and walking hed,
Pray that my Sunne goe downe with me her beames to bed.
Those lookes, whose beames be joy, whose motion is delight,That face whose lecture shewes what perfect Beautie is:That presence which doth give darke hearts a living light,That grace, whichVenusweepes that shee her selfe doth misse.That hand, which without touch, holdes more thanAtlasmight,Those lips, which makes deathes pay a meane prise for a kisse:That skin, whose past-praise hue scornes this poore tearme of whit,Those words which doe sublime the quintessence of blisse.That voice which makes the soule plant himselfe in the eares,That conversation sweet, where such high comforts be:As constru’d in true speech; the name of heaven it beares:Makes me in my best thoughts and quiet judgements see,That in no more but these I might be fully blest:Yet ah, my maiden Muse doth blush to tell the best.
Those lookes, whose beames be joy, whose motion is delight,
That face whose lecture shewes what perfect Beautie is:
That presence which doth give darke hearts a living light,
That grace, whichVenusweepes that shee her selfe doth misse.
That hand, which without touch, holdes more thanAtlasmight,
Those lips, which makes deathes pay a meane prise for a kisse:
That skin, whose past-praise hue scornes this poore tearme of whit,
Those words which doe sublime the quintessence of blisse.
That voice which makes the soule plant himselfe in the eares,
That conversation sweet, where such high comforts be:
As constru’d in true speech; the name of heaven it beares:
Makes me in my best thoughts and quiet judgements see,
That in no more but these I might be fully blest:
Yet ah, my maiden Muse doth blush to tell the best.
Oh how the pleasant ayres of true love beeInflicted by those vapours, which ariseFrom out that noysome gulfe: which gaping liesBetweene the jawes of hellish Jelousey.A Monster, others harmes, selfe misery.Beauties plague, Vertues scurge, succour of lyes:Who his owne joy to his owne heart applyes,And onely cherish doth with injuries:Who since he hath by natures speciall grace,So pearsing pawes as spoyle when they embrace,So nimble feete as stirre though still on thornes,So manie eyes aye seeking their owne woe.So ample eares, that never good newes knowe,Is it not ill that such a divell wants hornes?
Oh how the pleasant ayres of true love bee
Inflicted by those vapours, which arise
From out that noysome gulfe: which gaping lies
Betweene the jawes of hellish Jelousey.
A Monster, others harmes, selfe misery.
Beauties plague, Vertues scurge, succour of lyes:
Who his owne joy to his owne heart applyes,
And onely cherish doth with injuries:
Who since he hath by natures speciall grace,
So pearsing pawes as spoyle when they embrace,
So nimble feete as stirre though still on thornes,
So manie eyes aye seeking their owne woe.
So ample eares, that never good newes knowe,
Is it not ill that such a divell wants hornes?
Sweete kisse, thy sweetes I faine would sweetely indite,Which even of sweetnes, sweetest sweeter art;Pleasing’st consort, where each sense holds a part,With coopling Doves guidesVenuschariot right,Best charge and brav’st retraite inCupidssight.A double key which openeth to the hart,Most ritch when most his ritches it imparte.Nest of yong joyes, Scholemaster of delight,Teaching the meanes at once to take and give,The friendly fray where blowes do wound and heale,The prettie death while each in other live,Poore hopes first wealth a stage of promised weale.Breakefast of love, but loe, loe where shee isCease we to praise, now praie wee for a kisse.
Sweete kisse, thy sweetes I faine would sweetely indite,
Which even of sweetnes, sweetest sweeter art;
Pleasing’st consort, where each sense holds a part,
With coopling Doves guidesVenuschariot right,
Best charge and brav’st retraite inCupidssight.
A double key which openeth to the hart,
Most ritch when most his ritches it imparte.
Nest of yong joyes, Scholemaster of delight,
Teaching the meanes at once to take and give,
The friendly fray where blowes do wound and heale,
The prettie death while each in other live,
Poore hopes first wealth a stage of promised weale.
Breakefast of love, but loe, loe where shee is
Cease we to praise, now praie wee for a kisse.
Sweet swelling lip well maiest thou swell in prideSince best wittes thinke it witt thee to admire,Natures praise, vertues stall,Cupidscolde fire,Whence words, not words but heavenly graces slide,The newePernassuswhere theMusesbyde:Sweeteness of Musicke, Wisomes beautifier,Breather of life, and fastner of desire,Where Beauties blush in Honors graine is dyde.Thus much my hart compeld my mouth to say:But now, spite of my heart my tongue will stay,Loathing al lyes, doubting this flatterieis,And no spurre can this restie race renewe;Without how farre this praise is short of you,Sweete lipp you teach my mouth with one sweete kisse.
Sweet swelling lip well maiest thou swell in pride
Since best wittes thinke it witt thee to admire,
Natures praise, vertues stall,Cupidscolde fire,
Whence words, not words but heavenly graces slide,
The newePernassuswhere theMusesbyde:
Sweeteness of Musicke, Wisomes beautifier,
Breather of life, and fastner of desire,
Where Beauties blush in Honors graine is dyde.
Thus much my hart compeld my mouth to say:
But now, spite of my heart my tongue will stay,
Loathing al lyes, doubting this flatterieis,
And no spurre can this restie race renewe;
Without how farre this praise is short of you,
Sweete lipp you teach my mouth with one sweete kisse.
O Kisse which doth those ruddie gemmes impart,Or Gemmes or fruits of new found Parradise,Breathing all blisse and sweetnes to the hart,Teaching dumbe lips a nobler exercise.O kisse which soules even soules together tiesBy links of Love, and onely natures Art,How faine would I paint thee to all mens eies,Or of thy gifts at least shade out some part?But shee forbids, with blushing words shee saies,Shee builds her fame on higher seated praise:But my heart burnes, I cannot silent be,Then since deare life, you faine would have me peace.And I (mad with delight) want wit to cease,Stop you my mouth with still still kissing me.
O Kisse which doth those ruddie gemmes impart,
Or Gemmes or fruits of new found Parradise,
Breathing all blisse and sweetnes to the hart,
Teaching dumbe lips a nobler exercise.
O kisse which soules even soules together ties
By links of Love, and onely natures Art,
How faine would I paint thee to all mens eies,
Or of thy gifts at least shade out some part?
But shee forbids, with blushing words shee saies,
Shee builds her fame on higher seated praise:
But my heart burnes, I cannot silent be,
Then since deare life, you faine would have me peace.
And I (mad with delight) want wit to cease,
Stop you my mouth with still still kissing me.
Nymph of the garden where all beauties be,Beauties which do in excellencie passe,His who till death lockt in a watry glasse,Or hirs whom nak’d the Trojan boy did see.Sweete garden Nymph that keepes the Cherrie tree,Whose fruit doth far the Hesperian tast surpasse,Most sweete faire, most faire sweete, do not alasseFrom comming neere these Cherries banish mee,For though full of desire, emptie of wit,Admitted late by your best graced grace,I caught at one of them an hungry bit,Pardon that fault, once more graunt me the place,And so I sweare even by the same delite,I will but kisse, I never more will bite.
Nymph of the garden where all beauties be,
Beauties which do in excellencie passe,
His who till death lockt in a watry glasse,
Or hirs whom nak’d the Trojan boy did see.
Sweete garden Nymph that keepes the Cherrie tree,
Whose fruit doth far the Hesperian tast surpasse,
Most sweete faire, most faire sweete, do not alasse
From comming neere these Cherries banish mee,
For though full of desire, emptie of wit,
Admitted late by your best graced grace,
I caught at one of them an hungry bit,
Pardon that fault, once more graunt me the place,
And so I sweare even by the same delite,
I will but kisse, I never more will bite.
Good brotherPhilipI have forborne you long,I was content you should in favour creepe,While craftely you seemed your Cut to keepe,As though that faire soft hand did you great wrong:I beare with envy, yet I heare your song,When in hir necke you did love ditties peepe,Nay, (more foole I) oft suffred you to sleepe,In lillies nest where Loves selfe lies a long,What? doth high place ambitious thoughts augment?Is saucines reward of curtesie?Cannot such grace your silly selfe content,But you must needes with those lips billing be?And through those lips drinke Nectar from that tung,Leave thatSyr Phipplest off your necke be wrung.
Good brotherPhilipI have forborne you long,
I was content you should in favour creepe,
While craftely you seemed your Cut to keepe,
As though that faire soft hand did you great wrong:
I beare with envy, yet I heare your song,
When in hir necke you did love ditties peepe,
Nay, (more foole I) oft suffred you to sleepe,
In lillies nest where Loves selfe lies a long,
What? doth high place ambitious thoughts augment?
Is saucines reward of curtesie?
Cannot such grace your silly selfe content,
But you must needes with those lips billing be?
And through those lips drinke Nectar from that tung,
Leave thatSyr Phipplest off your necke be wrung.
High way since you my chiefePernassusbe,And that my Muse to some eares not unmeete,Tempers her words to trampling horses feete,More often than to a Chamber melodie,Now blessed you beare onwards blessed me,To her where I my heart safeliest shall meete,My Muse and I must you of duetie greete,With thanks and wishes wishing thankfully;Be you still carefull kept by publike heede,By no encrochment wrongd, nor time forgot,Nor blam’d for bloud, nor sham’d for sinfull deede,And that you know I envie you no lot,Of highest wish, I wish you so much blisse,Hundreds of yeares youStellasfeete may kisse.
High way since you my chiefePernassusbe,
And that my Muse to some eares not unmeete,
Tempers her words to trampling horses feete,
More often than to a Chamber melodie,
Now blessed you beare onwards blessed me,
To her where I my heart safeliest shall meete,
My Muse and I must you of duetie greete,
With thanks and wishes wishing thankfully;
Be you still carefull kept by publike heede,
By no encrochment wrongd, nor time forgot,
Nor blam’d for bloud, nor sham’d for sinfull deede,
And that you know I envie you no lot,
Of highest wish, I wish you so much blisse,
Hundreds of yeares youStellasfeete may kisse.
I see the house my harte thy selfe containe,Beware full Sailes drown not thy tottering Barge,Least joy by nature apt, (spirites to enlarge)Thee to thy wracke beyond thy limits straine,Nor doe like Lords whose weake confused braine,Not pointing to fit folks each undercharge,While every office themselves will discharge,With doing all leave nothing done but paine,But give apt servants their due place; let eyeSee beauties totall summe summ’d in their face,Let eares heare speach which will to wonder tye,Let breath suck up those sweetes, let armes imbraceThe Globe of weale, lipps Lov’s Indentures make.Thou but of all the kingly tribute take.
I see the house my harte thy selfe containe,
Beware full Sailes drown not thy tottering Barge,
Least joy by nature apt, (spirites to enlarge)
Thee to thy wracke beyond thy limits straine,
Nor doe like Lords whose weake confused braine,
Not pointing to fit folks each undercharge,
While every office themselves will discharge,
With doing all leave nothing done but paine,
But give apt servants their due place; let eye
See beauties totall summe summ’d in their face,
Let eares heare speach which will to wonder tye,
Let breath suck up those sweetes, let armes imbrace
The Globe of weale, lipps Lov’s Indentures make.
Thou but of all the kingly tribute take.
Alas whence comes this change of lookes? If Ihave chang’d desert, let mine owne conscience beA still felt plague to selfe condemning mee:Let woe grype on my heart, shame load mine eye:But if all faith like spotlesErminelyeSafe in my soule (which onely doth to theeAs his sole object of felicitieWith wings of Love in aire of wonder flie.)O case your hand, treat not so hard your slave,In Justice, paines come not till faults do call:Or if I needs (sweet Judge) must torments have,Use something else to chasten mee withall,Than those blest eyes where all my hopes do dwell,No doome shall make ones Heaven become his Hell.
Alas whence comes this change of lookes? If I
have chang’d desert, let mine owne conscience be
A still felt plague to selfe condemning mee:
Let woe grype on my heart, shame load mine eye:
But if all faith like spotlesErminelye
Safe in my soule (which onely doth to thee
As his sole object of felicitie
With wings of Love in aire of wonder flie.)
O case your hand, treat not so hard your slave,
In Justice, paines come not till faults do call:
Or if I needs (sweet Judge) must torments have,
Use something else to chasten mee withall,
Than those blest eyes where all my hopes do dwell,
No doome shall make ones Heaven become his Hell.
When I was forst fromStellaever deare,Stella, foode of my thoughts, hart of my hart:Stella, whose eyes make all my temples cleare,By Yron lawes, of duetie to depart,Alas I found that shee with mee did smart:I sawe that teares did in her eyes appeare:I sawe that sighes her sweetest lips did part:And her sad words my sadded sense did heare.For mee, I weepe to see Pearles scattered so:I sighd her sighes, and wailed for her woe:Yet swamme in joy such love in her was seene.Thus while the effect most bitter was to mee,And nothing than that cause more sweet could be,I had beene vext, if vext I had not beene.
When I was forst fromStellaever deare,
Stella, foode of my thoughts, hart of my hart:
Stella, whose eyes make all my temples cleare,
By Yron lawes, of duetie to depart,
Alas I found that shee with mee did smart:
I sawe that teares did in her eyes appeare:
I sawe that sighes her sweetest lips did part:
And her sad words my sadded sense did heare.
For mee, I weepe to see Pearles scattered so:
I sighd her sighes, and wailed for her woe:
Yet swamme in joy such love in her was seene.
Thus while the effect most bitter was to mee,
And nothing than that cause more sweet could be,
I had beene vext, if vext I had not beene.
Out Traytour absence dar’st thou counsell meeFrom my deare Captainnesse to runne away,Because in brave arraye here marcheth sheeThat to winne mee oft showes a present paye.Is Faith so weake, or is such force in thee?When Sunne is hid, can Starres such beames displaie?Cannot Heavens foode once felt keepe stomacks freeFrom base desire on earthly cares to praie?Tush absence, while thy mistes eclypse that light,My Orphan sense flyes to the inward sight:Where memorie settes foorth the beames of Love,That where before heart lov’d and eyes did see,In heart my sight and Love now coupled be,United powres make eche the stronger prove.
Out Traytour absence dar’st thou counsell mee
From my deare Captainnesse to runne away,
Because in brave arraye here marcheth shee
That to winne mee oft showes a present paye.
Is Faith so weake, or is such force in thee?
When Sunne is hid, can Starres such beames displaie?
Cannot Heavens foode once felt keepe stomacks free
From base desire on earthly cares to praie?
Tush absence, while thy mistes eclypse that light,
My Orphan sense flyes to the inward sight:
Where memorie settes foorth the beames of Love,
That where before heart lov’d and eyes did see,
In heart my sight and Love now coupled be,
United powres make eche the stronger prove.
Now that of absence the most yrksome night,With darkest shade doth overcome the daie:SinceStella’seyes wont to give mee my daie,Leaving myHemisphereleaves mee in night,Each day seemes long, and longs for long staied night:The night as tedious, wooes th’approch of day:Tyr’d with the dustie toyles of busie day,Languisht with horrors of the silent night,Suffering the evils both of daie and night,While no night is more darke than is my day,Nor no day hath lesse quiet then my night:With such bad mixture of my night and daie,That living thus in blackest Winter night,I feele the flames of hottest Sommers daie.
Now that of absence the most yrksome night,
With darkest shade doth overcome the daie:
SinceStella’seyes wont to give mee my daie,
Leaving myHemisphereleaves mee in night,
Each day seemes long, and longs for long staied night:
The night as tedious, wooes th’approch of day:
Tyr’d with the dustie toyles of busie day,
Languisht with horrors of the silent night,
Suffering the evils both of daie and night,
While no night is more darke than is my day,
Nor no day hath lesse quiet then my night:
With such bad mixture of my night and daie,
That living thus in blackest Winter night,
I feele the flames of hottest Sommers daie.
Stella, thinke not that I by verse seeke fame,Who seeke, who hope, who love, who like, but thee:Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my historie,If thou praise not, all other praise is shame.Nor so ambitious am I, as to frameA nest for my yong praise in Lawrell tree,In trueth I sweare, I wish not there should begraved in my Epitaph a Poets name.Nor if I would could I just title makeThat anie laud thereof to me should groweWithout my Plumes from others wings I take;For nothing from my wit or will doth flowe:Since all my words thy beautie doth indite,And Love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.
Stella, thinke not that I by verse seeke fame,
Who seeke, who hope, who love, who like, but thee:
Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my historie,
If thou praise not, all other praise is shame.
Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame
A nest for my yong praise in Lawrell tree,
In trueth I sweare, I wish not there should be
graved in my Epitaph a Poets name.
Nor if I would could I just title make
That anie laud thereof to me should growe
Without my Plumes from others wings I take;
For nothing from my wit or will doth flowe:
Since all my words thy beautie doth indite,
And Love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.
Stella, while now by honours cruell might,I am from you (light of my light) misled,And that faire you, my Sunne thus overspredWith absence vale I live in sorrowes night.If this darke place yet shewe by candle lightSome Beauties peece, as amber collourd hed,Milke hands, rose cheekes, or lips more sweet more red,Or seeming jett black, but in blacknes brightThey please I doe confesse, they please mine eyes,But whie? because of you they moddels be;Moddels such be wood globes of glistering skyes.Deare therefore be not jealous over me,If you heare that they seeme my heart to move,Not them, no no, but you in them I love.
Stella, while now by honours cruell might,
I am from you (light of my light) misled,
And that faire you, my Sunne thus overspred
With absence vale I live in sorrowes night.
If this darke place yet shewe by candle light
Some Beauties peece, as amber collourd hed,
Milke hands, rose cheekes, or lips more sweet more red,
Or seeming jett black, but in blacknes bright
They please I doe confesse, they please mine eyes,
But whie? because of you they moddels be;
Moddels such be wood globes of glistering skyes.
Deare therefore be not jealous over me,
If you heare that they seeme my heart to move,
Not them, no no, but you in them I love.