Be your words made (good sir) ofIndeanware,That you allowe them mee by so small rate,Or do you cuttedSpartanesimitate,Or do you meane my tender eares to spare?That to my questions you so totall are?When I demaund of PhœnixStellasstate,You say (forsooth) you left her well of lateO God, thinke you that satisfies my care?I would know whether shee did sit or walke.How cloathd: how waited on: sighd shee or smilde:Whereof: with whome: how often did shee talke:With what pastimes, times jorneys shee beguild?If her lips daine to sweeten my poore name?Saie all: and all well said: still say the same.O Fate, ô fault, O curst child of my blisse,What sobs can give words grace my griefe to show?What inke is black enough to paint my woe?Through mee, wretch mee, evenStellavexed is:Yet Trueth, if Caitives brath might call thee this,Witnes with mee, that my fowle stumbling so,From carelesnes did in no manner growe,But wit confusd with too much care did misse.And do I then my selfe this vaine scuse give:I do sweete Love, and know this harmed thee.The world quit mee, shall I my self forgive?Onely with paines my paines thus eased be:That all thy hurtes in my hearts wracke I reedI crye thy sighs (my deare) thy teares I bleed.Greefe find the words, for thou hast made my braineSo darke with mistie vapours which ariseFrom out thy heavie mould, that inbent eyesCan scarce discerne the shape of mine owne paine:Do thou then (for thou canst) do thou complaineFor my poore soule which now that sicknes tries,Which even to sense, sense of it selfe denies.Though harbengers of death lodge there his traine,Or if the love of plaint yet mind forbeares,As of a Caitife worthie so to dye;Yet waye thy selfe and wayle in causefull teares:That though in wretchednes thy life doth lie,Yet growest more wretched than thy nature beares:By being plast in such a wretch as I.Yet sighes, deare sighes, in deede true friends you are,That do not leave your least friend at the wurst:But as you with my brest I oft have nurst:So gratefull now you wait upon my care.Faint coward Joy, no longer tarrie dare,Seeing hope yeeld when this woe strake him first,Delight exclaims he is for my fault curst,Although my mate in Armes himselfe he sware,Nay Sorrow comes with such mayne rage as hee,Kills his owne children, Teares, finding that theyBy Love were made apt to comfort with mee,Onely true sighes, you do not go away:Thank may you have for such thankfull part:Thank worthiest yet, when you shall breake my heart.Though with good cause thou lik’st so well the night.Since kind or chaunce gives both one libertie,Both sadly blacke, both blackly darkned be:Night bard from Sunne, thou from thine own Sunnes lightSilence in both displaies his sullen might:Slowe Heavens in both do hold the one degree,That full of doubts, thou of perplexitie:Thy teares expresse nights native moysture right,In both a wofull solitarines:In night of Spirites the gastly power sturr,And in our sprites are Spirits gastlines:But but (alas) nights sights the ods hath fure,For that at length invites us to some rest,Thou though still tyr’d, yet still dost it detest.Dianthat faine would cheare her friend the Night,Doth shewe her oft at full her fairest face,Bringing with her those starrie Nymphs, whose chaceFrom heavenly standing hurts eche mortall wight.But ah poore Night in love withPhœbuslight,And endlesly dispairing of his grace,Herselfe to shewe no other joy hath place,Sylent and sad in moorning weeds doth dight:Even so (alas) and LadieDianspeere,With choise delight and rarest company,Would faine drive clouds from out my heavie cheere:But woe is me, though joy her selfe were shee,Shee could not shewe my blind braine waies of joyWhile I dispaire my Sunnes light to enjoy.Ah bed the feeld where joyes peace some do see:The feeld where al my thoughts to war be traind,How is thy grace by my strange fortune staind?How thy low shrowdes by my sighs stormed be?With sweet soft shades thou oft invitest meeTo steale some rest, but wretch I am constrained.Spurd with Loves spurr, this held and shortly rainedWith Cares hard hand, to runne and tosse in thee,While the black horrors of the silent night,Paint Woes black face so lively in my sight,That tedious leasure markes eache wrinckled line:But whenAuroraleades outPhœbusdaunceMine eyes then only winke for spite perchaunce,That wormes shou’d have their Sunne and I want mine.When farre spent night perswades each mortall eieTo whome nor Art nor Nature granted light:To lay his then marke wanting shaftes of sight;Clos’d whith their quivers in Sleeps armorie;With windowes ope then most my heart doth lyeViewing the shape of darknes and delight,And takes that sad hue, with which inward mightOf his mazde powres he keeps just harmony:But when birds chirpe aire, and sweet aire which isMornes messenger with rose enameld skyesCalls each wight to salute the heaven of blisse;Intombd of lids then buried are mine eyes,Forst by their Lord who is ashamd to findSuch light in sence with such a darkned mind.Oh teares, no teares, but shoures from beauties skyes,Making those Lilies and those Roses growe,Which aie most faire now fairer needs must show,While grateful pitty Beauty beautifies,Oh minded sighs that from that brest doe rise,Whose pants doe make unspilling Creame to flow,Winged with woes breath so dothZephireblowAs might refresh the hel where my soule fries,Oh plaints conserv’d in such a surgred phrase,That eloquence envies, and yet doth prayse,While sightd out words a perfect musicke givesSuch teares, sighs, plaints, no sorrow is, but joy:Or if such heavenly sighs must prove annoy,All mirth farewel, let me in sorrow live.Stellais sicke, and in that sick-bed lyesSweetenes, that breathes and pants as oft as shee:And Grace sicke too, such fine conclusions tries,That sicknes brings it selfe best grac’d to bee.Beautie is sicke, but sicke in such faire guise,That in that palenes Beauties white we see,And Joy which is unsever’d from those eyes.Stellanow learnes, (strange case) to weepe with me,Love moves thy paine and like a faithful page,As thy looks sturre, runs up and downe to makeAll folkes prest at thy wil thy paine to swage,Nature with care seeks for his darlings sake,Knowing worlds passe, ere she enough can findeOf such heaven stuffe to cloath so heavenly minde.Where be those Roses, which so sweetned earst our eyes?Where be those red cheekes, which fair increase did frameNo hight of honor in the kindly badge of shame,Who hath the crimson weeds stoln from the morning skies?How doth the coullor fade of those vermillion eyes,Which Nature selfe did make and selfe engrave the same?I would know by what right this palenes overcameThat hue, whose force my heart in so great thraldom ties?Gallensadopted sonnes, who by a beaten wayTheir judgements hackney on, the fault of sicknes lay:But feeling proofe makes me say, they mistake it sure,It is but love that makes this paper perfect white,To write therein more fresh the storie ofDelight,Whiles Beauties reddest inckeVenusfor him doth stir.O happieThamesthat didst myStellabeare,I saw thee with full many a smiling lineUpon thy cheereful face loves Livery weare:While those faire Plannets on thy streames did shine,The boat for joy could not to dance forbeare,While wanton winds with beautie so divineRavisht, staid not, til in her golden haireThey did themselves (ô sweetest prison) twine.But faine those friendly winds there would their stayHave made, but forst by Nature still to flie,First did with puffing kisse those Lockes display:She so discovered, blusht. From window IWith sight thereof cride out; Ah faire disgrace,Let honours selfe to thee graunt highest place.Envious wits what hath beene mine offence,That with such poisoned eare my wits you marke,That to each word, nay sigh of mine you harke,As grudging me my sorrows eloquence?Ah, is it not enough, that I am thence:Thence, so farre thence, that scantly anie sparkeOf comfort dare come to this dungeon darkeWhere rigorous exile lockes up al my sense:But if I by a happie window passe,If I but Starres uppon mine Armour beare,Sicke, thirstie, glad (though but of empty glasse)Your morals note straight my hid meaning there,From out my ribs a whirlewind proves that IDoeStellalove. Fooles, who doth it denie?Unhappie sight and hath shee vanisht by,So neere, in so good time so free a place,Dead glasse dost thou thine object so imbrase,As what my hart still sees thou canst not spie,I sweare by hir Love and my lacke, that IWas not in fault that bent my dazling raceOnely unto the heaven ofStella’sface,Counting but dust that in her way did lie:But cease mine eyes, your teares doe witnes well,That you guiltles therefore your necklace mist,Curst be the Page from whome the bad torch fell,Curst be the night which did your will resist,Curst be the Cochman that did drive so fast,With no lesse curse then absence makes me tast.O absent presenceStellais not here,False flattering hope that with so faire a face,Bare me in hand that in this Orphane place,StellaI saw, myStellashould appeare,What saist thou now, where is that dainty cleareThou wouldst mine eyes should helpe their famisht case:But how art thou? now that selfe felt disgraceDoth make me most to wish thy comfort neere,But heere I doe shore of faire Ladies meete,Who may with charme of conversation sweeteMake in my heavie mould new thoughts to grow:Sure they prevaile as much with me, as heThat bad his frind but then new maimde to beMerrie with him, and so forget his woe.Stellasince thou so right a Princesse artOf all the Powers which life bestowe on me,That ere by them ought undertaken be,They first resort unto that soveraigne part;Sweete for a time give respite to my heart,Which pants as though it still should leape to thee:And on my thought give the LieuetenancieTo this great cause, which needes both wit and Art,And as a Queene who from her presence sendsWhom shee emploies, dismisse from thee my wit,Still to have wrought that thy owne will attends,For servants shame of Maisters blame doth fit.O let not Fooles in me thy works approve,And scorning say, see what it is to love.When sorrow (using my owne Siers might)Melts downe his lead into my boyling brest,Through that darke Furnace of my heart opprest,There shines a joy from thee my onely light:But soone as thought of thee breeds my delight,And my young soule once flutters to her nest,Most dead dispaire my daily unbidden guestClips strait my wings, strait wraps me in his night,And makes me then bow downe my head and say,Ah what dothPhœbusgold that wretch availe,Whom Iron darts doth keepe from use of daie,So strangely (alas) thy workes on me prevaile,That in my woes for thee, thou art my joy;And in my joyes for thee, my onel’ anoy.
Be your words made (good sir) ofIndeanware,That you allowe them mee by so small rate,Or do you cuttedSpartanesimitate,Or do you meane my tender eares to spare?That to my questions you so totall are?When I demaund of PhœnixStellasstate,You say (forsooth) you left her well of lateO God, thinke you that satisfies my care?I would know whether shee did sit or walke.How cloathd: how waited on: sighd shee or smilde:Whereof: with whome: how often did shee talke:With what pastimes, times jorneys shee beguild?If her lips daine to sweeten my poore name?Saie all: and all well said: still say the same.O Fate, ô fault, O curst child of my blisse,What sobs can give words grace my griefe to show?What inke is black enough to paint my woe?Through mee, wretch mee, evenStellavexed is:Yet Trueth, if Caitives brath might call thee this,Witnes with mee, that my fowle stumbling so,From carelesnes did in no manner growe,But wit confusd with too much care did misse.And do I then my selfe this vaine scuse give:I do sweete Love, and know this harmed thee.The world quit mee, shall I my self forgive?Onely with paines my paines thus eased be:That all thy hurtes in my hearts wracke I reedI crye thy sighs (my deare) thy teares I bleed.Greefe find the words, for thou hast made my braineSo darke with mistie vapours which ariseFrom out thy heavie mould, that inbent eyesCan scarce discerne the shape of mine owne paine:Do thou then (for thou canst) do thou complaineFor my poore soule which now that sicknes tries,Which even to sense, sense of it selfe denies.Though harbengers of death lodge there his traine,Or if the love of plaint yet mind forbeares,As of a Caitife worthie so to dye;Yet waye thy selfe and wayle in causefull teares:That though in wretchednes thy life doth lie,Yet growest more wretched than thy nature beares:By being plast in such a wretch as I.Yet sighes, deare sighes, in deede true friends you are,That do not leave your least friend at the wurst:But as you with my brest I oft have nurst:So gratefull now you wait upon my care.Faint coward Joy, no longer tarrie dare,Seeing hope yeeld when this woe strake him first,Delight exclaims he is for my fault curst,Although my mate in Armes himselfe he sware,Nay Sorrow comes with such mayne rage as hee,Kills his owne children, Teares, finding that theyBy Love were made apt to comfort with mee,Onely true sighes, you do not go away:Thank may you have for such thankfull part:Thank worthiest yet, when you shall breake my heart.Though with good cause thou lik’st so well the night.Since kind or chaunce gives both one libertie,Both sadly blacke, both blackly darkned be:Night bard from Sunne, thou from thine own Sunnes lightSilence in both displaies his sullen might:Slowe Heavens in both do hold the one degree,That full of doubts, thou of perplexitie:Thy teares expresse nights native moysture right,In both a wofull solitarines:In night of Spirites the gastly power sturr,And in our sprites are Spirits gastlines:But but (alas) nights sights the ods hath fure,For that at length invites us to some rest,Thou though still tyr’d, yet still dost it detest.Dianthat faine would cheare her friend the Night,Doth shewe her oft at full her fairest face,Bringing with her those starrie Nymphs, whose chaceFrom heavenly standing hurts eche mortall wight.But ah poore Night in love withPhœbuslight,And endlesly dispairing of his grace,Herselfe to shewe no other joy hath place,Sylent and sad in moorning weeds doth dight:Even so (alas) and LadieDianspeere,With choise delight and rarest company,Would faine drive clouds from out my heavie cheere:But woe is me, though joy her selfe were shee,Shee could not shewe my blind braine waies of joyWhile I dispaire my Sunnes light to enjoy.Ah bed the feeld where joyes peace some do see:The feeld where al my thoughts to war be traind,How is thy grace by my strange fortune staind?How thy low shrowdes by my sighs stormed be?With sweet soft shades thou oft invitest meeTo steale some rest, but wretch I am constrained.Spurd with Loves spurr, this held and shortly rainedWith Cares hard hand, to runne and tosse in thee,While the black horrors of the silent night,Paint Woes black face so lively in my sight,That tedious leasure markes eache wrinckled line:But whenAuroraleades outPhœbusdaunceMine eyes then only winke for spite perchaunce,That wormes shou’d have their Sunne and I want mine.When farre spent night perswades each mortall eieTo whome nor Art nor Nature granted light:To lay his then marke wanting shaftes of sight;Clos’d whith their quivers in Sleeps armorie;With windowes ope then most my heart doth lyeViewing the shape of darknes and delight,And takes that sad hue, with which inward mightOf his mazde powres he keeps just harmony:But when birds chirpe aire, and sweet aire which isMornes messenger with rose enameld skyesCalls each wight to salute the heaven of blisse;Intombd of lids then buried are mine eyes,Forst by their Lord who is ashamd to findSuch light in sence with such a darkned mind.Oh teares, no teares, but shoures from beauties skyes,Making those Lilies and those Roses growe,Which aie most faire now fairer needs must show,While grateful pitty Beauty beautifies,Oh minded sighs that from that brest doe rise,Whose pants doe make unspilling Creame to flow,Winged with woes breath so dothZephireblowAs might refresh the hel where my soule fries,Oh plaints conserv’d in such a surgred phrase,That eloquence envies, and yet doth prayse,While sightd out words a perfect musicke givesSuch teares, sighs, plaints, no sorrow is, but joy:Or if such heavenly sighs must prove annoy,All mirth farewel, let me in sorrow live.Stellais sicke, and in that sick-bed lyesSweetenes, that breathes and pants as oft as shee:And Grace sicke too, such fine conclusions tries,That sicknes brings it selfe best grac’d to bee.Beautie is sicke, but sicke in such faire guise,That in that palenes Beauties white we see,And Joy which is unsever’d from those eyes.Stellanow learnes, (strange case) to weepe with me,Love moves thy paine and like a faithful page,As thy looks sturre, runs up and downe to makeAll folkes prest at thy wil thy paine to swage,Nature with care seeks for his darlings sake,Knowing worlds passe, ere she enough can findeOf such heaven stuffe to cloath so heavenly minde.Where be those Roses, which so sweetned earst our eyes?Where be those red cheekes, which fair increase did frameNo hight of honor in the kindly badge of shame,Who hath the crimson weeds stoln from the morning skies?How doth the coullor fade of those vermillion eyes,Which Nature selfe did make and selfe engrave the same?I would know by what right this palenes overcameThat hue, whose force my heart in so great thraldom ties?Gallensadopted sonnes, who by a beaten wayTheir judgements hackney on, the fault of sicknes lay:But feeling proofe makes me say, they mistake it sure,It is but love that makes this paper perfect white,To write therein more fresh the storie ofDelight,Whiles Beauties reddest inckeVenusfor him doth stir.O happieThamesthat didst myStellabeare,I saw thee with full many a smiling lineUpon thy cheereful face loves Livery weare:While those faire Plannets on thy streames did shine,The boat for joy could not to dance forbeare,While wanton winds with beautie so divineRavisht, staid not, til in her golden haireThey did themselves (ô sweetest prison) twine.But faine those friendly winds there would their stayHave made, but forst by Nature still to flie,First did with puffing kisse those Lockes display:She so discovered, blusht. From window IWith sight thereof cride out; Ah faire disgrace,Let honours selfe to thee graunt highest place.Envious wits what hath beene mine offence,That with such poisoned eare my wits you marke,That to each word, nay sigh of mine you harke,As grudging me my sorrows eloquence?Ah, is it not enough, that I am thence:Thence, so farre thence, that scantly anie sparkeOf comfort dare come to this dungeon darkeWhere rigorous exile lockes up al my sense:But if I by a happie window passe,If I but Starres uppon mine Armour beare,Sicke, thirstie, glad (though but of empty glasse)Your morals note straight my hid meaning there,From out my ribs a whirlewind proves that IDoeStellalove. Fooles, who doth it denie?Unhappie sight and hath shee vanisht by,So neere, in so good time so free a place,Dead glasse dost thou thine object so imbrase,As what my hart still sees thou canst not spie,I sweare by hir Love and my lacke, that IWas not in fault that bent my dazling raceOnely unto the heaven ofStella’sface,Counting but dust that in her way did lie:But cease mine eyes, your teares doe witnes well,That you guiltles therefore your necklace mist,Curst be the Page from whome the bad torch fell,Curst be the night which did your will resist,Curst be the Cochman that did drive so fast,With no lesse curse then absence makes me tast.O absent presenceStellais not here,False flattering hope that with so faire a face,Bare me in hand that in this Orphane place,StellaI saw, myStellashould appeare,What saist thou now, where is that dainty cleareThou wouldst mine eyes should helpe their famisht case:But how art thou? now that selfe felt disgraceDoth make me most to wish thy comfort neere,But heere I doe shore of faire Ladies meete,Who may with charme of conversation sweeteMake in my heavie mould new thoughts to grow:Sure they prevaile as much with me, as heThat bad his frind but then new maimde to beMerrie with him, and so forget his woe.Stellasince thou so right a Princesse artOf all the Powers which life bestowe on me,That ere by them ought undertaken be,They first resort unto that soveraigne part;Sweete for a time give respite to my heart,Which pants as though it still should leape to thee:And on my thought give the LieuetenancieTo this great cause, which needes both wit and Art,And as a Queene who from her presence sendsWhom shee emploies, dismisse from thee my wit,Still to have wrought that thy owne will attends,For servants shame of Maisters blame doth fit.O let not Fooles in me thy works approve,And scorning say, see what it is to love.When sorrow (using my owne Siers might)Melts downe his lead into my boyling brest,Through that darke Furnace of my heart opprest,There shines a joy from thee my onely light:But soone as thought of thee breeds my delight,And my young soule once flutters to her nest,Most dead dispaire my daily unbidden guestClips strait my wings, strait wraps me in his night,And makes me then bow downe my head and say,Ah what dothPhœbusgold that wretch availe,Whom Iron darts doth keepe from use of daie,So strangely (alas) thy workes on me prevaile,That in my woes for thee, thou art my joy;And in my joyes for thee, my onel’ anoy.
Be your words made (good sir) ofIndeanware,That you allowe them mee by so small rate,Or do you cuttedSpartanesimitate,Or do you meane my tender eares to spare?That to my questions you so totall are?When I demaund of PhœnixStellasstate,You say (forsooth) you left her well of lateO God, thinke you that satisfies my care?I would know whether shee did sit or walke.How cloathd: how waited on: sighd shee or smilde:Whereof: with whome: how often did shee talke:With what pastimes, times jorneys shee beguild?If her lips daine to sweeten my poore name?Saie all: and all well said: still say the same.
Be your words made (good sir) ofIndeanware,
That you allowe them mee by so small rate,
Or do you cuttedSpartanesimitate,
Or do you meane my tender eares to spare?
That to my questions you so totall are?
When I demaund of PhœnixStellasstate,
You say (forsooth) you left her well of late
O God, thinke you that satisfies my care?
I would know whether shee did sit or walke.
How cloathd: how waited on: sighd shee or smilde:
Whereof: with whome: how often did shee talke:
With what pastimes, times jorneys shee beguild?
If her lips daine to sweeten my poore name?
Saie all: and all well said: still say the same.
O Fate, ô fault, O curst child of my blisse,What sobs can give words grace my griefe to show?What inke is black enough to paint my woe?Through mee, wretch mee, evenStellavexed is:Yet Trueth, if Caitives brath might call thee this,Witnes with mee, that my fowle stumbling so,From carelesnes did in no manner growe,But wit confusd with too much care did misse.And do I then my selfe this vaine scuse give:I do sweete Love, and know this harmed thee.The world quit mee, shall I my self forgive?Onely with paines my paines thus eased be:That all thy hurtes in my hearts wracke I reedI crye thy sighs (my deare) thy teares I bleed.
O Fate, ô fault, O curst child of my blisse,
What sobs can give words grace my griefe to show?
What inke is black enough to paint my woe?
Through mee, wretch mee, evenStellavexed is:
Yet Trueth, if Caitives brath might call thee this,
Witnes with mee, that my fowle stumbling so,
From carelesnes did in no manner growe,
But wit confusd with too much care did misse.
And do I then my selfe this vaine scuse give:
I do sweete Love, and know this harmed thee.
The world quit mee, shall I my self forgive?
Onely with paines my paines thus eased be:
That all thy hurtes in my hearts wracke I reed
I crye thy sighs (my deare) thy teares I bleed.
Greefe find the words, for thou hast made my braineSo darke with mistie vapours which ariseFrom out thy heavie mould, that inbent eyesCan scarce discerne the shape of mine owne paine:Do thou then (for thou canst) do thou complaineFor my poore soule which now that sicknes tries,Which even to sense, sense of it selfe denies.Though harbengers of death lodge there his traine,Or if the love of plaint yet mind forbeares,As of a Caitife worthie so to dye;Yet waye thy selfe and wayle in causefull teares:That though in wretchednes thy life doth lie,Yet growest more wretched than thy nature beares:By being plast in such a wretch as I.
Greefe find the words, for thou hast made my braine
So darke with mistie vapours which arise
From out thy heavie mould, that inbent eyes
Can scarce discerne the shape of mine owne paine:
Do thou then (for thou canst) do thou complaine
For my poore soule which now that sicknes tries,
Which even to sense, sense of it selfe denies.
Though harbengers of death lodge there his traine,
Or if the love of plaint yet mind forbeares,
As of a Caitife worthie so to dye;
Yet waye thy selfe and wayle in causefull teares:
That though in wretchednes thy life doth lie,
Yet growest more wretched than thy nature beares:
By being plast in such a wretch as I.
Yet sighes, deare sighes, in deede true friends you are,That do not leave your least friend at the wurst:But as you with my brest I oft have nurst:So gratefull now you wait upon my care.Faint coward Joy, no longer tarrie dare,Seeing hope yeeld when this woe strake him first,Delight exclaims he is for my fault curst,Although my mate in Armes himselfe he sware,Nay Sorrow comes with such mayne rage as hee,Kills his owne children, Teares, finding that theyBy Love were made apt to comfort with mee,Onely true sighes, you do not go away:Thank may you have for such thankfull part:Thank worthiest yet, when you shall breake my heart.
Yet sighes, deare sighes, in deede true friends you are,
That do not leave your least friend at the wurst:
But as you with my brest I oft have nurst:
So gratefull now you wait upon my care.
Faint coward Joy, no longer tarrie dare,
Seeing hope yeeld when this woe strake him first,
Delight exclaims he is for my fault curst,
Although my mate in Armes himselfe he sware,
Nay Sorrow comes with such mayne rage as hee,
Kills his owne children, Teares, finding that they
By Love were made apt to comfort with mee,
Onely true sighes, you do not go away:
Thank may you have for such thankfull part:
Thank worthiest yet, when you shall breake my heart.
Though with good cause thou lik’st so well the night.Since kind or chaunce gives both one libertie,Both sadly blacke, both blackly darkned be:Night bard from Sunne, thou from thine own Sunnes lightSilence in both displaies his sullen might:Slowe Heavens in both do hold the one degree,That full of doubts, thou of perplexitie:Thy teares expresse nights native moysture right,In both a wofull solitarines:In night of Spirites the gastly power sturr,And in our sprites are Spirits gastlines:But but (alas) nights sights the ods hath fure,For that at length invites us to some rest,Thou though still tyr’d, yet still dost it detest.
Though with good cause thou lik’st so well the night.
Since kind or chaunce gives both one libertie,
Both sadly blacke, both blackly darkned be:
Night bard from Sunne, thou from thine own Sunnes light
Silence in both displaies his sullen might:
Slowe Heavens in both do hold the one degree,
That full of doubts, thou of perplexitie:
Thy teares expresse nights native moysture right,
In both a wofull solitarines:
In night of Spirites the gastly power sturr,
And in our sprites are Spirits gastlines:
But but (alas) nights sights the ods hath fure,
For that at length invites us to some rest,
Thou though still tyr’d, yet still dost it detest.
Dianthat faine would cheare her friend the Night,Doth shewe her oft at full her fairest face,Bringing with her those starrie Nymphs, whose chaceFrom heavenly standing hurts eche mortall wight.But ah poore Night in love withPhœbuslight,And endlesly dispairing of his grace,Herselfe to shewe no other joy hath place,Sylent and sad in moorning weeds doth dight:Even so (alas) and LadieDianspeere,With choise delight and rarest company,Would faine drive clouds from out my heavie cheere:But woe is me, though joy her selfe were shee,Shee could not shewe my blind braine waies of joyWhile I dispaire my Sunnes light to enjoy.
Dianthat faine would cheare her friend the Night,
Doth shewe her oft at full her fairest face,
Bringing with her those starrie Nymphs, whose chace
From heavenly standing hurts eche mortall wight.
But ah poore Night in love withPhœbuslight,
And endlesly dispairing of his grace,
Herselfe to shewe no other joy hath place,
Sylent and sad in moorning weeds doth dight:
Even so (alas) and LadieDianspeere,
With choise delight and rarest company,
Would faine drive clouds from out my heavie cheere:
But woe is me, though joy her selfe were shee,
Shee could not shewe my blind braine waies of joy
While I dispaire my Sunnes light to enjoy.
Ah bed the feeld where joyes peace some do see:The feeld where al my thoughts to war be traind,How is thy grace by my strange fortune staind?How thy low shrowdes by my sighs stormed be?With sweet soft shades thou oft invitest meeTo steale some rest, but wretch I am constrained.Spurd with Loves spurr, this held and shortly rainedWith Cares hard hand, to runne and tosse in thee,While the black horrors of the silent night,Paint Woes black face so lively in my sight,That tedious leasure markes eache wrinckled line:But whenAuroraleades outPhœbusdaunceMine eyes then only winke for spite perchaunce,That wormes shou’d have their Sunne and I want mine.
Ah bed the feeld where joyes peace some do see:
The feeld where al my thoughts to war be traind,
How is thy grace by my strange fortune staind?
How thy low shrowdes by my sighs stormed be?
With sweet soft shades thou oft invitest mee
To steale some rest, but wretch I am constrained.
Spurd with Loves spurr, this held and shortly rained
With Cares hard hand, to runne and tosse in thee,
While the black horrors of the silent night,
Paint Woes black face so lively in my sight,
That tedious leasure markes eache wrinckled line:
But whenAuroraleades outPhœbusdaunce
Mine eyes then only winke for spite perchaunce,
That wormes shou’d have their Sunne and I want mine.
When farre spent night perswades each mortall eieTo whome nor Art nor Nature granted light:To lay his then marke wanting shaftes of sight;Clos’d whith their quivers in Sleeps armorie;With windowes ope then most my heart doth lyeViewing the shape of darknes and delight,And takes that sad hue, with which inward mightOf his mazde powres he keeps just harmony:But when birds chirpe aire, and sweet aire which isMornes messenger with rose enameld skyesCalls each wight to salute the heaven of blisse;Intombd of lids then buried are mine eyes,Forst by their Lord who is ashamd to findSuch light in sence with such a darkned mind.
When farre spent night perswades each mortall eie
To whome nor Art nor Nature granted light:
To lay his then marke wanting shaftes of sight;
Clos’d whith their quivers in Sleeps armorie;
With windowes ope then most my heart doth lye
Viewing the shape of darknes and delight,
And takes that sad hue, with which inward might
Of his mazde powres he keeps just harmony:
But when birds chirpe aire, and sweet aire which is
Mornes messenger with rose enameld skyes
Calls each wight to salute the heaven of blisse;
Intombd of lids then buried are mine eyes,
Forst by their Lord who is ashamd to find
Such light in sence with such a darkned mind.
Oh teares, no teares, but shoures from beauties skyes,Making those Lilies and those Roses growe,Which aie most faire now fairer needs must show,While grateful pitty Beauty beautifies,Oh minded sighs that from that brest doe rise,Whose pants doe make unspilling Creame to flow,Winged with woes breath so dothZephireblowAs might refresh the hel where my soule fries,Oh plaints conserv’d in such a surgred phrase,That eloquence envies, and yet doth prayse,While sightd out words a perfect musicke givesSuch teares, sighs, plaints, no sorrow is, but joy:Or if such heavenly sighs must prove annoy,All mirth farewel, let me in sorrow live.
Oh teares, no teares, but shoures from beauties skyes,
Making those Lilies and those Roses growe,
Which aie most faire now fairer needs must show,
While grateful pitty Beauty beautifies,
Oh minded sighs that from that brest doe rise,
Whose pants doe make unspilling Creame to flow,
Winged with woes breath so dothZephireblow
As might refresh the hel where my soule fries,
Oh plaints conserv’d in such a surgred phrase,
That eloquence envies, and yet doth prayse,
While sightd out words a perfect musicke gives
Such teares, sighs, plaints, no sorrow is, but joy:
Or if such heavenly sighs must prove annoy,
All mirth farewel, let me in sorrow live.
Stellais sicke, and in that sick-bed lyesSweetenes, that breathes and pants as oft as shee:And Grace sicke too, such fine conclusions tries,That sicknes brings it selfe best grac’d to bee.Beautie is sicke, but sicke in such faire guise,That in that palenes Beauties white we see,And Joy which is unsever’d from those eyes.Stellanow learnes, (strange case) to weepe with me,Love moves thy paine and like a faithful page,As thy looks sturre, runs up and downe to makeAll folkes prest at thy wil thy paine to swage,Nature with care seeks for his darlings sake,Knowing worlds passe, ere she enough can findeOf such heaven stuffe to cloath so heavenly minde.
Stellais sicke, and in that sick-bed lyes
Sweetenes, that breathes and pants as oft as shee:
And Grace sicke too, such fine conclusions tries,
That sicknes brings it selfe best grac’d to bee.
Beautie is sicke, but sicke in such faire guise,
That in that palenes Beauties white we see,
And Joy which is unsever’d from those eyes.
Stellanow learnes, (strange case) to weepe with me,
Love moves thy paine and like a faithful page,
As thy looks sturre, runs up and downe to make
All folkes prest at thy wil thy paine to swage,
Nature with care seeks for his darlings sake,
Knowing worlds passe, ere she enough can finde
Of such heaven stuffe to cloath so heavenly minde.
Where be those Roses, which so sweetned earst our eyes?Where be those red cheekes, which fair increase did frameNo hight of honor in the kindly badge of shame,Who hath the crimson weeds stoln from the morning skies?How doth the coullor fade of those vermillion eyes,Which Nature selfe did make and selfe engrave the same?I would know by what right this palenes overcameThat hue, whose force my heart in so great thraldom ties?Gallensadopted sonnes, who by a beaten wayTheir judgements hackney on, the fault of sicknes lay:But feeling proofe makes me say, they mistake it sure,It is but love that makes this paper perfect white,To write therein more fresh the storie ofDelight,Whiles Beauties reddest inckeVenusfor him doth stir.
Where be those Roses, which so sweetned earst our eyes?
Where be those red cheekes, which fair increase did frame
No hight of honor in the kindly badge of shame,
Who hath the crimson weeds stoln from the morning skies?
How doth the coullor fade of those vermillion eyes,
Which Nature selfe did make and selfe engrave the same?
I would know by what right this palenes overcame
That hue, whose force my heart in so great thraldom ties?
Gallensadopted sonnes, who by a beaten way
Their judgements hackney on, the fault of sicknes lay:
But feeling proofe makes me say, they mistake it sure,
It is but love that makes this paper perfect white,
To write therein more fresh the storie ofDelight,
Whiles Beauties reddest inckeVenusfor him doth stir.
O happieThamesthat didst myStellabeare,I saw thee with full many a smiling lineUpon thy cheereful face loves Livery weare:While those faire Plannets on thy streames did shine,The boat for joy could not to dance forbeare,While wanton winds with beautie so divineRavisht, staid not, til in her golden haireThey did themselves (ô sweetest prison) twine.But faine those friendly winds there would their stayHave made, but forst by Nature still to flie,First did with puffing kisse those Lockes display:She so discovered, blusht. From window IWith sight thereof cride out; Ah faire disgrace,Let honours selfe to thee graunt highest place.
O happieThamesthat didst myStellabeare,
I saw thee with full many a smiling line
Upon thy cheereful face loves Livery weare:
While those faire Plannets on thy streames did shine,
The boat for joy could not to dance forbeare,
While wanton winds with beautie so divine
Ravisht, staid not, til in her golden haire
They did themselves (ô sweetest prison) twine.
But faine those friendly winds there would their stay
Have made, but forst by Nature still to flie,
First did with puffing kisse those Lockes display:
She so discovered, blusht. From window I
With sight thereof cride out; Ah faire disgrace,
Let honours selfe to thee graunt highest place.
Envious wits what hath beene mine offence,That with such poisoned eare my wits you marke,That to each word, nay sigh of mine you harke,As grudging me my sorrows eloquence?Ah, is it not enough, that I am thence:Thence, so farre thence, that scantly anie sparkeOf comfort dare come to this dungeon darkeWhere rigorous exile lockes up al my sense:But if I by a happie window passe,If I but Starres uppon mine Armour beare,Sicke, thirstie, glad (though but of empty glasse)Your morals note straight my hid meaning there,From out my ribs a whirlewind proves that IDoeStellalove. Fooles, who doth it denie?
Envious wits what hath beene mine offence,
That with such poisoned eare my wits you marke,
That to each word, nay sigh of mine you harke,
As grudging me my sorrows eloquence?
Ah, is it not enough, that I am thence:
Thence, so farre thence, that scantly anie sparke
Of comfort dare come to this dungeon darke
Where rigorous exile lockes up al my sense:
But if I by a happie window passe,
If I but Starres uppon mine Armour beare,
Sicke, thirstie, glad (though but of empty glasse)
Your morals note straight my hid meaning there,
From out my ribs a whirlewind proves that I
DoeStellalove. Fooles, who doth it denie?
Unhappie sight and hath shee vanisht by,So neere, in so good time so free a place,Dead glasse dost thou thine object so imbrase,As what my hart still sees thou canst not spie,I sweare by hir Love and my lacke, that IWas not in fault that bent my dazling raceOnely unto the heaven ofStella’sface,Counting but dust that in her way did lie:But cease mine eyes, your teares doe witnes well,That you guiltles therefore your necklace mist,Curst be the Page from whome the bad torch fell,Curst be the night which did your will resist,Curst be the Cochman that did drive so fast,With no lesse curse then absence makes me tast.
Unhappie sight and hath shee vanisht by,
So neere, in so good time so free a place,
Dead glasse dost thou thine object so imbrase,
As what my hart still sees thou canst not spie,
I sweare by hir Love and my lacke, that I
Was not in fault that bent my dazling race
Onely unto the heaven ofStella’sface,
Counting but dust that in her way did lie:
But cease mine eyes, your teares doe witnes well,
That you guiltles therefore your necklace mist,
Curst be the Page from whome the bad torch fell,
Curst be the night which did your will resist,
Curst be the Cochman that did drive so fast,
With no lesse curse then absence makes me tast.
O absent presenceStellais not here,False flattering hope that with so faire a face,Bare me in hand that in this Orphane place,StellaI saw, myStellashould appeare,What saist thou now, where is that dainty cleareThou wouldst mine eyes should helpe their famisht case:But how art thou? now that selfe felt disgraceDoth make me most to wish thy comfort neere,But heere I doe shore of faire Ladies meete,Who may with charme of conversation sweeteMake in my heavie mould new thoughts to grow:Sure they prevaile as much with me, as heThat bad his frind but then new maimde to beMerrie with him, and so forget his woe.
O absent presenceStellais not here,
False flattering hope that with so faire a face,
Bare me in hand that in this Orphane place,
StellaI saw, myStellashould appeare,
What saist thou now, where is that dainty cleare
Thou wouldst mine eyes should helpe their famisht case:
But how art thou? now that selfe felt disgrace
Doth make me most to wish thy comfort neere,
But heere I doe shore of faire Ladies meete,
Who may with charme of conversation sweete
Make in my heavie mould new thoughts to grow:
Sure they prevaile as much with me, as he
That bad his frind but then new maimde to be
Merrie with him, and so forget his woe.
Stellasince thou so right a Princesse artOf all the Powers which life bestowe on me,That ere by them ought undertaken be,They first resort unto that soveraigne part;Sweete for a time give respite to my heart,Which pants as though it still should leape to thee:And on my thought give the LieuetenancieTo this great cause, which needes both wit and Art,And as a Queene who from her presence sendsWhom shee emploies, dismisse from thee my wit,Still to have wrought that thy owne will attends,For servants shame of Maisters blame doth fit.O let not Fooles in me thy works approve,And scorning say, see what it is to love.
Stellasince thou so right a Princesse art
Of all the Powers which life bestowe on me,
That ere by them ought undertaken be,
They first resort unto that soveraigne part;
Sweete for a time give respite to my heart,
Which pants as though it still should leape to thee:
And on my thought give the Lieuetenancie
To this great cause, which needes both wit and Art,
And as a Queene who from her presence sends
Whom shee emploies, dismisse from thee my wit,
Still to have wrought that thy owne will attends,
For servants shame of Maisters blame doth fit.
O let not Fooles in me thy works approve,
And scorning say, see what it is to love.
When sorrow (using my owne Siers might)Melts downe his lead into my boyling brest,Through that darke Furnace of my heart opprest,There shines a joy from thee my onely light:But soone as thought of thee breeds my delight,And my young soule once flutters to her nest,Most dead dispaire my daily unbidden guestClips strait my wings, strait wraps me in his night,And makes me then bow downe my head and say,Ah what dothPhœbusgold that wretch availe,Whom Iron darts doth keepe from use of daie,So strangely (alas) thy workes on me prevaile,That in my woes for thee, thou art my joy;And in my joyes for thee, my onel’ anoy.
When sorrow (using my owne Siers might)
Melts downe his lead into my boyling brest,
Through that darke Furnace of my heart opprest,
There shines a joy from thee my onely light:
But soone as thought of thee breeds my delight,
And my young soule once flutters to her nest,
Most dead dispaire my daily unbidden guest
Clips strait my wings, strait wraps me in his night,
And makes me then bow downe my head and say,
Ah what dothPhœbusgold that wretch availe,
Whom Iron darts doth keepe from use of daie,
So strangely (alas) thy workes on me prevaile,
That in my woes for thee, thou art my joy;
And in my joyes for thee, my onel’ anoy.