90.leave] cease.
90.leave] cease.
91.
THE Nightingale, as soon as April bringethUnto her rested sense a perfect waking,While late-bare Earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;And mournfully bewailing,Her throat in tunes expressethWhat grief her breast oppresseth,For Tereus’ force on her chaste will prevailing.O Philomela fair, O take some gladnessThat here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.Alas! she hath no other cause of anguishBut Tereus’ love, on her by strong hand wroken;Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,Full womanlike complains her will was brokenBut I, who, daily craving,Cannot have to content me,Have more cause to lament me,Since wanting is more woe than too much having.O Philomela fair, O take some gladnessThat here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
THE Nightingale, as soon as April bringethUnto her rested sense a perfect waking,While late-bare Earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;And mournfully bewailing,Her throat in tunes expressethWhat grief her breast oppresseth,For Tereus’ force on her chaste will prevailing.O Philomela fair, O take some gladnessThat here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.Alas! she hath no other cause of anguishBut Tereus’ love, on her by strong hand wroken;Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,Full womanlike complains her will was brokenBut I, who, daily craving,Cannot have to content me,Have more cause to lament me,Since wanting is more woe than too much having.O Philomela fair, O take some gladnessThat here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
THE Nightingale, as soon as April bringethUnto her rested sense a perfect waking,While late-bare Earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;And mournfully bewailing,Her throat in tunes expressethWhat grief her breast oppresseth,For Tereus’ force on her chaste will prevailing.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladnessThat here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
Alas! she hath no other cause of anguishBut Tereus’ love, on her by strong hand wroken;Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,Full womanlike complains her will was brokenBut I, who, daily craving,Cannot have to content me,Have more cause to lament me,Since wanting is more woe than too much having.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladnessThat here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
92.
HIGHWAY, since you my chief Parnassus be,And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,Tempers her words to trampling horses’ feetMore oft than to a chamber-melody,—Now blessèd you bear onward blessèd meTo her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet;My Muse and I must you of duty greetWith thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully;Be you still fair, honour’d by public heed;By no encroachment wrong’d, nor time forgot;Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;And that you know I envy you no lotOf highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,Hundreds of years you Stella’s feet may kiss!
HIGHWAY, since you my chief Parnassus be,And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,Tempers her words to trampling horses’ feetMore oft than to a chamber-melody,—Now blessèd you bear onward blessèd meTo her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet;My Muse and I must you of duty greetWith thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully;Be you still fair, honour’d by public heed;By no encroachment wrong’d, nor time forgot;Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;And that you know I envy you no lotOf highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,Hundreds of years you Stella’s feet may kiss!
HIGHWAY, since you my chief Parnassus be,And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,Tempers her words to trampling horses’ feetMore oft than to a chamber-melody,—Now blessèd you bear onward blessèd meTo her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet;My Muse and I must you of duty greetWith thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully;Be you still fair, honour’d by public heed;By no encroachment wrong’d, nor time forgot;Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;And that you know I envy you no lotOf highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,Hundreds of years you Stella’s feet may kiss!
93.
WITH how sad steps, O moon, thou climb’st the skies!How silently, and with how wan a face!What! may it be that even in heavenly placeThat busy archer his sharp arrows tries?Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyesCan judge of love, thou feel’st a lover’s case:I read it in thy looks; thy languish’d graceTo me, that feel the like, thy state descries.Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,Is constant love deem’d there but want of wit?Are beauties there as proud as here they be?Do they above love to be loved, and yetThose lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?Do they call ‘virtue’ there—ungratefulness?
WITH how sad steps, O moon, thou climb’st the skies!How silently, and with how wan a face!What! may it be that even in heavenly placeThat busy archer his sharp arrows tries?Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyesCan judge of love, thou feel’st a lover’s case:I read it in thy looks; thy languish’d graceTo me, that feel the like, thy state descries.Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,Is constant love deem’d there but want of wit?Are beauties there as proud as here they be?Do they above love to be loved, and yetThose lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?Do they call ‘virtue’ there—ungratefulness?
WITH how sad steps, O moon, thou climb’st the skies!How silently, and with how wan a face!What! may it be that even in heavenly placeThat busy archer his sharp arrows tries?Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyesCan judge of love, thou feel’st a lover’s case:I read it in thy looks; thy languish’d graceTo me, that feel the like, thy state descries.Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,Is constant love deem’d there but want of wit?Are beauties there as proud as here they be?Do they above love to be loved, and yetThose lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?Do they call ‘virtue’ there—ungratefulness?
94.
COME, Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release,Th’ indifferent judge between the high and low;With shield of proof shield me from out the preaseOf those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:O make in me those civil wars to cease;I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,A chamber deaf to noise and blind of light,A rosy garland and a weary head;And if these things, as being thine by right,Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,Livelier than elsewhere, Stella’s image see.
COME, Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release,Th’ indifferent judge between the high and low;With shield of proof shield me from out the preaseOf those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:O make in me those civil wars to cease;I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,A chamber deaf to noise and blind of light,A rosy garland and a weary head;And if these things, as being thine by right,Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,Livelier than elsewhere, Stella’s image see.
COME, Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release,Th’ indifferent judge between the high and low;With shield of proof shield me from out the preaseOf those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:O make in me those civil wars to cease;I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,A chamber deaf to noise and blind of light,A rosy garland and a weary head;And if these things, as being thine by right,Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,Livelier than elsewhere, Stella’s image see.
94.prease] press.
94.prease] press.
95.
LEAVE me, O Love, which reachest but to dust,And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things!Grow rich in that which never taketh rust:Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy mightTo that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the lightThat doth both shine and give us sight to see.O take fast hold! let that light be thy guideIn this small course which birth draws out to death,And think how evil becometh him to slideWho seeketh Heaven, and comes of heavenly breath.Then farewell, world! thy uttermost I see:Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me!
LEAVE me, O Love, which reachest but to dust,And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things!Grow rich in that which never taketh rust:Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy mightTo that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the lightThat doth both shine and give us sight to see.O take fast hold! let that light be thy guideIn this small course which birth draws out to death,And think how evil becometh him to slideWho seeketh Heaven, and comes of heavenly breath.Then farewell, world! thy uttermost I see:Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me!
LEAVE me, O Love, which reachest but to dust,And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things!Grow rich in that which never taketh rust:Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy mightTo that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the lightThat doth both shine and give us sight to see.O take fast hold! let that light be thy guideIn this small course which birth draws out to death,And think how evil becometh him to slideWho seeketh Heaven, and comes of heavenly breath.Then farewell, world! thy uttermost I see:Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me!
1554-1628
96.
I, with whose colours Myra dress’d her head,I, that ware posies of her own hand-making,I, that mine own name in the chimneys readBy Myra finely wrought ere I was waking:Must I look on, in hope time coming mayWith change bring back my turn again to play?I, that on Sunday at the church-stile foundA garland sweet with true-love-knots in flowers,Which I to wear about mine arms was boundThat each of us might know that all was ours:Must I lead now an idle life in wishes,And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes?
I, with whose colours Myra dress’d her head,I, that ware posies of her own hand-making,I, that mine own name in the chimneys readBy Myra finely wrought ere I was waking:Must I look on, in hope time coming mayWith change bring back my turn again to play?I, that on Sunday at the church-stile foundA garland sweet with true-love-knots in flowers,Which I to wear about mine arms was boundThat each of us might know that all was ours:Must I lead now an idle life in wishes,And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes?
I, with whose colours Myra dress’d her head,I, that ware posies of her own hand-making,I, that mine own name in the chimneys readBy Myra finely wrought ere I was waking:Must I look on, in hope time coming mayWith change bring back my turn again to play?
I, that on Sunday at the church-stile foundA garland sweet with true-love-knots in flowers,Which I to wear about mine arms was boundThat each of us might know that all was ours:Must I lead now an idle life in wishes,And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes?
96.chimneys]cheminées, chimney-screens of tapestry work.
96.chimneys]cheminées, chimney-screens of tapestry work.
I, that did wear the ring her mother left,I, for whose love she gloried to be blamèd,I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft,I, who did make her blush when I was namèd:Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked,Watching with sighs till dead love be awakèd?Was it for this that I might Myra seeWashing the water with her beauty’s white?Yet would she never write her love to me.Thinks wit of change when thoughts are in delight?Mad girls may safely love as they may leave;No man canprinta kiss: lines may deceive.
I, that did wear the ring her mother left,I, for whose love she gloried to be blamèd,I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft,I, who did make her blush when I was namèd:Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked,Watching with sighs till dead love be awakèd?Was it for this that I might Myra seeWashing the water with her beauty’s white?Yet would she never write her love to me.Thinks wit of change when thoughts are in delight?Mad girls may safely love as they may leave;No man canprinta kiss: lines may deceive.
I, that did wear the ring her mother left,I, for whose love she gloried to be blamèd,I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft,I, who did make her blush when I was namèd:Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked,Watching with sighs till dead love be awakèd?
Was it for this that I might Myra seeWashing the water with her beauty’s white?Yet would she never write her love to me.Thinks wit of change when thoughts are in delight?Mad girls may safely love as they may leave;No man canprinta kiss: lines may deceive.
96.deceive] betray.
96.deceive] betray.
1556?-1625
97.
LOVE in my bosom like a beeDoth suck his sweet:Now with his wings he plays with me,Now with his feet.Within mine eyes he makes his nest,His bed amidst my tender breast;My kisses are his daily feast,And yet he robs me of my rest:Ah! wanton, will ye?And if I sleep, then percheth heWith pretty flight,And makes his pillow of my kneeThe livelong night.Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;He music plays if so I sing;He lends me every lovely thing,Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:Whist, wanton, still ye!Else I with roses every dayWill whip you hence,And bind you, when you long to play,For your offence.I’ll shut mine eyes to keep you in;I’ll make you fast it for your sin;I’ll count your power not worth a pin.—Alas! what hereby shall I winIf he gainsay me?What if I beat the wanton boyWith many a rod?He will repay me with annoy,Because a god.Then sit thou safely on my knee;Then let thy bower my bosom be;Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee;O Cupid, so thou pity me,Spare not, but play thee!
LOVE in my bosom like a beeDoth suck his sweet:Now with his wings he plays with me,Now with his feet.Within mine eyes he makes his nest,His bed amidst my tender breast;My kisses are his daily feast,And yet he robs me of my rest:Ah! wanton, will ye?And if I sleep, then percheth heWith pretty flight,And makes his pillow of my kneeThe livelong night.Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;He music plays if so I sing;He lends me every lovely thing,Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:Whist, wanton, still ye!Else I with roses every dayWill whip you hence,And bind you, when you long to play,For your offence.I’ll shut mine eyes to keep you in;I’ll make you fast it for your sin;I’ll count your power not worth a pin.—Alas! what hereby shall I winIf he gainsay me?What if I beat the wanton boyWith many a rod?He will repay me with annoy,Because a god.Then sit thou safely on my knee;Then let thy bower my bosom be;Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee;O Cupid, so thou pity me,Spare not, but play thee!
LOVE in my bosom like a beeDoth suck his sweet:Now with his wings he plays with me,Now with his feet.Within mine eyes he makes his nest,His bed amidst my tender breast;My kisses are his daily feast,And yet he robs me of my rest:Ah! wanton, will ye?
And if I sleep, then percheth heWith pretty flight,And makes his pillow of my kneeThe livelong night.Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;He music plays if so I sing;He lends me every lovely thing,Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:Whist, wanton, still ye!
Else I with roses every dayWill whip you hence,And bind you, when you long to play,For your offence.I’ll shut mine eyes to keep you in;I’ll make you fast it for your sin;I’ll count your power not worth a pin.—Alas! what hereby shall I winIf he gainsay me?
What if I beat the wanton boyWith many a rod?He will repay me with annoy,Because a god.Then sit thou safely on my knee;Then let thy bower my bosom be;Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee;O Cupid, so thou pity me,Spare not, but play thee!
98.
MY Phillis hath the morning sunAt first to look upon her;And Phillis hath morn-waking birdsHer risings still to honour.My Phillis hath prime-feather’d flowers,That smile when she treads on them;And Phillis hath a gallant flock,That leaps since she doth own them.But Phillis hath too hard a heart,Alas that she should have it!It yields no mercy to desert,Nor grace to those that crave it.
MY Phillis hath the morning sunAt first to look upon her;And Phillis hath morn-waking birdsHer risings still to honour.My Phillis hath prime-feather’d flowers,That smile when she treads on them;And Phillis hath a gallant flock,That leaps since she doth own them.But Phillis hath too hard a heart,Alas that she should have it!It yields no mercy to desert,Nor grace to those that crave it.
MY Phillis hath the morning sunAt first to look upon her;And Phillis hath morn-waking birdsHer risings still to honour.My Phillis hath prime-feather’d flowers,That smile when she treads on them;And Phillis hath a gallant flock,That leaps since she doth own them.But Phillis hath too hard a heart,Alas that she should have it!It yields no mercy to desert,Nor grace to those that crave it.
99.
LOVE guards the roses of thy lipsAnd flies about them like a bee;If I approach he forward skips,And if I kiss he stingeth me.Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,And sleeps within their pretty shine;And if I look the boy will lower,And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.Love works thy heart within his fire,And in my tears doth firm the same;And if I tempt it will retire,And of my plaints doth make a game.Love, let me cull her choicest flowers;And pity me, and calm her eye;Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowersThen will I praise thy deity.But if thou do not, Love, I’ll truly serve herIn spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.
LOVE guards the roses of thy lipsAnd flies about them like a bee;If I approach he forward skips,And if I kiss he stingeth me.Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,And sleeps within their pretty shine;And if I look the boy will lower,And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.Love works thy heart within his fire,And in my tears doth firm the same;And if I tempt it will retire,And of my plaints doth make a game.Love, let me cull her choicest flowers;And pity me, and calm her eye;Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowersThen will I praise thy deity.But if thou do not, Love, I’ll truly serve herIn spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.
LOVE guards the roses of thy lipsAnd flies about them like a bee;If I approach he forward skips,And if I kiss he stingeth me.
Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,And sleeps within their pretty shine;And if I look the boy will lower,And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.
Love works thy heart within his fire,And in my tears doth firm the same;And if I tempt it will retire,And of my plaints doth make a game.
Love, let me cull her choicest flowers;And pity me, and calm her eye;Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowersThen will I praise thy deity.
But if thou do not, Love, I’ll truly serve herIn spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.
100.
LIKE to the clear in highest sphereWhere all imperial glory shines,Of selfsame colour is her hairWhether unfolded or in twines:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,Resembling heaven by every wink;The gods do fear whenas they glow,And I do tremble when I thinkHeigh ho, would she were mine!Her cheeks are like the blushing cloudThat beautifies Aurora’s face,Or like the silver crimson shroudThat Phœbus’ smiling looks doth grace.Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her lips are like two budded rosesWhom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,Within whose bounds she balm enclosesApt to entice a deity:Heigh ho, would she were mine!Her neck like to a stately towerWhere Love himself imprison’d lies,To watch for glances every hourFrom her divine and sacred eyes:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her paps are centres of delight,Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,Where Nature moulds the dew of lightTo feed perfection with the same:Heigh ho, would she were mine!With orient pearl, with ruby red,With marble white, with sapphire blue,Her body every way is fed,Yet soft to touch and sweet in view:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Nature herself her shape admires;The gods are wounded in her sight;And Love forsakes his heavenly firesAnd at her eyes his brand doth light:Heigh ho, would she were mine!Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoanThe absence of fair Rosaline,Since for a fair there’s fairer none,Nor for her virtues so divine:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!
LIKE to the clear in highest sphereWhere all imperial glory shines,Of selfsame colour is her hairWhether unfolded or in twines:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,Resembling heaven by every wink;The gods do fear whenas they glow,And I do tremble when I thinkHeigh ho, would she were mine!Her cheeks are like the blushing cloudThat beautifies Aurora’s face,Or like the silver crimson shroudThat Phœbus’ smiling looks doth grace.Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her lips are like two budded rosesWhom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,Within whose bounds she balm enclosesApt to entice a deity:Heigh ho, would she were mine!Her neck like to a stately towerWhere Love himself imprison’d lies,To watch for glances every hourFrom her divine and sacred eyes:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her paps are centres of delight,Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,Where Nature moulds the dew of lightTo feed perfection with the same:Heigh ho, would she were mine!With orient pearl, with ruby red,With marble white, with sapphire blue,Her body every way is fed,Yet soft to touch and sweet in view:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Nature herself her shape admires;The gods are wounded in her sight;And Love forsakes his heavenly firesAnd at her eyes his brand doth light:Heigh ho, would she were mine!Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoanThe absence of fair Rosaline,Since for a fair there’s fairer none,Nor for her virtues so divine:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!
LIKE to the clear in highest sphereWhere all imperial glory shines,Of selfsame colour is her hairWhether unfolded or in twines:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,Resembling heaven by every wink;The gods do fear whenas they glow,And I do tremble when I thinkHeigh ho, would she were mine!
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloudThat beautifies Aurora’s face,Or like the silver crimson shroudThat Phœbus’ smiling looks doth grace.Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her lips are like two budded rosesWhom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,Within whose bounds she balm enclosesApt to entice a deity:Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Her neck like to a stately towerWhere Love himself imprison’d lies,To watch for glances every hourFrom her divine and sacred eyes:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her paps are centres of delight,Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,Where Nature moulds the dew of lightTo feed perfection with the same:Heigh ho, would she were mine!
With orient pearl, with ruby red,With marble white, with sapphire blue,Her body every way is fed,Yet soft to touch and sweet in view:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Nature herself her shape admires;The gods are wounded in her sight;And Love forsakes his heavenly firesAnd at her eyes his brand doth light:Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoanThe absence of fair Rosaline,Since for a fair there’s fairer none,Nor for her virtues so divine:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!
1558?-97
101.
Œnone.Fair and fair, and twice so fair,As fair as any may be;The fairest shepherd on our green,A love for any lady.Paris.Fair and fair, and twice so fair,As fair as any may be;Thy love is fair for thee aloneAnd for no other lady.Œnone.My love is fair, my love is gay,As fresh as bin the flowers in MayAnd of my love my roundelay,My merry, merry, merry roundelay,Concludes with Cupid’s curse,—‘They that do change old love for newPray gods they change for worse!’Ambo Simul.They that do change old love for new,Pray gods they change for worse!Œnone.Fair and fair, etc.Paris.Fair and fair, etc.Thy love is fair, etc.Œnone.My love can pipe, my love can sing,My love can many a pretty thing,And of his lovely praises ringMy merry, merry, merry roundelaysAmen to Cupid’s curse,—‘They that do change,’ etc.Paris.They that do change, etc.Ambo.Fair and fair, etc.
102.
(TO QUEEN ELIZABETH)
HIS golden locks Time hath to silver turn’d;O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!His youth ’gainst time and age hath ever spurn’d,But spurn’d in vain; youth waneth by increasing:Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;And, lovers’ sonnets turn’d to holy psalms,A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms:But though from court to cottage he depart,His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.And when he saddest sits in homely cell,He’ll teach his swains this carol for a song,—‘Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.’Goddess, allow this agèd man his rightTo be your beadsman now that was your knight.
HIS golden locks Time hath to silver turn’d;O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!His youth ’gainst time and age hath ever spurn’d,But spurn’d in vain; youth waneth by increasing:Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;And, lovers’ sonnets turn’d to holy psalms,A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms:But though from court to cottage he depart,His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.And when he saddest sits in homely cell,He’ll teach his swains this carol for a song,—‘Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.’Goddess, allow this agèd man his rightTo be your beadsman now that was your knight.
HIS golden locks Time hath to silver turn’d;O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!His youth ’gainst time and age hath ever spurn’d,But spurn’d in vain; youth waneth by increasing:Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.
His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;And, lovers’ sonnets turn’d to holy psalms,A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms:But though from court to cottage he depart,His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.
And when he saddest sits in homely cell,He’ll teach his swains this carol for a song,—‘Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.’Goddess, allow this agèd man his rightTo be your beadsman now that was your knight.
1560-92
103.
LIKE to Diana in her summer weed,Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye,Goes fair Samela.Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feedWhen wash’d by Arethusa faint they lie,Is fair Samela.As fair Aurora in her morning grey,Deck’d with the ruddy glister of her loveIs fair Samela;Like lovely Thetis on a calmèd dayWhenas her brightness Neptune’s fancy move,Shines fair Samela.Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams,Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivoryOf fair Samela;Her cheeks like rose and lily yield forth gleams;Her brows bright arches framed of ebony.Thus fair SamelaPasseth fair Venus in her bravest hue,And Juno in the show of majesty(For she’s Samela!),Pallas in wit,—all three, if you well view,For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity,Yield to Samela.
LIKE to Diana in her summer weed,Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye,Goes fair Samela.Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feedWhen wash’d by Arethusa faint they lie,Is fair Samela.As fair Aurora in her morning grey,Deck’d with the ruddy glister of her loveIs fair Samela;Like lovely Thetis on a calmèd dayWhenas her brightness Neptune’s fancy move,Shines fair Samela.Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams,Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivoryOf fair Samela;Her cheeks like rose and lily yield forth gleams;Her brows bright arches framed of ebony.Thus fair SamelaPasseth fair Venus in her bravest hue,And Juno in the show of majesty(For she’s Samela!),Pallas in wit,—all three, if you well view,For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity,Yield to Samela.
LIKE to Diana in her summer weed,Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye,Goes fair Samela.Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feedWhen wash’d by Arethusa faint they lie,Is fair Samela.As fair Aurora in her morning grey,Deck’d with the ruddy glister of her loveIs fair Samela;Like lovely Thetis on a calmèd dayWhenas her brightness Neptune’s fancy move,Shines fair Samela.
Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams,Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivoryOf fair Samela;Her cheeks like rose and lily yield forth gleams;Her brows bright arches framed of ebony.Thus fair SamelaPasseth fair Venus in her bravest hue,And Juno in the show of majesty(For she’s Samela!),Pallas in wit,—all three, if you well view,For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity,Yield to Samela.
104.
AH! were she pitiful as she is fair,Or but as mild as she is seeming so,Then were my hopes greater than my despair,Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand,That seems to melt even with the mildest touch,Then knew I where to seat me in a landUnder wide heavens, but yet there is not such.So as she shows she seems the budding rose,Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower;Sovran of beauty, like the spray she grows;Compass’d she is with thorns and canker’d flower.Yet were she willing to be pluck’d and worn,She would be gather’d, though she grew on thorn.Ah! when she sings, all music else be still,For none must be comparèd to her note;Ne’er breathed such glee from Philomela’s bill,Nor from the morning-singer’s swelling throat.Ah! when she riseth from her blissful bedShe comforts all the world as doth the sun,And at her sight the night’s foul vapour’s fled;When she is set the gladsome day is done.O glorious sun, imagine me the west,Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast!
AH! were she pitiful as she is fair,Or but as mild as she is seeming so,Then were my hopes greater than my despair,Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand,That seems to melt even with the mildest touch,Then knew I where to seat me in a landUnder wide heavens, but yet there is not such.So as she shows she seems the budding rose,Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower;Sovran of beauty, like the spray she grows;Compass’d she is with thorns and canker’d flower.Yet were she willing to be pluck’d and worn,She would be gather’d, though she grew on thorn.Ah! when she sings, all music else be still,For none must be comparèd to her note;Ne’er breathed such glee from Philomela’s bill,Nor from the morning-singer’s swelling throat.Ah! when she riseth from her blissful bedShe comforts all the world as doth the sun,And at her sight the night’s foul vapour’s fled;When she is set the gladsome day is done.O glorious sun, imagine me the west,Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast!
AH! were she pitiful as she is fair,Or but as mild as she is seeming so,Then were my hopes greater than my despair,Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand,That seems to melt even with the mildest touch,Then knew I where to seat me in a landUnder wide heavens, but yet there is not such.So as she shows she seems the budding rose,Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower;Sovran of beauty, like the spray she grows;Compass’d she is with thorns and canker’d flower.Yet were she willing to be pluck’d and worn,She would be gather’d, though she grew on thorn.
Ah! when she sings, all music else be still,For none must be comparèd to her note;Ne’er breathed such glee from Philomela’s bill,Nor from the morning-singer’s swelling throat.Ah! when she riseth from her blissful bedShe comforts all the world as doth the sun,And at her sight the night’s foul vapour’s fled;When she is set the gladsome day is done.O glorious sun, imagine me the west,Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast!
105.
WEEP not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.Mother’s wag, pretty boy,Father’s sorrow, father’s joy;When thy father first did seeSuch a boy by him and me,He was glad, I was woe;Fortune changèd made him so,When he left his pretty boy,Last his sorrow, first his joy.Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.Streaming tears that never stint,Like pearl-drops from a flint,Fell by course from his eyes,That one another’s place supplies;Thus he grieved in every part,Tears of blood fell from his heart,When he left his pretty boy,Father’s sorrow, father’s joy.Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.The wanton smiled, father wept,Mother cried, baby leapt;More he crow’d, more we cried,Nature could not sorrow hide:He must go, he must kissChild and mother, baby bliss,For he left his pretty boy,Father’s sorrow, father’s joy.Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.
WEEP not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.Mother’s wag, pretty boy,Father’s sorrow, father’s joy;When thy father first did seeSuch a boy by him and me,He was glad, I was woe;Fortune changèd made him so,When he left his pretty boy,Last his sorrow, first his joy.Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.Streaming tears that never stint,Like pearl-drops from a flint,Fell by course from his eyes,That one another’s place supplies;Thus he grieved in every part,Tears of blood fell from his heart,When he left his pretty boy,Father’s sorrow, father’s joy.Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.The wanton smiled, father wept,Mother cried, baby leapt;More he crow’d, more we cried,Nature could not sorrow hide:He must go, he must kissChild and mother, baby bliss,For he left his pretty boy,Father’s sorrow, father’s joy.Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.
WEEP not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.Mother’s wag, pretty boy,Father’s sorrow, father’s joy;When thy father first did seeSuch a boy by him and me,He was glad, I was woe;Fortune changèd made him so,When he left his pretty boy,Last his sorrow, first his joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.Streaming tears that never stint,Like pearl-drops from a flint,Fell by course from his eyes,That one another’s place supplies;Thus he grieved in every part,Tears of blood fell from his heart,When he left his pretty boy,Father’s sorrow, father’s joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.The wanton smiled, father wept,Mother cried, baby leapt;More he crow’d, more we cried,Nature could not sorrow hide:He must go, he must kissChild and mother, baby bliss,For he left his pretty boy,Father’s sorrow, father’s joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.
1560-1609
106.
OPERFECT Light, which shaid awayThe darkness from the light,And set a ruler o’er the day,Another o’er the night—Thy glory, when the day forth flies,More vively doth appearThan at mid day unto our eyesThe shining sun is clear.The shadow of the earth anonRemoves and drawis by,While in the East, when it is gone,Appears a clearer sky.Which soon perceive the little larks,The lapwing and the snipe,And tune their songs, like Nature’s clerks,O’er meadow, muir, and stripe.Our hemisphere is polisht clean,And lighten’d more and more,While everything is clearly seenWhich seemit dim before:Except the glistering astres bright,Which all the night were clear,Offuskit with a greater lightNo longer do appear.
OPERFECT Light, which shaid awayThe darkness from the light,And set a ruler o’er the day,Another o’er the night—Thy glory, when the day forth flies,More vively doth appearThan at mid day unto our eyesThe shining sun is clear.The shadow of the earth anonRemoves and drawis by,While in the East, when it is gone,Appears a clearer sky.Which soon perceive the little larks,The lapwing and the snipe,And tune their songs, like Nature’s clerks,O’er meadow, muir, and stripe.Our hemisphere is polisht clean,And lighten’d more and more,While everything is clearly seenWhich seemit dim before:Except the glistering astres bright,Which all the night were clear,Offuskit with a greater lightNo longer do appear.
OPERFECT Light, which shaid awayThe darkness from the light,And set a ruler o’er the day,Another o’er the night—
Thy glory, when the day forth flies,More vively doth appearThan at mid day unto our eyesThe shining sun is clear.
The shadow of the earth anonRemoves and drawis by,While in the East, when it is gone,Appears a clearer sky.
Which soon perceive the little larks,The lapwing and the snipe,And tune their songs, like Nature’s clerks,O’er meadow, muir, and stripe.
Our hemisphere is polisht clean,And lighten’d more and more,While everything is clearly seenWhich seemit dim before:
Except the glistering astres bright,Which all the night were clear,Offuskit with a greater lightNo longer do appear.
shaid] parted. stripe] rill. offuskit] darkened.
shaid] parted. stripe] rill. offuskit] darkened.
THE golden globe incontinentSets up his shining head,And o’er the earth and firmamentDisplays his beams abread.For joy the birds with boulden throatsAgainst his visage sheenTake up their kindly musick notesIn woods and gardens green.The dew upon the tender crops,Like pearlis white and round,Or like to melted silver drops,Refreshis all the ground.The misty reek, the clouds of rain,From tops of mountains skails,Clear are the highest hills and plain,The vapours take the vales.The ample heaven of fabrick sureIn cleanness does surpassThe crystal and the silver pure,Or clearest polisht glass.The time so tranquil is and stillThat nowhere shall ye find,Save on a high and barren hill,An air of peeping wind.All trees and simples, great and small,That balmy leaf do bear,Than they were painted on a wallNo more they move or steir.
THE golden globe incontinentSets up his shining head,And o’er the earth and firmamentDisplays his beams abread.For joy the birds with boulden throatsAgainst his visage sheenTake up their kindly musick notesIn woods and gardens green.The dew upon the tender crops,Like pearlis white and round,Or like to melted silver drops,Refreshis all the ground.The misty reek, the clouds of rain,From tops of mountains skails,Clear are the highest hills and plain,The vapours take the vales.The ample heaven of fabrick sureIn cleanness does surpassThe crystal and the silver pure,Or clearest polisht glass.The time so tranquil is and stillThat nowhere shall ye find,Save on a high and barren hill,An air of peeping wind.All trees and simples, great and small,That balmy leaf do bear,Than they were painted on a wallNo more they move or steir.
THE golden globe incontinentSets up his shining head,And o’er the earth and firmamentDisplays his beams abread.
For joy the birds with boulden throatsAgainst his visage sheenTake up their kindly musick notesIn woods and gardens green.
The dew upon the tender crops,Like pearlis white and round,Or like to melted silver drops,Refreshis all the ground.
The misty reek, the clouds of rain,From tops of mountains skails,Clear are the highest hills and plain,The vapours take the vales.
The ample heaven of fabrick sureIn cleanness does surpassThe crystal and the silver pure,Or clearest polisht glass.
The time so tranquil is and stillThat nowhere shall ye find,Save on a high and barren hill,An air of peeping wind.
All trees and simples, great and small,That balmy leaf do bear,Than they were painted on a wallNo more they move or steir.
boulden] swollen. sheen] bright. skails] clears. simples] herbs.
boulden] swollen. sheen] bright. skails] clears. simples] herbs.
CALM is the deep and purple sea,Yea, smoother than the sand;The waves that weltering wont to beAre stable like the land.So silent is the cessile airThat every cry and callThe hills and dales and forest fairAgain repeats them all.The flourishes and fragrant flowers,Through Phoebus’ fostering heat,Refresht with dew and silver showersCast up an odour sweet.The cloggit busy humming bees,That never think to drone,On flowers and flourishes of treesCollect their liquor brown.The Sun, most like a speedy postWith ardent course ascends;The beauty of the heavenly hostUp to our zenith tends.The burning beams down from his faceSo fervently can beat,That man and beast now seek a placeTo save them from the heat.The herds beneath some leafy treeAmidst the flowers they lie;The stable ships upon the seaTend up their sails to dry.
CALM is the deep and purple sea,Yea, smoother than the sand;The waves that weltering wont to beAre stable like the land.So silent is the cessile airThat every cry and callThe hills and dales and forest fairAgain repeats them all.The flourishes and fragrant flowers,Through Phoebus’ fostering heat,Refresht with dew and silver showersCast up an odour sweet.The cloggit busy humming bees,That never think to drone,On flowers and flourishes of treesCollect their liquor brown.The Sun, most like a speedy postWith ardent course ascends;The beauty of the heavenly hostUp to our zenith tends.The burning beams down from his faceSo fervently can beat,That man and beast now seek a placeTo save them from the heat.The herds beneath some leafy treeAmidst the flowers they lie;The stable ships upon the seaTend up their sails to dry.
CALM is the deep and purple sea,Yea, smoother than the sand;The waves that weltering wont to beAre stable like the land.
So silent is the cessile airThat every cry and callThe hills and dales and forest fairAgain repeats them all.
The flourishes and fragrant flowers,Through Phoebus’ fostering heat,Refresht with dew and silver showersCast up an odour sweet.
The cloggit busy humming bees,That never think to drone,On flowers and flourishes of treesCollect their liquor brown.
The Sun, most like a speedy postWith ardent course ascends;The beauty of the heavenly hostUp to our zenith tends.
The burning beams down from his faceSo fervently can beat,That man and beast now seek a placeTo save them from the heat.
The herds beneath some leafy treeAmidst the flowers they lie;The stable ships upon the seaTend up their sails to dry.
cessile] yielding, ceasing. flourishes] blossoms.
cessile] yielding, ceasing. flourishes] blossoms.
WITH gilded eyes and open wingsThe cock his courage shows;With claps of joy his breast he dings,And twenty times he crows.The dove with whistling wings so blueThe winds can fast collect;Her purple pens turn many a hueAgainst the sun direct.Now noon is went; gone is midday,The heat doth slake at last;The sun descends down West away,For three of clock is past.The rayons of the sun we seeDiminish in their strength;The shade of every tower and treeExtendit is in length.Great is the calm, for everywhereThe wind is setting down;The reek throws right up in the airFrom every tower and town.The gloming comes; the day is spent;The sun goes out of sight;And painted is the occidentWith purple sanguine bright.Our west horizon circularFrom time the sun be setIs all with rubies, as it were,Or roses red o’erfret.What pleasure were to walk and see,Endlong a river clear,The perfect form of every treeWithin the deep appear.O then it were a seemly thing,While all is still and calm,The praise of God to play and singWith cornet and with shalm!All labourers draw home at even,And can to other say,Thanks to the gracious God of heaven,Which sent this summer day.
WITH gilded eyes and open wingsThe cock his courage shows;With claps of joy his breast he dings,And twenty times he crows.The dove with whistling wings so blueThe winds can fast collect;Her purple pens turn many a hueAgainst the sun direct.Now noon is went; gone is midday,The heat doth slake at last;The sun descends down West away,For three of clock is past.The rayons of the sun we seeDiminish in their strength;The shade of every tower and treeExtendit is in length.Great is the calm, for everywhereThe wind is setting down;The reek throws right up in the airFrom every tower and town.The gloming comes; the day is spent;The sun goes out of sight;And painted is the occidentWith purple sanguine bright.Our west horizon circularFrom time the sun be setIs all with rubies, as it were,Or roses red o’erfret.What pleasure were to walk and see,Endlong a river clear,The perfect form of every treeWithin the deep appear.O then it were a seemly thing,While all is still and calm,The praise of God to play and singWith cornet and with shalm!All labourers draw home at even,And can to other say,Thanks to the gracious God of heaven,Which sent this summer day.
WITH gilded eyes and open wingsThe cock his courage shows;With claps of joy his breast he dings,And twenty times he crows.
The dove with whistling wings so blueThe winds can fast collect;Her purple pens turn many a hueAgainst the sun direct.
Now noon is went; gone is midday,The heat doth slake at last;The sun descends down West away,For three of clock is past.
The rayons of the sun we seeDiminish in their strength;The shade of every tower and treeExtendit is in length.
Great is the calm, for everywhereThe wind is setting down;The reek throws right up in the airFrom every tower and town.
The gloming comes; the day is spent;The sun goes out of sight;And painted is the occidentWith purple sanguine bright.
Our west horizon circularFrom time the sun be setIs all with rubies, as it were,Or roses red o’erfret.
What pleasure were to walk and see,Endlong a river clear,The perfect form of every treeWithin the deep appear.
O then it were a seemly thing,While all is still and calm,The praise of God to play and singWith cornet and with shalm!
All labourers draw home at even,And can to other say,Thanks to the gracious God of heaven,Which sent this summer day.
1560-1634
107.
OCOME, soft rest of cares! come, Night!Come, naked Virtue’s only tire,The reapèd harvest of the lightBound up in sheaves of sacred fire.Love calls to war:Sighs his alarms,Lips his swords are,The field his arms.Come, Night, and lay thy velvet handOn glorious Day’s outfacing face;And all thy crownèd flames commandFor torches to our nuptial grace.Love calls to war:Sighs his alarms,Lips his swords are,The field his arms.
OCOME, soft rest of cares! come, Night!Come, naked Virtue’s only tire,The reapèd harvest of the lightBound up in sheaves of sacred fire.Love calls to war:Sighs his alarms,Lips his swords are,The field his arms.Come, Night, and lay thy velvet handOn glorious Day’s outfacing face;And all thy crownèd flames commandFor torches to our nuptial grace.Love calls to war:Sighs his alarms,Lips his swords are,The field his arms.
OCOME, soft rest of cares! come, Night!Come, naked Virtue’s only tire,The reapèd harvest of the lightBound up in sheaves of sacred fire.Love calls to war:Sighs his alarms,Lips his swords are,The field his arms.
Come, Night, and lay thy velvet handOn glorious Day’s outfacing face;And all thy crownèd flames commandFor torches to our nuptial grace.Love calls to war:Sighs his alarms,Lips his swords are,The field his arms.
1561-95
108.
THE loppèd tree in time may grow again,Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;The sorest wight may find release of pain,The driest soil suck in some moist’ning shower;Times go by turns and chances change by course,From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,She draws her favours to the lowest ebb;Her tides hath equal times to come and go,Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web;No joy so great but runneth to an end,No hap so hard but may in fine amend.Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring,No endless night yet not eternal day;The saddest birds a season find to sing,The roughest storm a calm may soon allay:Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.A chance may win that by mischance was lost;The net that holds no great, takes little fish;In some things all, in all things none are crost,Few all they need, but none have all they wish;Unmeddled joys here to no man befall:Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.
THE loppèd tree in time may grow again,Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;The sorest wight may find release of pain,The driest soil suck in some moist’ning shower;Times go by turns and chances change by course,From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,She draws her favours to the lowest ebb;Her tides hath equal times to come and go,Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web;No joy so great but runneth to an end,No hap so hard but may in fine amend.Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring,No endless night yet not eternal day;The saddest birds a season find to sing,The roughest storm a calm may soon allay:Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.A chance may win that by mischance was lost;The net that holds no great, takes little fish;In some things all, in all things none are crost,Few all they need, but none have all they wish;Unmeddled joys here to no man befall:Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.
THE loppèd tree in time may grow again,Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;The sorest wight may find release of pain,The driest soil suck in some moist’ning shower;Times go by turns and chances change by course,From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.
The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,She draws her favours to the lowest ebb;Her tides hath equal times to come and go,Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web;No joy so great but runneth to an end,No hap so hard but may in fine amend.
Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring,No endless night yet not eternal day;The saddest birds a season find to sing,The roughest storm a calm may soon allay:Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.
A chance may win that by mischance was lost;The net that holds no great, takes little fish;In some things all, in all things none are crost,Few all they need, but none have all they wish;Unmeddled joys here to no man befall:Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.
unmeddled] unmixed.
unmeddled] unmixed.
109.
AS I in hoary winter’s nightStood shivering in the snow,Surprised I was with sudden heatWhich made my heart to glow;And lifting up a fearful eyeTo view what fire was near,A pretty babe all burning brightDid in the air appear;Who, scorchèd with excessive heat,Such floods of tears did shed,As though His floods should quench His flames,Which with His tears were bred:‘Alas!’ quoth He, ‘but newly bornIn fiery heats I fry,Yet none approach to warm their heartsOr feel my fire but I!‘My faultless breast the furnace is;The fuel, wounding thorns;Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke;The ashes, shames and scorns;The fuel Justice layeth on,And Mercy blows the coals,The metal in this furnace wroughtAre men’s defilèd souls:For which, as now on fire I amTo work them to their good,So will I melt into a bath,To wash them in my blood.’With this He vanish’d out of sightAnd swiftly shrunk away,And straight I callèd unto mindThat it was Christmas Day.
AS I in hoary winter’s nightStood shivering in the snow,Surprised I was with sudden heatWhich made my heart to glow;And lifting up a fearful eyeTo view what fire was near,A pretty babe all burning brightDid in the air appear;Who, scorchèd with excessive heat,Such floods of tears did shed,As though His floods should quench His flames,Which with His tears were bred:‘Alas!’ quoth He, ‘but newly bornIn fiery heats I fry,Yet none approach to warm their heartsOr feel my fire but I!‘My faultless breast the furnace is;The fuel, wounding thorns;Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke;The ashes, shames and scorns;The fuel Justice layeth on,And Mercy blows the coals,The metal in this furnace wroughtAre men’s defilèd souls:For which, as now on fire I amTo work them to their good,So will I melt into a bath,To wash them in my blood.’With this He vanish’d out of sightAnd swiftly shrunk away,And straight I callèd unto mindThat it was Christmas Day.
AS I in hoary winter’s nightStood shivering in the snow,Surprised I was with sudden heatWhich made my heart to glow;And lifting up a fearful eyeTo view what fire was near,A pretty babe all burning brightDid in the air appear;Who, scorchèd with excessive heat,Such floods of tears did shed,As though His floods should quench His flames,Which with His tears were bred:‘Alas!’ quoth He, ‘but newly bornIn fiery heats I fry,Yet none approach to warm their heartsOr feel my fire but I!
‘My faultless breast the furnace is;The fuel, wounding thorns;Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke;The ashes, shames and scorns;The fuel Justice layeth on,And Mercy blows the coals,The metal in this furnace wroughtAre men’s defilèd souls:For which, as now on fire I amTo work them to their good,So will I melt into a bath,To wash them in my blood.’With this He vanish’d out of sightAnd swiftly shrunk away,And straight I callèd unto mindThat it was Christmas Day.
1562?-1613?
110.
GIVE pardon, blessèd soul, to my bold cries,If they, importune, interrupt thy song,Which now with joyful notes thou sing’st amongThe angel-quiristers of th’ heavenly skies.Give pardon eke, sweet soul, to my slow eyes,That since I saw thee now it is so long,And yet the tears that unto thee belongTo thee as yet they did not sacrifice.I did not know that thou wert dead before;I did not feel the grief I did sustain;The greater stroke astonisheth the more;Astonishment takes from us sense of pain;I stood amazed when others’ tears begun,And now begin to weep when they have done.
GIVE pardon, blessèd soul, to my bold cries,If they, importune, interrupt thy song,Which now with joyful notes thou sing’st amongThe angel-quiristers of th’ heavenly skies.Give pardon eke, sweet soul, to my slow eyes,That since I saw thee now it is so long,And yet the tears that unto thee belongTo thee as yet they did not sacrifice.I did not know that thou wert dead before;I did not feel the grief I did sustain;The greater stroke astonisheth the more;Astonishment takes from us sense of pain;I stood amazed when others’ tears begun,And now begin to weep when they have done.
GIVE pardon, blessèd soul, to my bold cries,If they, importune, interrupt thy song,Which now with joyful notes thou sing’st amongThe angel-quiristers of th’ heavenly skies.Give pardon eke, sweet soul, to my slow eyes,That since I saw thee now it is so long,And yet the tears that unto thee belongTo thee as yet they did not sacrifice.I did not know that thou wert dead before;I did not feel the grief I did sustain;The greater stroke astonisheth the more;Astonishment takes from us sense of pain;I stood amazed when others’ tears begun,And now begin to weep when they have done.
1562-1619
111.
Loveis a sickness full of woes,All remedies refusing;A plant that with most cutting grows,Most barren with best using.Why so?More we enjoy it, more it dies;If not enjoy’d, it sighing cries—Heigh ho!Love is a torment of the mind,A tempest everlasting;And Jove hath made it of a kindNot well, nor full nor fasting.Why so?More we enjoy it, more it dies;If not enjoy’d, it sighing cries—Heigh ho!
Loveis a sickness full of woes,All remedies refusing;A plant that with most cutting grows,Most barren with best using.Why so?More we enjoy it, more it dies;If not enjoy’d, it sighing cries—Heigh ho!Love is a torment of the mind,A tempest everlasting;And Jove hath made it of a kindNot well, nor full nor fasting.Why so?More we enjoy it, more it dies;If not enjoy’d, it sighing cries—Heigh ho!
Loveis a sickness full of woes,All remedies refusing;A plant that with most cutting grows,Most barren with best using.Why so?More we enjoy it, more it dies;If not enjoy’d, it sighing cries—Heigh ho!
Love is a torment of the mind,A tempest everlasting;And Jove hath made it of a kindNot well, nor full nor fasting.Why so?More we enjoy it, more it dies;If not enjoy’d, it sighing cries—Heigh ho!
112.
Siren.Come, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come,Possess these shores with me:The winds and seas are troublesome,And here we may be free.Here may we sit and view their toilThat travail in the deep,And joy the day in mirth the while,And spend the night in sleep.Ulysses.Fair Nymph, if fame or honour wereTo be attain’d with ease,Then would I come and rest me there,And leave such toils as these.But here it dwells, and here must IWith danger seek it forth:To spend the time luxuriouslyBecomes not men of worth.Siren.Ulysses, O be not deceivedWith that unreal name;This honour is a thing conceived,And rests on others’ fame:Begotten only to molestOur peace, and to beguileThe best thing of our life—our rest,And give us up to toil.Ulysses.Delicious Nymph, suppose there wereNo honour nor report,Yet manliness would scorn to wearThe time in idle sport:For toil doth give a better touchTo make us feel our joy,And ease finds tediousness as muchAs labour yields annoy.Siren.Then pleasure likewise seems the shoreWhereto tends all your toil,Which you forgo to make it more,And perish oft the while.Who may disport them diverselyFind never tedious day,And ease may have varietyAs well as action may.Ulysses.But natures of the noblest frameThese toils and dangers please;And they take comfort in the sameAs much as you in ease;And with the thought of actions pastAre recreated still:When Pleasure leaves a touch at lastTo show that it was ill.Siren.That dothOpiniononly causeThat’s out ofCustombred,Which makes us many other lawsThan everNaturedid.No widows wail for our delights,Our sports are without blood;The world we see by warlike wightsReceives more hurt than good.Ulysses.But yet the state of things requireThese motions of unrest:And these great Spirits of high desireSeem born to turn them best:To purge the mischiefs that increaseAnd all good order mar:For oft we see a wicked peaceTo be well changed for war.Siren.Well, well, Ulysses, then I seeI shall not have thee here:And therefore I will come to thee,And take my fortune there.I must be won, that cannot win,Yet lost were I not won;For beauty hath created beenT’ undo, or be undone.
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