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Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds oertake me in my way, Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, For no man well of such a salve can speak That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace: Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss: The offenders sorrow lends but weak relief To him that bears the strong offences cross. Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.

Weret aught to me I bore the canopy, With my extern the outward honouring, Or laid great bases for eternity, Which proves more short than waste or ruining; Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent, For compound sweet forgoing simple savour, Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent? No;let me be obsequious in thy heart, And take thou my oblation, poor but free, Which is not mixd with seconds, knows no art, But mutual render, only me for thee. Hence, thou subornd informer! a true soul, When most impeachd, stands least in thy control.

Let the bird of loudest lay On the sole Arabian tree Herald sad and trumpet be, To whose sound chaste wings obey. But thou shrieking harbinger, Foul precurrer of the fiend, Augur of the fever's end, To this troop come thou not near. From this session interdict Every fowl of tyrant wing, Save the eagle, feather'd king; Keep the obsequy so strict. Let the priest in surplice white, That defunctive music can, Be the death-divining swan, Lest the requiem lack his right. And thou treble-dated crow, That thy sable gender mak'st With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st, 'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go. Here the anthem doth commence: Love and constancy is dead; Phoenix and the Turtle fled In a mutual flame from hence. So they lov'd, as love in twain Had the essence but in one; Two distincts, division none: Number there in love was slain. Hearts remote, yet not asunder; Distance and no space was seen 'Twixt this Turtle and his queen: But in them it were a wonder. So between them love did shine That the Turtle saw his right Flaming in the Phoenix' sight: Either was the other's mine. Property was thus appalled That the self was not the same; Single nature's double name Neither two nor one was called. Reason, in itself confounded, Saw division grow together, To themselves yet either neither, Simple were so well compounded; That it cried, "How true a twain Seemeth this concordant one! Love has reason, reason none, If what parts can so remain." Whereupon it made this threne To the Phoenix and the Dove, Co-supremes and stars of love, As chorus to their tragic scene: threnos Beauty, truth, and rarity, Grace in all simplicity, Here enclos'd, in cinders lie. Death is now the Phoenix' nest, And the Turtle's loyal breast To eternity doth rest, Leaving no posterity: 'Twas not their infirmity, It was married chastity. Truth may seem but cannot be; Beauty brag but 'tis not she; Truth and beauty buried be. To this urn let those repair That are either true or fair; For these dead birds sigh a prayer.

Sing lullaby, as women do, Wherewith they bring their babes to rest, And lullaby can I sing too As womanly as can the best. With lullaby they still the child, And if I be not much beguiled, Full many wanton babes have I Which must be stilled with lullaby. First lullaby my youthful years; It is now time to go to bed, For crooked age and hoary hairs Have won the haven within my head. With lullaby, then, youth be still; With lullaby content thy will; Since courage quails and comes behind, Go sleep, and so beguile thy mind. Next, lullaby my gazing eyes, Which wonted were to glance apace. For every glass may now suffice To show the furrows in my face; With lullaby then wink awhile, With lullaby your looks beguile; Let no fair face nor beauty bright Entice you eft with vain delight. And lullaby, my wanton will; Let reason's rule now reign thy thought, Since all too late I find by skill How dear I have thy fancies bought; With lullaby now take thine ease, With lullaby thy doubts appease. For trust to this: if thou be still, My body shall obey thy will. Eke lullaby, my loving boy, My little Robin, take thy rest; Since age is cold and nothing coy, Keep close thy coin, for so is best; With lullaby be thou content, With lullaby thy lusts relent, Let others pay which hath mo pence; Thou art too poor for such expense. Thus lullaby, my youth, mine eyes, My will, my ware, and all that was. I can no mo delays devise, But welcome pain, let pleasure pass; With lullaby now take your leave, With lullaby your dreams deceive; And when you rise with waking eye, Remember then this lullaby.

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me: Ist not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweetst friend must be? Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken, And my next self thou harder hast engrossed; Of him, myself, and thee I am forsaken, A torment thrice threefold thus to be crossed. Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward, But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail; Whoeer keeps me, let my heart be his guard: Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail. And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee, Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

O, call not me to justify the wrong That thy unkindness lays upon my heart; Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue; Use power with power, and slay me not by art. Tell me thou lovst elsewhere; but in my sight, Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside; What needst thou wound with cunning when thy might Is more than my oerpressed defense can bide? Let me excuse thee: ah, my love well knows Her pretty looks have been mine enemies; And therefore from my face she turns my foes, That they elsewhere might dart their injuries Yet do not so; but since I am near slain, Kill me outright with looks and rid my pain.

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving. O, but with mine compare thou thine own state, And thou shalt find it merits not reproving; Or if it do, not from those lips of thine, That have profaned their scarlet ornaments And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine, Robbed others beds revenues of their rents. Be it lawful I love thee as thou lovst those Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee: Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows, Thy pity may deserve to pitied be. If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, By self-example mayst thou be denied.

My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except. Past cure I am, now reason is past care, And frantic-mad with evermore unrest; My thoughts and my discourse as madmens are, At random from the truth vainly expressed: For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

A Poet am I neither born nor bred, But to a witty poet married: Whose brain is fresh and pleasant as the Spring, Where Fancies grow and where the Muses sing. There oft I lean my head, and listening, hark, To catch his words and all his fancies mark: And from that garden show of beauties take Whereof a posy I in verse may make. Thus I, that have no gardens of my own, There gather flowers that are newly blown.

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain, Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain, I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe, Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain, Oft turning others leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburned brain. But words came halting forth, wanting Inventions stay: Invention, Natures child, fled step-dame Studys blows, And others feet still seemed but strangers in my way. Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite: Fool, said my Muse to me, look in thy heart and write.

Misus and Mopsa hardly could agree, Striving about superiority. The text which says that man and wife are one, Was the chief argument they stood upon. She held they both one woman should become, He held both should be man, and both but one. So they contended daily, but the strife Could not be ended, till both were one wife.

Joy of my life, full oft for loving you I bless my lot, that was so lucky placed: But then the more your own mishap I rue, That are so much by so mean love embased. For had the equal heavens so much you graced In this as in the rest, ye might invent Some heavenly wit, whose verse could have enchased Your glorious name in golden monument. But since ye deignd so goodly to relent To me your thrall, in whom is little worth, That little that I am shall all be spent In setting your immortal praises forth; Whose lofty argument uplifting me Shall lift you up unto an high degree.

Sweet shades why doe you seeke to give delight To mee who deeme delight in this vilde place Butt torment, sorrow, and mine owne disgrace To taste of joy, or your vaine pleasing sight; Show them your pleasures who saw never night Of greife, wher joyings fauning, smiling face Appeers as day, wher griefe found never space Yett for a sigh, a grone, or envies spite; Butt O on mee a world of woes doe ly, Or els on mee all harmes strive to rely, And to attend like servants bound to mee, Heat in desire, while frosts of care I prove, Wanting my love, yett surfett doe with love Burne, and yett freeze, better in hell to bee.

Come darkest night, becoming sorrow best; Light; leave thy light; fitt for a lightsome soule; Darknes doth truly sure with mee oprest Whom absence power doth from mirthe controle: The very trees with hanging heads condole Sweet sommers parting, and of leaves distrest In dying coulers make a griefe-full role; Soe much (alas) to sorrow are they prest, Thus of dead leaves her farewell carpetts made: Theyr fall, theyr branches, all theyr mournings prove; With leavles, naked bodies, whose huese vade From hopefull greene, to wither in theyr love, If trees, and leaves for absence, mourners bee Noe mervaile that I grieve, who like want see.

Love like a jugler, comes to play his prise, And all minds draw his wonders to admire, To see how cuningly hee, wanting eyes, Can yett deseave the best sight of desire: The wanton child, how hee can faine his fire So pretely, as none sees his disguise! How finely doe his tricks, while wee fooles hire The badge, and office of his tirannies, For in the end, such jugling hee doth make As hee our harts, in stead of eyes doth take For men can only by theyr slieghts abuse The sight with nimble, and delightful skill; Butt if hee play, his gaine is our lost will: Yett childlike, wee can nott his sports refuse.

Time only cause of my unrest By whom I hopd once to bee blest How cruell art thou turned? That first gavst lyfe unto my love, And still a pleasure nott to move Or change though ever burned; Have I thee slackd, or left undun One loving rite, and soe have wunn Thy rage or bitter changing? That now noe minutes I shall see, Wherein I may least happy bee Thy favors soe estranging. Blame thy self, and nott my folly, Time gave time butt to bee holly; True love such ends best loveth Unworhty love doth seeke for ends A worthy love butt worth pretends Nor other thoughts itt proveth: Then stay thy swiftnes cruell time, And lett mee once more blessed clime To joy, that I may prayse thee: Lett mee pleasure sweetly tasting Joy in love, and faith nott wasting And on fames wings Ile rayse thee: Never shall thy glory dying Bee untill thine owne untying That time noe longer liveth; Tis a gaine such tyme to lend: Since soe thy fame shall never end Butt joy for what she giveth.

Love peruse me, seeke, and finde How each corner of my minde Is a twine Woven to shine. Not a Webb ill made, foule framd, Bastard not by Father namd, Such in me Cannot bee. Deare behold me, you shall see Faith the Hive, and love the Bee, Which doe bring. Gaine and sting. Pray desect me, sinewes, vaines, Hold, and loves life in those gaines; Lying bare To despaire, When you thus anotamise All my body, my heart prise; Being true Just to you. Close the Truncke, embalme the Chest, Where your power still shall rest, Joy entombe, Loves just doome.

When I beeheld the Image of my deere With greedy lookes mine eyes would that way bend, Fear, and desire did inwardly contend; Feare to bee markd, desire to drawe still neere, And in my soule a speritt wowld apeer, Which boldnes waranted, and did pretend To bee my genius, yett I durst nott lend My eyes in trust wher others seemed soe cleere, Then did I search from whence this danger rose, If such unworthynes in mee did rest As my stervd eyes must nott with sight bee blest; When jealousie her poyson did disclose; Yett in my hart unseense of jealous eye The truer Image shall in triumph lye.

Love leave to urge, thou knowst thou hast the hand; Tis cowardise, to strive wher none resist: Pray thee leave off, I yeeld unto thy band; Doe nott thus, still, in thine owne powre persist, Beehold I yeeld: lett forces bee dismist; I ame thy subject, conquerd, bound to stand, Never thy foe, butt did thy claime assist Seeking thy due of those who did withstand; Butt now, itt seemes, thou wouldst I should thee love; I doe confess, twas thy will made mee chuse; And thy faire showes made mee a lover prove When I my freedome did, for paine refuse. Yett this Sir God, your boyship I dispise; Your charmes I obay, butt love nott want of eyes.

Long have I longd to see my love againe, Still have I wisht, but never could obtaine it; Rather than all the world (if I might gaine it) Would I desire my loves sweet precious gaine. Yet in my soule I see him everie day, See him, and see his still sterne countenaunce, But (ah) what is of long continuance, Where majestie and beautie beares the sway? Sometimes, when I imagine that I see him, (As love is full of foolish fantasies) Weening to kisse his lips, as my loves fees, I feele but aire: nothing but aire to bee him. Thus with Ixion, kisse I clouds in vaine: Thus with Ixion, feele I endles paine.

Cherry-lipt Adonis in his snowie shape, Might not compare with his pure ivorie white, On whose faire front a poets pen may write, Whose roseate red excels the crimson grape, His love-enticing delicate soft limbs, Are rarely framd tintrap poore gazine eies: His cheeks, the lillie and carnation dies, With lovely tincture which Apollos dims. His lips ripe strawberries in nectar wet, His mouth a Hive, his tongue a hony-combe, Where Muses (like bees) make their mansion. His teeth pure pearle in blushing correll set. Oh how can such a body sinne-procuring, Be slow to love, and quicke to hate, enduring?

They flee from me, that sometime did me seek With naked foot, stalking in my chamber. I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek, That now are wild, and do not remember That sometime they put themselves in danger To take bread at my hand; and now they range Busily seeking with a continual change. Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise Twenty times better; but once, in special, In thin array, after a pleasant guise, When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall, And she me caught in her arms long and small; Therewith all sweetly did me kiss, And softly said, Dear heart, how like you this? It was no dream: I lay broad waking: But all is turned, thorough my gentleness, Into a strange fashion of forsaking; And I have leave to go of her goodness, And she also to use newfangleness. But since that I so kindly am served, I would fain know what she hath deserved.

Tis true, tis day, what though it be? O wilt thou therefore rise from me? Why should we rise because tis light? Did we lie down because twas night? Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither, Should in despite of light keep us together. Light hath no tongue, but is all eye; If it could speak as well as spy, This were the worst that it could say, That being well I fain would stay, And that I loved my heart and honour so, That I would not from him, that had them, go. Must business thee from hence remove? Oh, thats the worst disease of love, The poor, the foul, the false, love can Admit, but not the busied man. He which hath business, and makes love, doth do Such wrong, as when a married man doth woo.

I loathe that I did love, In youth that I thought sweet, As time requires for my behove, Methinks they are not meet. My lusts they do me leave, My fancies all be fled, And tract of time begins to weave Grey hairs upon my head, For age with stealing steps Hath clawed me with his crutch, And lusty life away she leaps As there had been none such. My Muse doth not delight Me as she did before; My hand and pen are not in plight, As they have been of yore. For reason me denies This youthly idle rhyme; And day by day to me she cries, Leave off these toys in time. The wrinkles in my brow, The furrows in my face, Say, limping age will lodge him now Where youth must give him place. The harbinger of death, To me I see him ride, The cough, the cold, the gasping breath Doth bid me provide A pickaxe and a spade, And eke a shrouding sheet, A house of clay for to be made For such a guest most meet. Methinks I hear the clark That knolls the careful knell, And bids me leave my woeful wark, Ere nature me compel. My keepers knit the knot That youth did laugh to scorn, Of me that clean shall be forgot As I had not been born. Thus must I youth give up, Whose badge I long did wear; To them I yield the wanton cup That better may it bear. Lo, here the bared skull, By whose bald sign I know That stooping age away shall pull Which youthful years did sow. For beauty with her band These crooked cares hath wrought, And shipped me into the land From whence I first was brought. And ye that bide behind, Have ye none other trust: As ye of clay were cast by kind, So shall ye waste to dust.

Alas, so all things now do hold their peace! Heaven and earth disturbed in no thing; The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease, The nightes car the stars about doth bring; Calm is the sea; the waves work less and less: So am not I, whom love, alas! doth wring, Bringing before my face the great increase Of my desires, whereat I weep and sing, In joy and woe, as in a doubtful case. For my sweet thoughts sometime do pleasure bring: But by and by, the cause of my disease Gives me a pang that inwardly doth sting, When that I think what grief it is again To live and lack the thing should rid my pain.

Happy ye leaves when as those lilly hands, Which hold my life in their dead doing might Shall handle you and hold in loves soft bands, Lyke captives trembling at the victors sight. And happy lines, on which with starry light, Those lamping eyes will deigne sometimes to look And reade the sorrowes of my dying spright, Written with teares in harts close bleeding book. And happy rymes bathd in the sacred brooke, Of Helicon whence she derived is, When ye behold that Angels blessed looke, My soules long lacked foode, my heavens blis. Leaves, lines, and rymes, seeke her to please alone, Whom if ye please, I care for other none.

Of this worlds Theatre in which we stay, My love lyke the Spectator ydly sits Beholding me that all the pageants play, Disguysing diversly my troubled wits. Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits, And mask in myrth lyke to a Comedy: Soone after when my joy to sorrow flits, I waile and make my woes a Tragedy. Yet she beholding me with constant eye, Delights not in my merth nor rues my smart: But when I laugh she mocks, and when I cry She laughes, and hardens evermore her hart. What then can move her? if not merth nor mone, She is no woman, but a sencelesse stone.

So oft as I her beauty do behold, And therewith do her cruelty compare, I marvel of what substance was the mould The which her made at once so cruel-fair. Not earth; for her high thoughts more heavenly are: Not water; for her love doth burn like fire: Not air; for she is not so light or rare: Not fire; for she doth freeze with faint desire. Then needs another element inquire Whereof she might be made; that is, the sky. For to the heaven her haughty looks aspire, And eke her love is pure immortal high. Then since to heaven ye likened are the best, Be like in mercy as in all the rest.

The weary yeare his race now having run, The new begins his compast course anew: With shew of morning mylde he hath begun, Betokening peace and plenty to ensew. So let us, which this chaunge of weather vew, Chaunge eeke our mynds and former lives amend, The old yeares sinnes forepast let us eschew, And fly the faults with which we did offend. Then shall the new yeares joy forth freshly send, Into the glooming world his gladsome ray: And all these stormes which now his beauty blend, Shall turne to caulmes and tymely cleare away. So likewise love cheare you your heavy spright, And chaunge old yeares annoy to new delight.

To all those happy blessings which ye have, With plenteous hand by heaven upon you thrown: This one disparagement they to you gave, That ye your love lent to so meane a one. Yee whose high worths surpassing paragon, Could not on earth have found one fit for mate, Ne but in heaven matchable to none, Why did ye stoup unto so lowly state. But ye thereby much greater glory gate, Then had ye sorted with a princes pere: For now your light doth more it selfe dilate, And in my darknesse greater doth appeare. Yet since your light hath once enlumind me, With my reflex yours shall encreased be.

Fresh spring the herald of loves mighty king, In whose cote armour richly are displayed All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring In goodly colours gloriously arrayd: Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd, Yet in her winters bowre not well awake: Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid Unless she doe him by the forelock take. Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make, To wayt on love amongst his lovely crew: Where every one that misseth then her make, Shall be by him amearst with penance dew. Make hast therefore sweet love, whilest it is prime, For none can call againe the passed time.

I joy to see how in your drawen work, Your selfe unto the Bee ye doe compare; And me unto the Spyder that doth lurke, In close awayt to catch her unaware. Right so your selfe were caught in cunning snare Of a deare for, and thralled to his love: In whose streight bands ye now captived are So firmely, that ye never may remove. But as your whole worke is woven all about, With woodbynd flowers and fragrant Enlantine: So sweet your prison you in time shall prove, With many deare delights bedecked fyne, And all thensforth eternall peace shall see Betweene the Spyder and the gentle Bee.

Fayre is my love, when her fayre golden heares, With the loose wynd ye waving chance to marke: Fayre when the rose in her red cheekes appears, Or in her eyes the fyre of love does sparke. Fayre when her brest lyke a rich laden barke, With pretious merchandize she forth doth lay: Fayre when that cloud of pryde which oft doth dark Her goodly light with smiles she drives away, But fayrest she, when so she doth display The gate with pearles and rubyes richly dight: Throgh which her words so wise do make their way To beare the message of her gentle spright. The rest be works of natures wonderment, But this the worke of harts astonishment.

Lyke as the Culver on the bared bough, Sits mourning for the absence of her mate: And in her songs sends many a wishfull vow, For his returne that seemes to linger late, So I alone now left disconsolate, Mourne to my selfe the absence of my love: And wandring here and there all desolate, Seek with my playnts to match that mournful dove: Ne joy of ought that under heaven doth hove, Can comfort me, but her owne joyous sight: Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move, In her unspotted pleasauns to delight. Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis, And dead my life that wants such lively blis.

More then most faire, full of the living fire, Kindled above unto the maker neere: No eies but joyes, in which al powers conspire, That to the world naught else be counted deare. Thrugh your bright beams doth not the blinded guest Shoot out his darts to base affections wound? But Angels come to lead fraile mindes to rest In chast desires on heavenly beauty bound. You frame my thoughts and fashion me within, You stop my toung, and teach my hart to speake, You calme the storme that passion did begin, Strong thrugh your cause, but by your vertue weak. Dark is the world, where your light shined never; Well is he borne, that may behold you ever.

In that proud port, which her so goodly graceth, Whiles her faire face she reares up to the skie: And to the ground her eie lids low embaseth Most goodly temperature ye may descry, Myld humblesse mixt with awfull majesty, For looking on the earth whence she was borne: Her minde remembreth her mortalitie, What so is fayrest shall to earth returne. But that same lofty countenance seemes to scorne Base thing, and thinke how she to heaven may clime: Treading downe earth as lothsome and forlorne, That hinders heavenly thoughts with drossy slime. Yet lowly still vouchsafe to looke on me, Such lowlinesse shall make you lofty be.

Ye tradefull Merchants that with weary toyle, Do seeke most pretious things to make your gain: And both the Indias of their treasures spoile, What needeth you to seeke so farre in vaine? For loe my love doth in her selfe containe All this worlds riches that may farre be found, If Saphyres, loe hir eies be Saphyres plaine, If Rubies, loe hir lips be Rubies sound: If Pearles, hir teeth be pearles both pure and round; If Yvorie, her forhead yvory weene; If Gold, her locks are finest gold on ground; If silver, her faire hands are silver sheene; But that which fairest is, but few behold, Her mind adornd with vertues manifold.

Penelope for her Ulisses sake, Devizd a Web her wooers to deceave: In which the worke that she all day did make The same at night she did again unreave: Such subtile craft my Damzell doth conceave, Th importune suit of my desire to shnone: For all that I in many dayes doo weave, In one short houre I find by her undonne. So when I thinke to end that I begonne, I must begin and never bring to end: For with one looke she spils that long I sponne, And with one word my whole years work doth rend. Such labour like the Spyders web I fynd, Whose fruitless worke is broken with least wynd.

My Love is like to ice, and I to fire: How comes it then that this her cold so great Is not dissolved through my so hot desire, But harder grows the more I her entreat? Or how comes it that my exceeding heat Is not allayed by her heart-frozen cold, But that I burn much more in boiling sweat, And feel my flames augmented manifold? What more miraculous thing may be told, That fire, which all things melts, should harden ice, And ice, which is congeald with senseless cold, Should kindle fire by wonderful device? Such is the power of love in gentle mind, That it can alter all the course of kind.

Though beauty be the mark of praise, And yours of whom I sing be such As not the world can praise too much, Yet tis your virtue now I raise. A virtue, like allay, so gone Throughout your form, as, though that move And draw and conquer all mens love, This subjects you to love of one. Wherein you triumph yet; because Tis of yourself, and that you use The noblest freedom, not to choose Against or faith or honors laws. But who should less expect from you, In whom alone Love lives again? By whom he is restored to men, And kept, and bred, and brought up true. His falling temples you have reared, The withered garlands taen away; His altars kept from the decay That envy wished, and nature feared; And on them burn so chaste a flame, With so much loyalties expense, As Love, t acquit such excellence, Is gone himself into your name. And you are he; the deity To whom all lovers are designed That would their better objects find; Among which faithful troop am I. Who, as an offspring at your shrine, Have sung this hymn, and here entreat One spark of your diviner heat To light upon a love of mine. Which, if it kindle not, but scant Appear, and that to shortest view, Yet give me leave t adore in you What I in her am grieved to want.

And if I did, what then? Are you aggrievd therefore? The sea hath fish for every man, And what would you have more? Thus did my mistress once, Amaze my mind with doubt; And poppd a question for the nonce To beat my brains about. Whereto I thus replied: Each fisherman can wish That all the seas at every tide Were his alone to fish. And so did I (in vain) But since it may not be, Let such fish there as find the gain, And leave the loss for me. And with such luck and loss I will content myself, Till tides of turning time may toss Such fishers on the shelf. And when they stick on sands, That every man may see, Then will I laugh and clap my hands, As they do now at me.

All Kings, and all their favourites, All glory of honours, beauties, wits, The sun itself, which makes times, as they pass, Is elder by a year now than it was When thou and I first one another saw: All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay; This no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday, Running it never runs from us away, But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day. Two graves must hide thine and my corse; If one might, death were no divorce. Alas, as well as other Princes, we (Who Prince enough in one another be) Must leave at last in death these eyes and ears, Oft fed with true oaths, and with sweet salt tears; But souls where nothing dwells but love (All other thoughts being inmates) then shall prove This, or a love increased there above, When bodies to their graves, souls from their graves remove. And then we shall be throughly blessed; But we no more than all the rest. Here upon earth were Kings, and none but we Can be such Kings, nor of such subjects be; Who is so safe as we? where none can do Treason to us, except one of us two. True and false fears let us refrain, Let us love nobly, and live, and add again Years and years unto years, till we attain To write threescore: this is the second of our reign.

As you came from the holy land Of Walsingham, Met you not with my true love By the way as you came? How shall I know your true love, That have met many one, I went to the holy land, That have come, that have gone? She is neither white, nor brown, But as the heavens fair; There is none hath a form so divine In the earth, or the air. Such a one did I meet, good sir, Such an angelic face, Who like a queen, like a nymph, did appear By her gait, by her grace. She hath left me here all alone, All alone, as unknown, Who sometimes did me lead with herself, And me loved as her own. Whats the cause that she leaves you alone, And a new way doth take, Who loved you once as her own, And her joy did you make? I have lovd her all my youth; But now old, as you see, Love likes not the falling fruit From the withered tree. Know that Love is a careless child, And forgets promise past; He is blind, he is deaf when he list, And in faith never fast. His desire is a dureless content, And a trustless joy: He is won with a world of despair, And is lost with a toy. Of womenkind such indeed is the love, Or the word love abusd, Under which many childish desires And conceits are excusd. But true love is a durable fire, In the mind ever burning, Never sick, never old, never dead, From itself never turning.

Stella is sick, and in that sick-bed lies Sweetness, that breathes and pants as oft as she; And grace, sick too, such fine conclusions tries That sickness brags itself best graced to be. Beauty is sick, but sick in so fair guise That in that paleness beautys white we see; And joy, which is inseparate from these eyes, Stella now learns (strange case!) to weep in thee. Love moves thy pain, and like a faithful page, As thy looks stir, runs up and down, to make All folks prest at thy will thy pain to assuage; Nature with care sweats for her darlings sake, Knowing worlds pass, ere she enough can find Of such heaven stuff, to clothe so heavenly mind.

Where be the roses gone, which sweetened so our eyes? Where those red cheeks, which oft with fair increase did frame The height of honor in the kindly badge of shame? Who hath the crimson weeds stolen from my morning skies? How doth the color vade of those vermilion dyes, Which Nature's self did make, and self engrained the same! I would know by what right this paleness overcame That hue, whose force my heart still unto thraldom ties? Galen's adoptive sons, who by a beaten way Their judgements hackney on, the fault on sickness lay; But feeling proof makes me say they mistake it far: It is but love, which makes his paper perfect white To write therein more fresh the story of delight, Whiles beauty's reddest ink Venus for him doth stir.

O absent presence, Stella is not here; False flattering hope, that with so fair a face Bare me in hand, that in this orphan place Stella, I say my Stella, should appear. What sayst thou now? Where is that dainty cheer Thou toldst mine eyes should help their famished case? But thou art gone, now that self-felt disgrace Doth make me most to wish thy comfort near. But here I do store of fair ladies meet, Who may with charm of conversation sweet Make in my heavy mould new thoughts to grow: Sure they prevail as much with me, as he That bade his friend, but then new maimed, to be Merry with him, and not think of his woe.

Stella, since thou so right a princess art Of all the powers which life bestows on me, There ere by them aught undertaken be They first resort unto that sovereign part; Sweet, for a while give respite to my heart, Which pants as though it still should leap to thee, And on my thoughts give thy lieutenancy To this great cause, which needs both use and art, And as a queen, who from her presence sends Whom she employs, dismiss from thee my wit, Till it have wrought what thy own will attends. On servants shame oft masters blame doth sit. Oh let not fools in me thy works reprove, And scorning say, See what it is to love.

Alas, have I not pain enough, my friend, Upon whose breast a fiercer gripe doth tire Than did on him who first stale down the fire, While Love on me doth all his quiver spend, But with your rhubarb words you must contend To grieve me worse, in saying that Desire Doth plunge my well-formed soul even in the mire Of sinful thoughts, which do in ruin end? If that be sin which doth the manners frame, Well stayed with truth in word and faith of deed, Ready of wit, and fearing naught but shame; If that be sin which in fixed hearts doth breed A loathing of all loose unchastity, Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.

Not at first sight, nor with a dribbed shot, Love gave the wound which while I breathe will bleed: But known worth did in mine of time proceed, Till by degrees it had full conquest got. I saw, and liked; I liked, but loved not; I loved, but straight did not what love decreed: At length to loves decrees I, forced, agreed, Yet with repining at so partial lot. Now even that footstep of lost liberty Is gone, and now like slave-born Muscovite I call it praise to suffer tyranny; And now employ the remnant of my wit To make myself believe that all is well, While with a feeling skill I paint my hell.

Your words my friend (right healthful caustics) blame My young mind marred, whom Love doth windlass so, That mine own writings like bad servants show My wits, quick in vain thoughts, in virtue lame, That Plato I read for nought, but if he tame Such coltish gyres, that to my birth I owe Nobler desires, least else that friendly foe, Great expectation, wear a train of shame. For since mad March great promise made of me, If now the May of my years much decline, What can be hoped my harvest time will be? Sure you say well, your wisdoms golden mine Dig deep with learnings spade, now tell me this, Hath this world ought so fair as Stella is?

The wisest scholar of the wight most wise By Phoebus doom, with sugared sentence says That Virtue, if it once met with our eyes, Strange flames of love it in our souls would raise; But, for that man with pain this truth descries, While he each thing in senses balance weighs, And so nor will nor can behold those skies Which inward sun to heroic mind displays, Virtue of late, with virtuous care to stir Love of herself, takes Stellas shape, that she To mortal eyes might sweetly shine in her. It is most true, for since I her did see, Virtues great beauty in that face I prove, And find theffect, for I do burn in love.

With how sad steps, O moon, thou climbst the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! What! may it be that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feelst a lovers case: I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue thereungratefulness?

What, have I thus betrayed my liberty? Can those black beams such burning marks engrave In my free side? or am I born a slave, Whose neck becomes such yoke of tyranny? Or want I sense to feel my misery? Or sprite, disdain of such disdain to have? Who for long faith, though daily help I crave, May get no alms but scorn of beggary. Virtue, awake! Beauty but beauty is; I may, I must, I can, I will, I do Leave following that which it is gain to miss. Let her go. Soft, but here she comes. Go to, Unkind, I love you not! O me, that eye Doth make my heart give to my tongue the lie!

Souls joy, bend not those morning stars from me, Where virtue is made strong by beautys might, Where love is chasteness, pain doth learn delight, And humbleness grows one with majesty. Whatever may ensue, O let me be Co-partner of the riches of that sight; Let not mine eyes be hell-drivn from that light; O look, O shine, O let me die and see. For though I oft my self of them bemoan, That through my heart their beamy darts be gone, Whose cureless wounds even now most freshly bleed, Yet since my death wound is already got, Dear killer, spare not they sweet cruel shot; A kind of grace it is to slay with speed.

I on my horse, and Love on me, doth try Our horsemanships, while by strange work I prove A horseman to my horse, a horse to Love, And now mans wrongs in me, poor beast, descry. The reins wherewith my rider doth me tie Are humbled thoughts, which bit of reverence move, Curbed in with fear, but with gilt boss above Of hope, which makes it seem fair to the eye. The wand is will; thou, fancy, saddle art, Girt fast by memory; and while I spur My horse, he spurs with sharp desire to my heart; He sits me fast, however I do stir; And now hath made me to his hand so right That in the manage myself takes delight.

It is most true, that eyes are formed to serve The inward light; and that the heavenly part Ought to be king, from whose rules who do swerve, Rebels to Nature, strive for their own smart. It is most true, what we call Cupids dart, An image is, which for ourselves we carve; And, fools, adore in temple of our heart, Till that good god make Church and churchman starve. True, that true beauty virtue is indeed, Whereof this beauty can be but a shade, Which elements with mortal mixture breed; True, that on earth we are but pilgrims made, And should in soul up to our country move; True; and yet true, that I must Stella love.

A strife is grown between Virtue and Love, While each pretends that Stella must be his: Her eyes, her lips, her all, saith Love, do this, Since they do wear his badge, most firmly prove. But Virtue thus that title doth disprove, That Stella (O dear name) that Stella is That virtuous soul, sure heir of heavnly bliss; Not this fair outside, which our hearts doth move. And therefore, though her beauty and her grace Be Loves indeed, in Stellas self he may By no pretense claim any manner place. Well, Love, since this demur our suit doth stay, Let Virtue have that Stella's self; yet thus, Let Virtue but that body grant to us.

O Grammar rules, O now your virtues show; So children still read you with awful eyes, As my young Dove may in your precepts wise Her grant to me, by her own virtue know. For late with heart most high, with eyes most low, I cravd the thing which ever she denies: She lightning Love, displaying Venus skies, Least once should not be heard, twice said, No, No. Sing then my Muse, now Io Pan sing, Heavns envy not at my high triumphing: But Grammars force with sweet success confirm, For Grammar says (O this dear Stella weigh,) For Grammar says (to Grammar who says nay) That in one speech two Negatives affirm.

Desire, though thou my old companion art, And oft so clings to my pure Love that I One from the other scarcely can descry, While each doth blow the fire of my heart, Now from thy fellowship I needs must part; Venus is taught with Dians wings to fly; I must no more in thy sweet passions lie; Virtues gold now must head my Cupids dart. Service and honor, wonder with delight, Fear to offend, will worthy to appear, Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my sprite: These things are let me by my only dear; But thou, Desire, because thou wouldst have all, Now banished art. But yet alas how shall?

Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame, Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee; Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my history; If thou praise not, all other praise is shame. Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame A nest for my young praise in laurel tree: In truth I sweare, I wish not there should be Graved in mine epitaph a Poets name: Nay if I would, could I just title make, That any laud to me thereof should grow, Without my plumes from others wings I take. For nothing from my wit or will doth flow, Since all my words thy beauty doth endite, And love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.

O come, soft rest of cares! come, Night! Come, naked Virtues only tire, The reaped harvest of the light Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire, Love calls to war: Sighs his alarms, Lips his swords are, The fields his arms. Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand On glorious Days outfacing face; And all thy crowned flames command For torches to our nuptial grace. Love calls to war: Sighs his alarms, Lips his swords are, The field his arms.

There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow: There cherries grow which none may buy Till Cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds filled with snow; Yet them no peer nor prince can buy Till Cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand Those sacred cherries to come nigh, Till Cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

The time is come, I must depart from thee, ah famous city; I never yet to rue my smart, did find that thou hadst pity. Wherefore small cause there is, that I should grieve from thee to go; But many women foolishly, like me, and other moe, Do such a fixed fancy set, on those which least deserve, That long it is ere wit we get away from them to swerve. But time with pity oft will tell to those that will her try, Whether it best be more to mell, or utterly defy. And now hath time me put in mind of thy great cruelness, That never once a help would find, to ease me in distress. Thou never yet wouldst credit give to board me for a year; Nor with apparel me relieve, except thou payed were. No, no, thou never didst me good, nor ever wilt, I know. Yet am I in no angry mood, but will, or ere I go, In perfect love and charity, my testament here write, And leave to thee such treasury, as I in it recite. Now stand aside and give me leave to write my latest will; And see that none you do deceive of that I leave them till.

O happy dames, that may embrace The fruit of your delight, Help to bewail the woeful case And eke the heavy plight Of me, that wonted to rejoice The fortune of my pleasant choice; Good ladies, help to fill my mourning voice. In ship, freight with remembrance Of thoughts and pleasures past, He sails that hath in governance My life while it will last; With scalding sighs, for lack of gale, Furthering his hope, that is his sail, Toward me, the sweet port of his avail. Alas! how oft in dreams I see Those eyes that were my food; Which sometime so delighted me, That yet they do me good; Wherewith I wake with his return, Whose absent flame did make me burn: But when I find the lack, Lord, how I mourn! When other lovers in arms across Rejoice their chief delight. Drowned in tears, to mourn my loss I stand the bitter night In my window, where I may see Before the winds how the clouds flee. Lo! what a mariner love hath made of me! And in green waves when the salt flood Doth rise by rage of wind, A thousand fancies in that mood Assail my restless mind. Alas! now drencheth my sweet foe, That with the spoil of my heart did go, And left me; but, alas! why did he so? And when the seas wax calm again To chase fro me annoy, My doubtful hope doth cause me pain; So dread cuts off my joy. Thus is my wealth mingled with woe, And of each thought a doubt doth grow; Now he comes! Will he come? Alas, no, no!

Unto the boundless Ocean of thy beauty Runs this poor river, charged with streams of zeal: Returning thee the tribute of my duty, Which here my love, my youth, my plaints reveal. Here I unclasp the book of my charged soul, Where I have cast th'accounts of all my care: Here have I summed my sighs, here I enroll How they were spent for thee; look what they are. Look on the dear expenses of my youth, And see how just I reckon with thine eyes: Examine well thy beauty with my truth, And cross my cares ere greater sum arise. Read it sweet maid, though it be done but slightly; Who can show all his love, doth love but lightly.

Go wailing verse, the infants of my love, Minerva-like, brought forth without a Mother: Present the image of the cares I prove, Witness your Fathers grief exceeds all other. Sigh out a story of her cruel deeds, With interrupted accents of despair: A monument that whosoever reads, May justly praise, and blame my loveless Fair. Say her disdain hath dried up my blood, And starved you, in succours still denying: Press to her eyes, importune me some good; Waken her sleeping pity with your crying. Knock at that hard heart, beg till you have moved her; And tell thunkind, how dearly I have loved her.

But love whilst that thou mayst be loved again, Now whilst thy May hath filed thy lap with flowers, Now whilst thy beauty bears without a stain, Now use the summer smiles, ere winter lowers. And whilst thou spreadst unto the rising sun The fairest flower that ever saw the light, Now joy thy time before thy sweet be done, And, Delia, think thy morning must have night, And that thy brightness sets at length to west, When thou wilt close up that which now thou shewst; And think the same becomes they fading best Which then shall most inveil and shadow most. Men do not weigh the stalk for what it was, When once they find her flower, her glory, pass.

But love whilst that thou mayst be loved again, Now whilst thy May hath filled thy lap with flowers, Now whilst thy beauty bears without a stain, Now use the summer smiles, ere winter lowers. And whilst thou spreadst unto the rising sun The fairest flower that ever saw the light, Now joy thy time before thy sweet be done, And, Delia, think thy morning must have night, And that thy brightness sets at length to west, When thou wilt close up that which now thou shewst; And think the same becomes thy fading best Which then shall most inveil and shadow most. Men do not weigh the stalk for what it was, When once they find her flower, her glory, pass.

When men shall find thy flower, thy glory pass, And thou, with careful brow sitting alone, Received hast this message from thy glass, That tells thee truth, and says that all is gone, Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou madest, Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining, I that have loved thee thus before thou fadest, My faith shall wax, when thou art in thy waning. The world shall find this miracle in me, That fire can burn when all the matters spent; Then what my faith hath been thyself shall see, And that thou wast unkind thou mayst repent. Thou mayst repent that thou hast scorned my tears, When Winter snows upon thy golden hairs.

Unhappy pen and ill accepted papers, That intimate in vain my chaste desires, My chaste desires, the ever burning tapers, Enkindled by her eyes celestial fires. Celestial fires and unrespecting powers, That deign not view the glory of your might, In humble lines the work of careful hours, The sacrifice I offer to her sight. But since she scorns her own, this rests for me, Ill moan my self, and hide the wrong I have: And so content me that her frowns should be To my infant style the cradle, and the grave. What though my self no honor get thereby, Each bird sings therself, and so will I.

A face that should content me wondrous well Should not be fair but lovely to behold, With gladsome cheer all grief for to expel; With sober looks so would I that it should Speak without words such words as none can tell; Her tress also should be of crisped gold; With wit; and thus might chance I might be tied, And knit again the knot that should not slide.

In summers heat and mid-time of the day To rest my limbs upon a bed I lay, One window shut, the other open stood, Which gave such light as twinkles in a wood, Like twilight glimpse at setting of the sun Or night being past, and yet not day begun. Such light to shamefaced maidens must be shown, Where they may sport, and seem to be unknown. Then came Corinna in a long loose gown, Her white neck hid with tresses hanging down: Resembling fair Semiramis going to bed Or Lais of a thousand wooers sped. I snatched her gown, being thin, the harm was small, Yet strived she to be covered therewithal. And striving thus as one that would be cast, Betrayed herself, and yielded at the last. Stark naked as she stood before mine eye, Not one wen in her body could I spy. What arms and shoulders did I touch and see, How apt her breasts were to be pressed by me? How smooth a belly under her waist saw I? How large a leg, and what a lusty thigh? To leave the rest, all liked me passing well, I clinged her naked body, down she fell, Judge you the rest: being tired she bad me kiss, Jove send me more such afternoons as this.

So, so breake off this last lamenting kisse, Which sucks two soules, and vapours Both away, Turne thou ghost that way, and let mee turne this, And let our selves benight our happiest day, We askd none leave to love; nor will we owe Any, so cheape a death, as saying, Goe; Goe; and if that word have not quite kild thee, Ease mee with death, by bidding mee goe too. Oh, if it have, let my word worke on mee, And a just office on a murderer doe. Except it be too late, to kill me so, Being double dead, going, and bidding, goe.

Farewell, false love, the oracle of lies, A mortal foe and enemy to rest, An envious boy, from whom all cares arise, A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed, A way of error, a temple full of treason, In all effects contrary unto reason. A poisoned serpent covered all with flowers, Mother of sighs, and murderer of repose, A sea of sorrows whence are drawn such showers As moisture lend to every grief that grows; A school of guile, a net of deep deceit, A gilded hook that holds a poisoned bait. A fortress foiled, which reason did defend, A siren song, a fever of the mind, A maze wherein affection finds no end, A raging cloud that runs before the wind, A substance like the shadow of the sun, A goal of grief for which the wisest run. A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear, A path that leads to peril and mishap, A true retreat of sorrow and despair, An idle boy that sleeps in pleasure's lap, A deep mistrust of that which certain seems, A hope of that which reason doubtful deems. Sith then thy trains my younger years betrayed, And for my faith ingratitude I find; And sith repentance hath my wrongs bewrayed, Whose course was ever contrary to kind: False love, desire, and beauty frail, adieu! Dead is the root whence all these fancies grew.

Mark but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is; It sucked me first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be; Thou knowst that this cannot be said A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead, Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pampered swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than we would do. Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare, Where we almost, nay more than married are. This flea is you and I, and this Our mariage bed, and marriage temple is; Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met, And cloistered in these living walls of jet. Though use make you apt to kill me, Let not to that, self-murder added be, And sacrilege, three sins in killing three. Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence? Wherein could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it sucked from thee? Yet thou triumphst, and say'st that thou Findst not thy self, nor me the weaker now; Tis true; then learn how false, fears be: Just so much honor, when thou yieldst to me, Will waste, as this fleas death took life from thee.

You must not wonder, though you think it strange, To see me hold my louring head so low, And that mine eyes take no delight to range About the gleams which on your face do grow. The mouse which once hath broken out of trap Is seldom ticed with the trustless bait, But lies aloof for fear of more mishap, And feedeth still in doubt of deep deceit. The scorched fly, which once hath scaped the flame, Will hardly come to play again with fire, Whereby I learn that grievous is the game Which follows fancy dazzled by desire: So that I wink or else hold down my head, Because your blazing eyes my bale have bred.

Fortune hath taken thee away, my love, My lifes soul and my souls heaven above; Fortune hath taken thee away, my princess; My only light and my true fancys mistress. Fortune hath taken all away from me, Fortune hath taken all by taking thee. Dead to all joy, I only live to woe, So fortune now becomes my mortal foe. In vain you eyes, you eyes do waste your tears, In vain you sighs do smoke forth my despairs, In vain you search the earth and heaven above, In vain you search, for fortune rules in love. Thus now I leave my love in fortunes hands, Thus now I leave my love in fortunes bands, And only love the sorrows due to me; Sorrow henceforth it shall my princess be. I joy in this, that fortune conquers kings; Fortune that rules on earth and earthly things Hath taken my love in spite of Cupids might; So blind a dame did never Cupid right. With wisdoms eyes had but blind Cupid seen, Then had my love my love for ever been; But love farewell; though fortune conquer thee, No fortune base shall ever alter me.

Only joy, now here you are, Fit to hear and ease my care; Let my whispering voice obtain, Sweet reward for sharpest pain; Take me to thee, and thee to me. No, no, no, no, my dear, let be. Night hath closed all in her cloak, Twinkling stars love-thoughts provoke: Danger hence good care doth keep, Jealousy itself doth sleep; Take me to thee, and thee to me. No, no, no, no, my dear, let be. Better place no wit can find, Cupids yoke to loose or bind: These sweet flowers on fine bed too, Us in their best language woo; Take me to thee, and thee to me. No, no, no, no, my dear, let be. This small light the moon bestows, Serves thy beams but to disclose, So to raise my hap more high; Fear not else, none can us spy: Take me to thee, and thee to me. No, no, no, no, my dear, let be. That you heard was but a mouse, Dumb sleep holdeth all the house; Yet asleep, methinks they say, Young folks, take time while you may: Take me to thee, and thee to me. No, no, no, no, my dear, let be. Niggard Time threats, if we miss This large offer of our bliss, Long stay ere he grant the same; Sweet then, while each thing doth frame, Take me to thee, and thee to me. No, no, no, no, my dear, let be. Your fair mother is abed, Candles out, and curtains spread: She thinks you do letters write. Write, but first let me indite: Take me to thee, and thee to me. No, no, no, no, my dear, let be. Sweet, alas, why strive you thus? Concord better fitteth us: Leave to Mars the force of hands, Your power in your beauty stands; Take me to thee, and thee to me. No, no, no, no, my dear, let be. Woe to me, and do you swear Me to hate, but I forbear, Cursed by my destines all That brought me so high to fall: Soon with my death I will please thee. No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.

Green groweth the holly, So doth the ivy. Though winter blasts blow never so high, Green groweth the holly. As the holly groweth green And never changeth hue, So I am, ever hath been, Unto my lady true. As the holly groweth green With ivy all alone When flowers cannot be seen And greenwood leaves be gone, Now unto my lady Promise to her I make, From all other only To her I me betake. Adieu, mine own lady, Adieu, my special Who hath my heart truly Be sure, and ever shall.

It lies not in our power to love or hate, For will in us is overruled by fate. When two are stripped, long ere the course begin, We wish that one should lose, the other win; And one especially do we affect Of two gold ingots, like in each respect: The reason no man knows; let it suffice What we behold is censured by our eyes. Where both deliberate, the love is slight: Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?

I care not for these ladies, That must be wooed and prayed: Give me kind Amaryllis, The wanton country maid. Nature art disdaineth, Her beauty is her own. Her when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go! But when we come where comfort is, She never will say no. If I love Amaryllis, She gives me fruit and flowers: But if we love these ladies, We must give golden showers. Give them gold, that sell love, Give me the nut-brown lass, Who, when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go! But when we come where comfort is, She never will say no. These ladies must have pillows, And beds by strangers wrought; Give me a bower of willows, Of moss and leaves unbought, And fresh Amaryllis, With milk and honey fed; Who, when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go! But when we come where comfort is, She never will say no.

If love now reigned as it hath been And were rewarded as it hath sin, Noble men then would sure ensearch All ways whereby they might it reach, But envy reigneth with such disdain And causeth lovers outwardly to refrain, Which puts them to more and more Inwardly most grievous and sore. The fault in whom I cannot set, But let them tell which love doth get To lovers I put now sure this case: Which of their loves doth get them grace? And unto them which doth it know Better than do I, I think it so.

Adieu, farewell, earths bliss; This world uncertain is; Fond are lifes lustful joys; Death proves them all but toys; None from his darts can fly; I am sick, I must die. Lord, have mercy on us! Rich men, trust not in wealth, Gold cannot buy you health; Physic himself must fade. All things to end are made, The plague full swift goes by; I am sick, I must die. Lord, have mercy on us! Beauty is but a flower Which wrinkles will devour; Brightness falls from the air; Queens have died young and fair; Dust hath closed Helens eye. I am sick, I must die. Lord, have mercy on us! Strength stoops unto the grave, Worms feed on Hectors brave; Swords may not fight with fate, Earth still holds ope her gate. Come, come! the bells do cry. I am sick, I must die. Lord, have mercy on us. Wit with his wantonness Tasteth deaths bitterness; Hells executioner Hath no ears for to hear What vain art can reply. I am sick, I must die. Lord, have mercy on us. Haste, therefore, each degree, To welcome destiny; Heaven is our heritage, Earth but a players stage; Mount we unto the sky. I am sick, I must die. Lord, have mercy on us.

Tonight, grave sir, both my poor house, and I Do equally desire your company; Not that we think us worthy such a guest, But that your worth will dignify our feast With those that come, whose grace may make that seem Something, which else could hope for no esteem. It is the fair acceptance, sir, creates The entertainment perfect, not the cates. Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate, An olive, capers, or some better salad Ushering the mutton; with a short-legged hen, If we can get her, full of eggs, and then Lemons, and wine for sauce; to these a cony Is not to be despaired of, for our money; And, though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks, The sky not falling, think we may have larks. Ill tell you of more, and lie, so you will come: Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some May yet be there, and godwit, if we can; Knat, rail, and ruff too. Howsoeer, my man Shall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus, Livy, or of some better book to us, Of which well speak our minds, amidst our meat; And Ill profess no verses to repeat. To this, if ought appear which I not know of, That will the pastry, not my paper, show of. Digestive cheese and fruit there sure will be; But that which most doth take my Muse and me, Is a pure cup of rich Canary wine, Which is the Mermaids now, but shall be mine; Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted, Their lives, as so their lines, till now had lasted. Tobacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring, Are all but Luther's beer to this I sing. Of this we will sup free, but moderately, And we will have no Pooley, or Parrot by, Nor shall our cups make any guilty men; But, at our parting we will be as when We innocently met. No simple word That shall be uttered at our mirthful board, Shall make us sad next morning or affright The liberty that well enjoy tonight.

Kind are her answers, But her performance keeps no day; Breaks time, as dancers From their own music when they stray: All her free favors And smooth words wing my hopes in vain. O did ever voice so sweet but only feign? Can true love yield such delay, Converting joy to pain? Lost is our freedom, When we submit to women so: Why do we need em, When in their best they work our woe? There is no wisdom Can alter ends, by Fate prefixed. O why is the good of man with evil mixed? Never were days yet called two, But one night went betwixt.

Love is 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 enjoyed, it sighting cries, Heigh ho! Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting; And Jove hath made it of a kind Not well, not full, nor fasting. Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries, Heigh ho!

Pack, clouds away! and welcome day! With night we banish sorrow; Sweet air, blow soft, mount larks aloft To give my love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark Ill borrow; Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, To give my love good-morrow; To give my love good-morrow; Notes from them both Ill borrow. Wake from thy nest, Robin Redbreast, Sing birds in every furrow; And from each hill, let music shrill Give my fair love good-morrow! Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow! You pretty elves, amongst yourselves, Sing my fair love good-morrow; To give my love good-morrow, Sing birds in every furrow.

I scarce believe my love to be so pure As I had thought it was, Because it doth endure Vicissitude, and season, as the grass; Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore My love was infinite, if spring make it more. But if medicine, love, which cures all sorrow With more, not only be no quintessence, But mixed of all stuffs paining soul or sense, And of the sun his working vigor borrow, Loves not so pure, and abstract, as they use To say, which have no mistress but their muse, But as all else, being elemented too, Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do. And yet no greater, but more eminent, Love by the spring is grown; As, in the firmament, Stars by the sun are not enlarged, but shown, Gentle love deeds, as blossoms on a bough, From loves awakened root do bud out now. If, as water stirred more circles be Produced by one, love such additions take, Those, like so many spheres, but one heaven make, For they are all concentric unto thee; And though each spring do add to love new heat, As princes do in time of action get New taxes, and remit them not in peace, No winter shall abate the springs increase.

Ay, beshrew you! by my fay, These wanton clerks be nice alway! Avaunt, avaunt, my popinjay! What, will ye do nothing but play? Tilly, vally, straw, let be I say! Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale! With Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale. By God, ye be a pretty pode, And I love you an whole cart-load. Straw, James Foder, ye play the fode, I am no hackney for your rod: Go watch a bull, your back is broad! Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale! With Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale. Ywis ye deal uncourteously; What, would ye frumple me? now fy! What, and ye shall be my pigesnye? By Christ, ye shall not, no hardely: I will not be japed bodily! Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale! With Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale. Walk forth your way, ye cost me nought; Now have I found that I have sought: The best cheap flesh that I ever bought. Yet, for his love that all hath wrought, Wed me, or else I die for thought. Gup, Christian Clout, your breath is stale! Go, Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale! Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale! With Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale.

Man of himselfs a little world, but joind With woman, woman for that end designd, (Hear cruel fair one whilst I this rehearse!) He makes up then a complete universe. Man, like this sublunary world, is born The sport of two cross planets, love, and scorn: Woman the other world resembles well, In whose looks Heavn is, in whose breast Hell.

The lowest trees have tops, the ant her gall, The fly her spleen, the little sparks their heat; The slender hairs cast shadows, though but small, And bees have stings, although they be not great; Seas have their source, and so have shallow springs; And love is love, in beggars as in kings. Where rivers smoothest run, deep are the fords; The dial stirs, yet none perceives it move; The firmest faith is in the fewest words; The turtles cannot sing, and yet they love: True hearts have eyes and ears, no tongues to speak; They hear and see, and sigh, and then they break.

Come, O come, my lifes delight, Let me not in languor pine! Love loves no delay; thy sight, The more enjoyed, the more divine: O come, and take from me The pain of being deprived of thee! Thou all sweetness dost enclose, Like a little world of bliss. Beauty guards thy looks: the rose In them pure and eternal is. Come, then, and make thy flight As swift to me, as heavenly light.

My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love, And though the sager sort our deeds reprove, Let us not weigh them. Heavens great lamps do dive Into their west, and straight again revive, But soon as once set is our little light, Then must we sleep one ever-during night. If all would lead their lives in love like me, Then bloody swords and armor should not be; No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move, Unless alarm came from the camp of love. But fools do live, and waste their little light, And seek with pain their ever-during night. When timely death my life and fortune ends, Let not my hearse be vexed with mourning friends, But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb; And Lesbia, close up thou my little light, And crown with love my ever-during night.

Never love unless you can Bear with all the faults of man: Men sometimes will jealous be Though but little cause they see; And hang the head, as discontent, And speak what straight they will repent. Men that but one saint adore Make a show of love to more. Beauty must be scorned in none, Though but truly served in one: For what is courtship but disguise? True hearts may have dissembling eyes. Men, when their affairs require, Must awhile themselves retire; Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk, And not ever sit and talk. If these and such-like you can bear, Then like, and love, and never fear!

The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto 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 expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth For Tereus force on her chaste will prevailing. O Philomela fair, O take some gladness, That 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 anguish But Tereus love, on her by strong hand wroken, Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish; Full womanlike complains her will was broken. But 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 gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

Now winter nights enlarge The number of their hours; And clouds their storms discharge Upon the airy towers. Let now the chimneys blaze And cups oerflow with wine, Let well-turned words amaze With harmony divine. Now yellow waxen lights Shall wait on honey love While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights Sleeps leaden spells remove. This time doth well dispense With lovers long discourse; Much speech hath some defense, Though beauty no remorse. All do not all things well; Some measures comely tread, Some knotted riddles tell, Some poems smoothly read. The summer hath his joys, And winter his delights; Though love and all his pleasures are but toys, They shorten tedious nights.

If all the world and love were young, And truth in every Shepherds tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move, To live with thee, and be thy love. Time drives the flocks from field to fold, When Rivers rage and Rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb, The rest complains of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields, To wayward winter reckoning yields, A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancys spring, but sorrows fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten: In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and Ivy buds, The Coral clasps and amber studs, All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy love. But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee, and be thy love.

I grieve and dare not show my discontent, I love and yet am forced to seem to hate, I do, yet dare not say I ever meant, I seem stark mute but inwardly do prate. I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned, Since from myself another self I turned. My care is like my shadow in the sun, Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it, Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done. His too familiar care doth make me rue it. No means I find to rid him from my breast, Till by the end of things it be supprest. Some gentler passion slide into my mind, For I am soft and made of melting snow; Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind. Let me or float or sink, be high or low. Or let me live with some more sweet content, Or die and so forget what love ere meant.

Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under, Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss; Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder, Swelling on either side to want his bliss; Between whose hills her head entombed is; Where like a virtuous monument she lies, To be admired of lewd unhallowed eyes. Without the bed her other fair hand was, On the green coverlet, whose perfect white Showed like an April daisy on the grass, With pearly sweat resembling dew of night. Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheathed their light, And canopied in darkness sweetly lay Till they might open to adorn the day. Her hair like golden threads played with her breath O modest wantons, wanton modesty! Showing lifes triumph in the map of death, And deaths dim look in lifes mortality. Each in her sleep themselves so beautify As if between them twain there were no strife, But that life lived in death, and death in life. Her breasts like ivory globes circled with blue, A pair of maiden worlds unconquered, Save of their lord no bearing yoke they knew, And him by oath they truly honoured. These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred, Who like a foul usurper went about From this fair throne to heave the owner out. What could he see but mightily he noted? What did he note but strongly he desired? What he beheld, on that he firmly doted, And in his will his willful eye he tired. With more than admiration he admired Her azure veins, her alabaster skin, Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin. As the grim lion fawneth oer his prey Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied, So oer this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay, His rage of lust by gazing qualified; Slacked, not suppressed; for, standing by her side, His eye, which late this mutiny restrains, Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins. And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting, Obdurate vassals fell exploits effecting. In bloody death and ravishment delighting, Nor childrens tears nor mothers groans respecting, Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting. Anon his beating heart, alarum striking, Gives the hot charge and bids them do their liking. His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye, His eye commends the leading to his hand; His hand, as proud of such a dignity, Smoking with pride, marched on to make his stand On her bare breast, the heart of all her land, Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale, Left their round turrets destitute and pale. They, mustering to the quiet cabinet Where their dear governess and lady lies, Do tell her she is dreadfully beset And fright her with confusion of their cries. She, much amazed, breaks ope her locked-up eyes, Who, peeping forth this tumult to behold, Are by his flaming torch dimmed and controlled. Imagine her as one in dead of night From forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking, That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly sprite, Whose grim aspect sets every joint a-shaking. What terror tis! but she, in worser taking, From sleep disturbed, heedfully doth view The sight which makes supposed terror true. Wrapped and confounded in a thousand fears, Like to a new-killed bird she trembling lies. She dares not look; yet, winking, there appears Quick-shifting antics ugly in her eyes. Such shadows are the weak brains forgeries, Who, angry that the eyes fly from their lights, In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights. His hand, that yet remains upon her breast (Rude ram, to batter such an ivory wall!) May feel her heart (poor citizen) distressed, Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall, Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal. This moves in him more rage and lesser pity, To make the breach and enter this sweet city.

Love in my bosom like a bee Doth 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 he With pretty flight, And makes his pillow of my knee The 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 day Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play, For your offense. Ill shut mine eyes to keep you in, Ill make you fast it for your sin, Ill count your power not worth a pin. Alas! what hereby shall I win If he gainsay me? What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod? He will repay me with annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou safely on my knee, And 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!