Chapter 4

Blame not my heart for flying up so high, Sith thou art cause that it this flight begun; For earthly vapours drawn up by the sun, Comets become, and night suns in the sky. Mine humble heart, so with thy heavenly eye Drawn up aloft, all low desires doth shun; Raise thou me up, as thou my heart hast done, So during night in heaven remain may I. I say again, blame not my high desire, Sith of us both the cause thereof depends. In thee doth shine, in me doth burn a fire, Fire draws up other, and itself ascends. Thine eye a fire, and so draws up my love; My love a fire, and so ascends above.

III

_Of the birth of his love_

Fly low, dear love, thy sun dost thou not see? Take heed, do not so near his rays aspire; Lest, for thy pride, inflamed with wreakful ire, It burn thy wings, as it hath burnèd me. Thou haply sayst thy wings immortal be, And so cannot consumèd be with fire; And one is hope, the other is desire, And that the heavens bestowed them both on thee. A muse's words made thee with hope to fly, An angel's face desire hath begot, Thyself engendered by a goddess' eye; Yet for all this, immortal thou art not. Of heavenly eye though thou begotten art, Yet art thou born but of a mortal heart.

IV

_Of his mistress, upon occasion of a friend of his which dissuaded him from loving_

A friend of mine, pitying my hopeless love, Hoping by killing hope my love to stay, "Let not," quoth he, "thy hope, thy heart betray; Impossible it is her heart to move." But sith resolvèd love cannot remove As long as thy divine perfections stay, Thy godhead then he sought to take away. Dear, seek revenge and him a liar prove; Gods only do impossibilities. "Impossible," saith he, "thy grace to gain." Show then the power of divinities By granting me thy favour to obtain. So shall thy foe give to himself the lie; A goddess thou shall prove, and happy I!

V

_Of the conspiracy of his lady's eyes and his own to engender love_

Thine eye the glass where I behold my heart, Mine eye the window through the which thine eye May see my heart, and there thyself espy In bloody colours how thou painted art. Thine eye the pile is of a murdering dart; Mine eye the sight thou tak'st thy level by To hit my heart, and never shoot'st awry. Mine eye thus helps thine eye to work my smart. Thine eye a fire is both in heat and light; Mine eye of tears a river doth become. O that the water of mine eye had might To quench the flames that from thine eye doth come, Or that the fires kindled by thine eye, The flowing streams of mine eyes could make dry.

VI

_Love's seven deadly sins_

Mine eye with all the deadly sins is fraught. First _proud_, sith it presumed to look so high. A watchman being made, stood gazing by, And _idle_, took no heed till I was caught. And _envious_, bears envy that by thought Should in his absence be to her so nigh. To kill my heart, mine eye let in her eye; And so consent gave to a _murder_ wrought. And _covetous_, it never would remove From her fair hair, gold so doth please his sight. _Unchaste_, a baud between my heart and love. A _glutton_ eye, with tears drunk every night. These sins procurèd have a goddess' ire, Wherefore my heart is damned in love's sweet fire.

VII

_Of the slander envy gives him for so highly praising his mistress_

Falsely doth envy of your praises blame My tongue, my pen, my heart of flattery, Because I said there was no sun but thee. It called my tongue the partial trump of fame, And saith my pen hath flatterèd thy name, Because my pen did to my tongue agree; And that my heart must needs a flatterer be, Which taught both tongue and pen to say the same. No, no, I flatter not when thee I call The sun, sith that the sun was never such; But when the sun thee I compared withal, Doubtless the sun I flatterèd too much. Witness mine eyes, I say the truth in this, They have seen thee and know that so it is.

VIII

_Of the end and death of his love_

Much sorrow in itself my love doth move, More my despair to love a hopeless bliss, My folly most to love whom sure to miss O help me, but this last grief to remove; All pains, if you command, it joy shall prove, And wisdom to seek joy. Then say but this, "Because my pleasure in thy torment is, I do command thee without hope to love!" So when this thought my sorrow shall augment That my own folly did procure my pain, Then shall I say to give myself content, "Obedience only made me love in vain. It was your will, and not my want of wit; I have the pain, bear you the blame of it!"

IX

_Upon occasion of her walking in a garden_

My lady's presence makes the roses red, Because to see her lips they blush with shame. The lily's leaves for envy pale became, And her white hands in them this envy bred. The marigold the leaves abroad doth spread, Because the sun's and her power is the same. The violet of purple colour came, Dyed in the blood she made my heart to shed. In brief, all flowers from her their virtue take; From her sweet breath their sweet smells do proceed; The living heat which her eyebeams doth make Warmeth the ground and quickeneth the seed. The rain wherewith she watereth the flowers, Falls from mine eyes which she dissolves in showers.

X

_To the Lady Rich_

Heralds at arms do three perfections quote, To wit, most fair, most rich, most glittering; So when those three concur within one thing, Needs must that thing of honour be a note. Lately I did behold a rich fair coat, Which wishèd fortune to mine eyes did bring. A lordly coat, yet worthy of a king, In which one might all these perfections note. A field of lilies, roses proper bare; Two stars in chief; the crest was waves of gold. How glittering 'twas, might by the stars appear; The lilies made it fair for to behold. And rich it was as by the gold appeareth; But happy he that in his arms it weareth!

THE SECOND DECADE

I

_Of the end and death of his love_

If true love might true love's reward obtain, Dumb wonder only might speak of my joy; But too much worth hath made thee too much coy, And told me long ago I sighed in vain. Not then vain hope of undeservèd gain Hath made me paint in verses mine annoy, But for thy pleasure, that thou might'st enjoy Thy beauty's praise, in glasses of my pain. See then, thyself, though me thou wilt not hear, By looking on my verse. For pain in verse, Love doth in pain, beauty in love appear. So if thou would'st my verses' meaning see, Expound them thus, when I my love rehearse: "None loves like he!" that is, "None fair like me!"

II

_How he encouraged himself to proceed in love, and to hope for favour in the end at love's hands_

It may be, love my death doth not pretend, Although he shoots at me, but thinks it fit Thus to bewitch thee for thy benefit, Causing thy will to my wish to condescend. For witches which some murder do intend, Do make a picture and do shoot at it; And in that part where they the picture hit, The party's self doth languish to his end. So love, too weak by force thy heart to taint, Within my heart thy heavenly shape doth paint; Suffering therein his arrows to abide, Only to th'end he might by witches' art, Within my heart pierce through thy picture's side, And through thy picture's side might wound my heart.

III

_Of the thoughts he nourished by night when she was retired to bed_

The sun, his journey ending in the west, Taketh his lodging up in Thetis' bed; Though from our eyes his beams be banishèd, Yet with his light th' antipodes be blest. Now when the sun-time brings my sun to rest, Which me too oft of rest hath hinderèd, And whiter skin with white sheet coverèd, And softer cheek doth on soft pillow rest, Then I, O sun of suns! and light of lights! Wish me with those antipodes to be, Which see and feel thy beams and heat by nights. Well, though the night both cold and darksome is, Yet half the day's delight the night grants me, I feel my sun's heat, though his light I miss.

IV

_Of his lady's praise_

Lady, in beauty and in favour rare, Of favour, not of due, I favour crave. Nature to thee beauty and favour gave; Fair then thou art, and favour thou may'st spare. Nor when on me bestowed your favours are, Less favour in your face you shall not have; If favour then a wounded soul may save, Of murder's guilt, dear Lady, then beware. My loss of life a million fold were less Than the least loss should unto you befall; Yet grant this gift; which gift when I possess, Both I have life and you no loss at all. For by your favour only I do live, And favour you may well both keep and give.

V

_Of the end and death of his love_

My reason absent did mine eyes require To watch and ward and such foes to descry As they should ne'er my heart approaching spy; But traitor eyes my heart's death did conspire, Corrupted with hope's gifts; let in desire To burn my heart; and sought no remedy, Though store of water were in either eye, Which well employed, might well have quenched the fire. Reason returnèd; love and fortune made Judges, to judge mine eyes to punishment. Fortune, sith they by sight my heart betrayed From wishèd sight, adjudged them banishment; Love, sith by fire murdered my heart was found, Adjudgèd them in tears for to be drowned.

VI

_Of several complaints of misfortune in love only_

Wonder it is and pity is't that she In whom all beauty's treasure we may find, That may unrich the body and the mind, Towards the poor should use no charity. My love has gone a begging unto thee. And if that beauty had not been more kind That pity, long ere this he had been pined; But beauty is content his food to be. O pity have when such poor orphans beg! Love, naked boy, hath nothing on his back; And though he wanteth neither arm nor leg, Yet maimed he is sith he his sight doth lack. And yet though blind he beauty can behold, And yet though naked he feels more heat than cold.

VII

_Of several complaints of misfortune in love only_

Pity refusing my poor love to feed, A beggar starved for want of help he lies; And at your mouth, the door of beauty, cries, That thence some alms of sweet grants might proceed. But as he waiteth for some almès deed, A cherry tree before the door he spies. "O dear," quoth he, "two cherries may suffice. Two only may save life in this my need." But beggars, can they nought but cherries eat? Pardon my love, he is a goddess' son, And never feedeth but on dainty meat, Else need he not to pine, as he hath done; For only the sweet fruit of this sweet tree Can give food to my love and life to me.

VIII

_Of his lady's veil wherewith she covered her_

The fowler hides as closely as he may The net, where caught the silly bird should be, Lest he the threatening poison should but see, And so for fear be forced to fly away. My lady so, the while she doth assay In curlèd knots fast to entangle me, Put on her veil, to th' end I should not flee The golden net wherein I am a prey. Alas, most sweet! what need is of a net To catch a bird that is already ta'en? Sith with your hand alone you may it get, For it desires to fly into the same. What needs such art my thoughts then to entrap, When of themselves they fly into your lap?

IX

_To his lady's hand upon occasion of her glove which in her absence he kissed_

Sweet hand, the sweet but cruel bow thou art, From whence at me five ivory arrows fly; So with five wounds at once I wounded lie, Bearing my breast the print of every dart. Saint Francis had the like, yet felt no smart, Where I in living torments never die. His wounds were in his hands and feet; where I All these five helpless wounds feel in my heart. Now, as Saint Francis, if a saint am I, The bow that shot these shafts a relic is; I mean the hand, which is the reason why So many for devotion thee would kiss: And some thy glove kiss as a thing divine, This arrows' quiver, and this relic's shrine.

X

_Of his lady's going over early to bed, so depriving him too soon of her sight_

Fair sun, if you would have me praise your light, When night approacheth wherefore do you fly? Time is so short, beauties so many be, As I have need to see them day and night, That by continual view my verses might Tell all the beams of your divinity; Which praise to you and joy should be to me, You living by my verse, I by your sight; I by your sight, and not you by my verse, Need mortal skill immortal praise rehearse? No, no, though eyes were blind, and verse were dumb, Your beauty should be seen and your fame known; For by the wind which from my sighs do come, Your praises round about the world are blown.

THE THIRD DECADE

I

_Complaint of his lady's sickness_

Uncivil sickness, hast thou no regard, But dost presume my dearest to molest, And without leave dar'st enter in that breast Whereto sweet love approach yet never dared? Spare thou her health, which my life hath not spared; Too bitter such revenge of my unrest! Although with wrongs my thought she hath opprest, My wrongs seek not revenge, they crave reward Cease, sickness, cease in her then to remain; And come and welcome, harbour thou in me Whom love long since hath taught to suffer in! So she which hath so oft my pain increased, O God, that I might so revengèd be, By my poor pain might have her pain released!

[The Sonnets numbered II to VIII in this Decade are by Sidney, and were printed among the _Certaine Sonets_ in the 1598 edition of the _Arcadia_.]

IX

Woe to mine eyes, the organs of mine ill; Hate to my heart, for not concealing joy; A double curse upon my tongue be still, Whose babbling lost what else I might enjoy! When first mine eyes did with thy beauty joy, They to my heart thy wondrous virtues told; Who, fearing lest thy beams should him destroy, Whate'er he knew, did to my tongue unfold. My tell-tale tongue, in talking over bold, What they in private council did declare, To thee, in plain and public terms unrolled; And so by that made thee more coyer far. What in thy praise he spoke, that didst thou trust; And yet my sorrows thou dost hold unjust.

X

Of an Athenian young man have I read, Who on blind fortune's picture doated so, That when he could not buy it to his bed, On it he gazing died for very woe. My fortune's picture art thou, flinty dame, That settest golden apples to my sight; But wilt by no means let me taste the same. To drown in sight of land is double spite. Of fortune as thou learn'dst to be unkind, So learn to be unconstant to disdain. The wittiest women are to sport inclined. Honour is pride, and pride is nought but pain. Let others boast of choosing for the best; 'Tis substances not names must make us blest.

THE FOURTH DECADE

I

_Of the end and death of his love_

Needs must I leave and yet needs must I love; In vain my wit doth tell in verse my woe; Despair in me, disdain in thee, doth show How by my wit I do my folly prove. All this my heart from love can never move. Love is not in my heart. No, Lady, no, My heart is love itself. Till I forego My heart I never can my love remove. How can I then leave love? I do intend Not to crave grace, but yet to wish it still; Not to praise thee, but beauty to commend; And so, by beauty's praise, praise thee I will; For as my heart is love, love not in me, So beauty thou, beauty is not in thee.

II

_Of the prowess of his lady_

Sweet sovereign, since so many minds remain Obedient subjects at thy beauty's call, So many hearts bound in thy hairs as thrall, So many eyes die with one look's disdain, Go, seek the honour that doth thee pertain, That the Fifth Monarchy may thee befall! Thou hast such means to conquer men withal, As all the world must yield or else be slain. To fight, thou need'st no weapons but thine eyes, Thine hair hath gold enough to pay thy men, And for their food thy beauty will suffice; For men and armour, Lady, care have none; For one will sooner yield unto thee then When he shall meet thee naked all alone.

III

_Of the discouragement he had to proceed in love, through the multitude of his lady's perfections and his own lowness_

When your perfections to my thoughts appear, They say among themselves, "O happy we, Whichever shall so rare an object see!" But happy heart, if thoughts less happy were! For their delights have cost my heart full dear, In whom of love a thousand causes be, And each cause breeds a thousand loves in me, And each love more than thousand hearts can bear. How can my heart so many loves then hold, Which yet by heaps increase from day to day? But like a ship that's o'ercharged with gold, Must either sink or hurl the gold away. But hurl not love; thou canst not, feeble heart; In thine own blood, thou therefore drownèd art!

IV

Fools be they that inveigh 'gainst Mahomet, Who's but a moral of love's monarchy. But a dull adamant, as straw by jet, He in an iron chest was drawn on high. In midst of Mecca's temple roof, some say, He now hangs without touch or stay at all. That Mahomet is she to whom I pray; May ne'er man pray so ineffectual! Mine eyes, love's strange exhaling adamants, Un'wares, to my heart's temple's height have wrought The iron idol that compassion wants, Who my oft tears and travails sets at nought. Iron hath been transformed to gold by art; Her face, limbs, flesh and all, gold; save her heart.

V

Ready to seek out death in my disgrace, My mistress 'gan to smooth her gathered brows, Whereby I am reprievèd for a space. O hope and fear! who half your torments knows? It is some mercy in a black-mouthed judge To haste his prisoner's end, if he must die. Dear, if all other favour you shall grudge, Do speedy execution with your eye; With one sole look you leave in me no soul! Count it a loss to lose a faithful slave. Would God, that I might hear my last bell toll, So in your bosom I might dig a grave! Doubtful delay is worse than any fever, Or help me soon, or cast me off for ever!

VI

_Of the end and death of his love_

Each day, new proofs of new despair I find, That is, new deaths. No marvel then, though I Make exile my last help; to th'end mine eye Should not behold the death to me assigned. Not that from death absence might save my mind, But that it might take death more patiently; Like him, the which by judge condemned to die, To suffer with more ease, his eyes doth blind. Your lips in scarlet clad, my judges be, Pronouncing sentence of eternal "No!" Despair, the hangman that tormenteth me; The death I suffer is the life I have. For only life doth make me die in woe, And only death I for my pardon crave.

VII

The richest relic Rome did ever view Was' Cæsar's tomb; on which, with cunning hand, Jove's triple honours, the three fair Graces, stand, Telling his virtues in their virtues true. This Rome admired; but dearest dear, in you Dwelleth the wonder of the happiest land, And all the world to Neptune's furthest strand, For what Rome shaped hath living life in you. Thy naked beauty, bounteously displayed, Enricheth monarchies of hearts with love; Thine eyes to hear complaints are open laid; Thine eyes' kind looks requite all pains I prove; That of my death I dare not thee accuse; But pride in me that baser chance refuse.

VIII

Why thus unjustly, say, my cruel fate, Dost thou adjudge my luckless eyes and heart, The one to live exiled from that sweet smart, Where th' other pines, imprisoned without date? My luckless eyes must never more debate Of those bright beams that eased my love apart; And yet my heart, bound to them with love's dart, Must there dwell ever to bemoan my state. O had mine eyes been suffered there to rest, Often they had my heart's unquiet eased; Or had my heart with banishment been blest, Mine eye with beauty never had been pleased! But since these cross effects hath fortune wrought, Dwell, heart, with her; eyes, view her in my thought!

[The Sonnet numbered IX is by Sidney, and is found in the _Certaine Sonets_ printed in the 1598 edition of the _Arcadia_.]

X

Hope, like the hyaena, coming to be old, Alters his shape, is turned into despair. Pity my hoary hopes, Maid of clear mould! Think not that frowns can ever make thee fair. What harm is it to kiss, to laugh, to play? Beauty's no blossom, if it be not used. Sweet dalliance keeps the wrinkles long away; Repentance follows them that have refused. To bring you to the knowledge of your good, I seek, I sue. O try and then believe! Each image can be chaste that's carved of wood. You show you live, when men you do relieve. Iron with wearing shines; rust wasteth treasure. On earth but love there is no other pleasure.

THE FIFTH DECADE

I

Ay me, poor wretch, my prayer is turned to sin! I say, "I love!" My mistress says "'Tis lust!" Thus most we lose where most we seek to win. Wit will make wicked what is ne'er so just. And yet I can supplant her false surmise. Lust is a fire that for an hour or twain Giveth a scorching blaze and then he dies; Love a continual furnace doth maintain. A furnace! Well, this a furnace may be called; For it burns inward, yields a smothering flame, Sighs which, like boiled lead's smoking vapour, scald. I sigh apace at echo of sighs' name. Long have I served; no short blaze is my love. Hid joys there are that maids scorn till they prove.

II

I do not now complain of my disgrace, O cruel fair one! fair with cruel crost; Nor of the hour, season, time, nor place; Nor of my foil, for any freedom lost; Nor of my courage, by misfortune daunted; Nor of my wit, by overweening struck; Nor of my sense, by any sound enchanted; Nor of the force of fiery-pointed hook; Nor of the steel that sticks within my wound; Nor of my thoughts, by worser thoughts defaced; Nor of the life I labour to confound. But I complain, that being thus disgraced, Fired, feared, frantic, fettered, shot through, slain, My death is such as I may not complain.

III