Chapter 6

Delight in your bright eyes my death did breed, As light and glittering weapons babes allure To play with fire and sword, and so procure Then to be burnt and hurt ere they take heed, Thy beauty so hath made me burn and bleed; Yet shall my ashes and my blood assure Thy beauty's fame forever to endure; For thy fame's life from my death doth proceed; Because my heart to ashes burnèd giveth Life to thy fame, thou right a phoenix art, And like a pelican thy beauty liveth By sucking blood out of my breast and heart. Lo why with wonder we may thee compare Unto the pelican and phoenix rare!

II

_An exhortation to the reader to come and see his mistress's beauty_

Eyes curious to behold what nature can create, Come see, come see, and write what wonder you do see, Causing by true report our next posterity Curse fortune for that they were born too late! Come then and come ye all, come soon lest that The time should be too short and men too few should be; For all be few to write her least part's history, Though they should ever write and never write but that. Millions look on her eyes, millions think on her wit, Millions speak of her, millions write of her hand. The whole eye on the lip I do not understand; Millions too few to praise but some one part of it, As either of her eye or lip or hand to write, The light or black, the taste or red, the soft or white.

III

_Of the excellency of his lady's voice_

Lady of ladies, the delight alone For which to heaven earth doth no envy bear; Seeing and hearing thee, we see and hear Such voice, such light, as never sung nor shone. The want of heaven I grant yet we may moan, Not for the pleasure of the angels there, As though in face or voice they like thee were, But that they many be, and thou but one. The basest notes which from thy voice proceed, The treble of the angels do exceed, So that I fear their choir to beautify, Lest thou to some in heaven shall sing and shine. Lo, when I hear thee sing, the reason why Sighs of my breast keep time with notes of thine!

IV

_Of her excellency both in singing and instruments_

Not that thy hand is soft, is sweet, is white, Thy lips sweet roses, breast sweet lily is, That love esteems these three the chiefest bliss Which nature ever made for lips' delight; But when these three to show their heavenly might Such wonders do, devotion then for this Commandeth us with humble zeal to kiss Such things as work miracles in our sight. A lute of senseless wood, by nature dumb, Touched by thy hand doth speak divinely well; And from thy lips and breast sweet tunes do come To my dead heart, the which new life do give. Of greater wonders heard we never tell Than for the dumb to speak, the dead to live.

V

_Of the envy others bear to his lady for the former perfections_

When beauty to the world vouchsafes this bliss, To show the one whose other there is not, The whitest skins red blushing shame doth blot, And in the reddest cheeks pale envy is. The fair and foul come thus alike by this; For when the sun hath our horizon got, Venus herself doth shine no more, God wot, Than the least star that takes the light from his. The poor in beauty thus content remain To see their jealous cause revenged in thee, And their fair foes afflicted with like pain. Lo, the clear proof of thy divinity; For unto God is only due this praise The highest to pluck down, the low to raise!

VI

_To his mistress, upon occasion of a Petrarch he gave her, showing her the reason why the Italian commenters dissent so much in the exposition thereof_

Miracle of the world! I never will deny That former poets praise the beauty of their days; But all those beauties were but figures of thy praise, And all those poets did of thee but prophesy. Thy coming to the world hath taught us to descry What Petrarch's Laura meant, for truth the lip bewrays. Lo, why th' Italians, yet which never saw thy rays, To find out Petrarch's sense such forgèd glosses try! The beauties which he in a veil enclosed beheld But revelations were within his surest heart By which in parables thy coming he foretold; His songs were hymns of thee, which only now before Thy image should be sung; for thou that goddess art Which only we without idolatry adore.

VII

_Complaint of misfortune in love only_

Now, now I love indeed, and suffer more In one day now then I did in a year; Great flames they be which but small sparkles were, And wounded now, I was but pricked before. No marvel then, though more than heretofore I weep and sigh; how can great wounds be there Where moisture runs not out? and ever, where The fire is great, of smoke there must be store. My heart was hitherto but like green wood, Which must be dried before it will burn bright; My former love served but my heart to dry; Now Cupid for his fire doth find it good: For now it burneth clear, and shall give light For all the world your beauty to espy.

VIII

_Complaint of his lady's melancholiness_

If that one care had our two hearts possessed, Or you once (felt) what I long sufferèd, Then should thy heart accuse in my heart's stead The rigour of itself for mine unrest. Then should thine arm upon my shoulder rest, And weight of grief sway down thy troubled head; Then should thy tears upon my sheet be shed, And then thy heart should pant upon my breast. But when that other cares thy heart do seize, Alas, what succour gain I then by this, But double grief for thine and mine unease? Yet when thou see'st thy hurts to wound my heart, And so art taught by me what pity is, Perhaps thy heart will learn to feel my smart.

IX

Dear, though from me your gratious looks depart, And of that comfort do myself bereave, Which both I did deserve and did receive, Triumph not over much in this my smart. Nay, rather they which now enjoy thy heart For fear just cause of mourning should conceive, Lest thou inconstant shouldst their trust deceive Which like unto the weather changing art. For in foul weather birds sing often will In hope of fair, and in fair time will cease, For fear fair time should not continue still; So they may mourn which have thy heart possessed For fear of change, and hope of change may ease Their hearts whom grief of change doth now molest.

X

If ever any justly might complain Of unrequited service, it is I; Change is the thanks I have for loyalty, And only her reward is her disdain; So as just spite did almost me constrain, Through torment her due praises to deny, For he which vexèd is with injury By speaking ill doth ease his heart of pain. But what, shall torture make me wrong her name? No, no, a pris'ner constant thinks it shame, Though he (were) racked his first truth to gainsay. Her true given praise my first confession is; Though her disdain do rack me night and day, This I confessed, and will deny in this.

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