Part 2

Come let me write, and to what end? to ease A burthened hart, (how can words ease, which are The glasses of thy daily vexing care?) Oft cruell fights well pictured forth doe please, Art not asham’d to publish thy disease? Nay, that may breede my fame, it is so rare, But will not wise men thinke thy words fonde ware? Then be they close, and they shall none displease, What idler thing than speake and not be heard? What harder thing than smart and not to speake? Peace foolish wit, with wit my wit is marde; Thus write I while I doubt to write, and wreake My harmes in ynkes poore losse, perhaps some finde _Stellas_ great power, that so confus’d my minde.

What may words say? or what may words not say, Where truth it selfe must speake like flattery? Within what bounds can one his lyking stay, Where Nature doth with infinite agree? What _Nestors_ counsell can my flames allay, Since Reasons selfe doth blow the coles to me? And ah, what hope that hope should once see day, Where _Cupid_ is sworne page to Chastitie; Honour is honoured that thou dost possesse Him as thy slave, and now long needie Fame Doth even grow rich, meaning my _Stellas_ name; Wit learnes in _thee_ perfection to expresse, Not _thou_ by praise, but praise in _thee_ is raised, It is a praise, to praise where _thou_ art praised.

_Stella_, whence doth these newe assaults arise, A conquerd, yeelding, ransackt hart to win? Whereto long since, through my long battred eyes, Whole Armies of _thy_ beauties entred in, And there long since, Love thy Lieuetenant lyes, My forces raz’d, thy banners rais’d within Of conquest, what do these effects suffise, But wilt new warre uppon thine owne begin, With so sweet voyce, and by sweet nature so, In sweetest strength, so sweetly skild withall, In all sweet stratagems sweet Art can shew: That not my soule which at thy foot did fall Long since forst by thy beames; but stone nor tree By sences priviledge can scape from thee.

This night while sleepe begins, with heavie wings To close mine eyes, and the unbitted thought Doth fall to stray, and my chiefe powers are brought To leave the scepter of all subject things, The first that straight my fancies errour brings Unto my minde, is _Stellas_ Image, wrought By Loves owne selfe, but with so curious draught, That she me thinkes not onely shines but sings: I start, looke, harke, but what inclos’d up sence Was helde in open sence it flyes away, Leaving me nought but wayling eloquence. I seeing Better sights in sighes decay, Conclude a new, and woed Sleepe againe, But him her hoast that unkind guest had slaine.

Come Sleepe, ô Sleepe, the certaine knot of peace, The bathing place of wits, the balme of woe, The poore mans wealth, the prysoners release, The indifferent judge betweene the high and lowe, With shield of proofe, shield me from out the presse Of these fierce darts, Dispaire at me doth throw; O make in me those civill warres to cease: I will good trybute pay if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillowes, sweetest bed; A chamber deafe of noyse, and blinde of light, A rosie garland, and a wearie head. And if these things (as being thine in right) Move not thy heavie grace, thou shalt in mee Livelier than els where _Stellas_ Image see.

As good to write, as for to lie and groane, O _Stella_ deere, how much _thy_ power hath wrought, That hast my minde now of the basest brought, My still kept course while others sleepe to moane; Alas if from the height of Vertues throane, Thou canst vouchsafe the influence of a thought, Upon a wretch which long _thy_ grace hath sought, Way then how I by thee am overthrowne; And then thinke thus, although _thy_ beautie be Made manifest, by such a victorie, Yet noblest Conquerers doe wreake avoide; Since then _thou_ hast so farre subdued me, That in my hart I offer still to _thee_, O doe not let thy Temple be destroide.

Having this days, my horse, my hand, my Launce Guided so well, that I obtaind the prize, Both by the judgment of the English eyes, And of some sent from that sweet enmie Fraunce, Horsmen my skill in horsmanship advaunce, Towne folke my strength: a daintier Judge applies His praise to flight, which from good use doth rise: Some luckie wits, impute it but to chaunce: Others, because from both sides I doe take My blood, from them that doe excell in this, Thinke Nature me a man at Armes did make. How farre they shoot awry; the true cause is, _Stella_ lookt on, and from her heavenly face, Sent forth the beames, which made so faire a race.

O Eyes which doe the Spheres of beautie move, Whose beames all joyes, whose joyes all vertues be: Who while they make Love conquer, conquer Love, The Schooles where _Venus_ hath learnd Chastitie; O eyes, where humble lookes most glorious prove, Onely loved tyrants just in crueltie. Doe not, doe not, from poore me, once remove, Keepe still my Zenith, ever shine on me; For though I never see them, but straight waies My life forgets to nourish languisht sprights: Yet still on me (ô eyes) dart downe your rayes; And if from Majestie of sacred Lights Oppressing mortall sence, my death proceede: Wreckes tryumphs best, which Love hie set doth breed.

Faire eyes, sweet lips, deere hart, that foolish I Could hope by _Cupids_ helpe, on you to pray: Since to himselfe he doth your gifts apply, As his maine force, chiefe sport, and easefull stay. For when he will see who dare him gainsay, Then with those eyes he lookes, loe by and by, Each soule doth at Loves feete his weapons lay, Glad if for _her_ he give them leave to die. When he will play, then in _her_ lips he is, Where blushing red, that Loves selfe them do love, With either lip he doth the other kisse But when he will for quiets sake remove From all the world, _her_ hart is then his roome: Where well he knowes, no man to him can come.

My words I know doe well set forth my minde, My minde bemones his sence of inward smart; Such smart may pittie claime of any hart; _Her_ hart, sweete hart, is of no Tygers kinde, And yet _she_ heares, and I no pittie finde, But more I cry, lesse grace _she_ doth impart; Alas, what cause is there so overthwart, That Noblenes it selfe makes thus unkinde? I much doe gesse, yet finde no truth save this, That when the breath of my complaint doe touch Those daintie doores unto the Court of Blisse, The heavenly nature of that place is such: That once come there, the sobs of my annoyes, Are metamorphos’d straight to tunes of joyes.

_Stella_ oft sees the verie face of woes Painted in my beclowded stormie face: But cannot skill to pittie my disgrace; No though thereof the cause _her selfe shee_ knowes. Yet hearing late a fable which did show, Of Lovers never knowne, (a grievous case) Pittie thereof got in her breast such place, As from _her_ eyes, a Spring of teares did flow. Alas, if Fancie drawne by ymag’d things, Though false, yet with free scope more grace doth breede Then Servants wreck, where new doubts honor brings, Than thinke my _Deere_, that in me you doe reede Of Lovers ruine some thrise sad Tragædie: I am not I, pittie the tale of me.

I curst thee oft, I pittie now thy case, Blind hitting Boy, since _shee_ that thee and me Rules with a becke, so tyranniseth thee, That thou must want or foode or dwelling place; For _Shee_ protests to banish thee _her_ face. _Her_ face (ô Love) a roge thou then should’st bee, If Love learne not alone to love and see, Without desire to feede on further grace. Alas poore wagge, that now a Scholler art To such a Schoole-mistris, whose lessons new Thou needes must misse, and so thou needes must smart; Yet _deere_, let me this pardon get of _you_, So long though he from booke mich to desire. Till without Fuell, _thou_ can make hote fire.

What, have I thus betraide my libertie, Can those black beames, such burning marks engrave In my free side, or am I borne a slave, Whose necke becomes such yoke of tyrannie? Or want I sence to feele my miserie, Or spirit, disdaine of such disdaine to have, Who for long faith the daily helpe I crave, May get no almes, but scorne of beggerie. Vertue awake, beautie but beautie is; I may, I must, I can, I will, I doe Leave following that which it is gaine to misse, Let her goe: soft, but there she comes, goe to, Unkind I love you, not, (O mee) that eye Doth make my hart give to my tongue a lye.

Soules joy, bend not those morning starres from me, Where vertue is made strong by beauties might, Where love is chastnes, paine doth learne delight, And humblenes growes on with majestie; What ever may ensue, O let me be Copartner of the ritches of that sight: Let not mine eyes be driven from that light; ô looke, ô shine, ô let me die and see, For though I oft my selfe of them bemone, That through my hart their beamie darts be gone, Whose curelesse wounds even nowe most freshly bleede; Yet since my deaths wound is already got, Deere killer, spare not _thy_ sweete cruell shot, A kinde of grace it is to slaye with speede.

I on my horse, and Love on me doth trie Our horsmanship, while by strange worke I prove, A horsman to my horse, a horse to Love; And now mans wrongs in me poore beast discry. The raines wherewith my ryder doth me tie Are reverent thoughts, which bit of reverence move, Curbde in with feare, but with gilt bosse above Of hope, which makes it seeme faire to the eye: The wande is will, thou fancie saddle art, Girt fast by memorie; and while I spurre My horse, he spurres with sharpe desires my hart, He sits me fast how ever I doe sturre, And now hath made me to his hand so right, That in the manage, my selfe do take delight.

_Stella_, the fulnes of my thoughts of thee Cannot be stayed within my panting brest: But they do swell and struggle forth of me, Till that in words thy figure be exprest; And yet as soone as they so formed be, According to my Lord Loves owne behest, With sad eyes I their weake proportion see To portract what within this world is best. So that I cannot chuse but write my minde, And cannot chuse but put out what I write, While those poore babes their death in birth doe find; And now my penne these lynes had dashed quite, But that they stop his furie from the same: Because their fore-front beares sweet _Stellas_ name.

Pardon mine eares, both I and they doe pray, So may _your_ tongue full flauntingly proceede, To them that doe such entertainments neede; So may _you_ still have somewhat new to say. On sillie me, doe not _you_ burthen lay Of all the grave conceipts _your_ braine doth breede, But find some _Hercules_, to beard (in steede Of _Atlas_ tyrde) _your_ wisedomes heavenly sway. For me while you discourse of courtly tydes, Of cunningst Fishers in most troubled streames, Of straying waves when valiant errour guides: Meane while my hart confers with _Stellas_ beames, And is even woe that so sweet Comedie, By such unfuted speech, should hindered be.

A Strife is growne betweene Vertue and Love, While each pretends, that _Stella_ must be his; Her eyes, her lips, her all, saith Love doe this, Since they doe weare his badge, most firmely prove; But Vertue thus, that title doth disprove. That _Stella_, (ô deere name) that _Stella_ is, That vertuous Soule, sure heyre of heavenly Blisse: Not this faire outside, which our hart doth move; And therefore, though _her_ beauty and _her_ grace, Be Loves indeede, in _Stellas_ selfe he may By no pretence claime any manner place. Well Love, since this Demurre our sute doth staie. Let Vertue have that _Stellas_ selfe, yet thus, That Vertue but that body graunt to us.

In Martiall sportes I had my cunning tryde, And yet to breake more Staves I did mee adresse While that the peopl’s showtes: I must confesse, Youth, luck, and praise, even filld my vaines with pride; When _Cupid_ having me his slave descride, In _Mars_ his liverie, prauncing in the presse. What now sir foole said he (I would no lesse) Looke heere I say; I lookt, and _Stella_ spide: Who hard by through a window sent forth light; My hart then quake, then daz’led were my eyes. One hand forgot to rule, th’ other to fight, No Trumpet sound I heard, nor freendly cries; My foe came on, and beate the ayre for mee, Till that her blush, taught me my shame to see.

Because I breathe not love to every one, Nor doe not use sette Colours for to weare: Nor nourish speciall locks with vowed haire, Nor give each speech a full point of a grone, The Courtly Nymphes acquainted with the mone Of them, which in their lips Loves Standard beare: What he, (say they of me) now I dare sweare, He cannot love: no, no, let him alone. And thinke so still, so _Stella_ know my minde. Professe in deede, I do not _Cupid’s_ art. But you faire Maides, at length this true shall find, That his right badge, is but worne in the hart. Dumbe Swans, not chattering Pyes doe Lovers prove, They love in deed, who quake to say they love.

Fie schoole of Patience, fie, your Lesson is Far far too long, to learne it without booke: What, a whole weeke, without one peece of looke? And thinke I should not your large precepts misse, When I might reade those Letters faire of blisse, Which in _her_ face teach vertue, I could brooke, Somewhat thy leaden counsels which I tooke: As of a freend that meant not much amisse: But now alas, that I doe want _her_ sight, What doost thou thinke that I can ever take, In thy colde stuffe, a phlegmatick delight? No Patience, if thou wilt my good, then make Her come, and heare with patience my desires And then with patience bid me beare my fire.

Muses, I oft invoked your whole ayde, With choisest flowres, my speech t’engarland so, That it disguisde, in true (but naked) show, Might winne some grace in your sweet skill arraide; And oft whole troupes of saddest words I stayde, Striving abroade, a forraging to goe, Untill by your inspiring I might know, How their blacke banners might be best displaid. But now I meane no more your helpe to trye. Nor other sugering of speech to prove, But on _her_ name uncessantly to cry. For let me but name _her_ whom I doe love, So sweete sounde straight my eares and hart doe hit, That I well finde no eloquence like it.

Woe having made with many sighs his owne Each sense of mine; each gift, each power of minde Growne now his slaves, he forst them out to finde The throwest words, fit for woes selfe to grone Hoping that when they might finde _Stella_ alone, Before _she_ could prepare to be unkind, _Her_ soule (armed with such a daintie rinde,) Should soone be hurt with sharpnes of the mone. _She_ heard my plaints, and did not onely heare. But them, so sweet is _she_, most sweetly sing, With that faire brest, making Woes darknes cleere, A prittie case I hoped her to bring, To feele my griefe, and she with face and voice, So sweetes my paines, that my paines me rejoyce.

Doubt there hath beene, when with his golden chaine The Orator so farre mens harts doth bind: That no pace els their guided steps can find; But as in them more shorte or slacke doth raine. Whether with words this sou’raigntte be gaine, Clothde with fine tropes with strongest reason lin’d, Or els pronouncing grace, wherewith his minde Prints his owne lively forme, in rudest braine. Now judge by this, in pearcing phrases late Th’ Anatomie of all my woes I wrate, _Stellas_ sweete breath the same to me did reede. Oh voyce, oh face mauger my speeches might, With wooed woe, most ravishing delight, Even in sad mee a joy to me did breede.

Deere, why make you more of a dogge than me? If he doe love, alas I burne in love; If he waite well, I never thence would move; If he be faire, yet but a dogge can be; Little he is, so little worth is he: He barkes, my songs thyne owne voyce oft doth prove; Bidden, (perhaps) he fetcheth _thee_ a glove? But I unbid, fetch even my soule to _thee_ Yet while I languish, him that bosome clips, That lap doth lap, nay lets in spight of spight This sour-breath’d mate tast of those sugred lips; Alas, if _you_ graunt onely such delight To witles things, then Love I hope, (since wit Becomes a clogge) will soone ease me of it.

When my good Angell guides me to the place where al my good I do in _Stella_ see, That Heaven of joyes throwes only downe on me Thundred disdaines, and Lightning of disgrace; But when the ruggedst step of fortunes race Makes me fall from _her_ sight, then sweetly _she_ With words, whereing the _Muses_ Treasures be, Shewes love and pittie to my absent case. Now I (witt-beaten long, by hardest fate) So dull am, that I cannot looke into The ground of this fierce love, and loving hate? Then some good body tell me how to do, Whose presence absence, absence presence is: Blest in my curse, and curssed in my blisse.

Oft with true sighes, oft with uncalled teares, Now with slow words, now with dumbe eloquence, I _Stellas_ eyes assailde, invade _her_ eares, But this at last is _her_ sweete breath’d defence, That who indeede a sound affection beares, So captives to his Saint both soule and sence, That wholie _Hers_, all selfnes he forbeares. Thence his desire he learnes, his lives course thence, Now since this chast love, hates this love in mee; With chastned minde I needes must shew, that shee Shall quickly me from what she hates remove. O Doctor _Cupid_, thou for me reply: Driven els to graunt by Angell Sophistry, That I love not, without I leave to love.

Late tyr’d with woe, even ready for to pine With rage of love, I call my Love unkinde. _Shee_ in whose eyes, love though unfelt doth shine, Sweetely saide, I true love in her should finde. I joyed, but straight thus watred was my wine: That love she did, but with a love not blinde. Which would not let me, whome she lov’d decline. From Nobler course, fit for my birth and minde. And therefore her loves Authoritie; Wild me those Tempests of vaine love to flee: And Anchor fast my selfe on vertues shore. Alas if this the onely mettall be, Of love newe coyn’d to help my beggery: Deere, love me not, that you may love me more.

Oh Grammer rules, oh now your vertues showe, So Children still read you with awfull eyes, As my young Dove may in your precepts wise, Her graunt to me by her owne vertue knowe. For late with hart most hie, with eyes most lowe; I crav’d the thing which ever she denies. Shee lightning Love, displaying _Venus_ skyes, Least one should not be heard twise, said no no. Sing then my Muse, now I do Pæan sing. Heavens Envy not at my high triumphing: But Grammers force with sweete successe confirme, For Grammer sayes (ah this deere _Stella_ way) For Grammer sayes (to Grammer who sayes nay) That in one speech, two negatives affirme.

No more my deere, no more these Counsels try, O give my passions leave to runne their race: Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace. Let Folke orecharg’d with braine against me cry, Let Cloudes be dimme, my face breake in my eye, Let me no steps but of lost labour try, Let all the earth in scorne recount my race; But doe not will me from my love to fly. I do not envie _Aristotles_ wit, Nor do aspire to _Cæsars_ bleeding fame: Nor ought to care though some above me sit; Nor hope nor with another course to frame: But that which once may winne thy cruell hart, Thou art my wit; and thou my vertue art.

Love, by sure proofe I may call thee unkinde, That gives no better cares to my just cryes: Thou whom to me, such my good turnes shouldst binde, As I may well recount, but none can prise. For when nak’d boy, hou couldst no harbour finde In this olde world, (growne now so to be wise) I lodg’de thee in my heart: and being blinde By nature borne, I gave to thee my eyes. Mine eyes, my light, my life, my hart alas, If so great services may scorned be: Yet let this thought thy Tygrish courage passe, That I perhaps am somewhat kin to thee: Since in thine armes, if learn’d fame truth hath spred, Thou bearst the Arrowe, I the Arrowhed.

And doe I see some cause a hope to feede Or doth the tedious burthen of long woe In weakned mindes, quick apprehension breede Of every Image which may comfort showe. I cannot brag of word, much lesse of deede, Fortune wheels still with me in one sort slowe. My wealth no more, and no whit lesse my neede, Desier, still on stilts of feare doth goe. And yet amids all feares, a hope there is Stolne to my hart: since last faire night (nay day) _Stellas_ eyes sent to me the beames of blisse, Looking on mee, while I looke other way: But when mine eyes backe to their heaven did move: They fled with blush, which guiltie seem’d of love:

Hope art thou true or doost thou flatter me? Doth _Stella_ now beginne, with pitteous eye The raigne of this her conquest to espie? Will shee take time before all wracked be? Her eye speech is translated thus by thee. But failste thou not in phrase so heavenly hye? Looke on againe, the faire text better prie; What blushing notes dost thou in Margent see? What sighes stolne out, or kild before full borne Hast thou found such and such like arguments? Or art thou els to comfort me forsworne? Well how so thou interpret the contents, I am resolv’d thy error to maintaine: Rather than by more trueth to get more paine.

_Stella_, the only Plannet of my light Light of my life, and life of my desire, Cheife good, whereto my hope doth onely spire, World of my wealth and heaven of my delight. Why doost thou spend the Treasure of thy sprite With voice more fit to wed _Amphyons_ Lyre? Seeking to quench in me the noble fyre, Fed by thy worth and kindled by thy sight. And all in vaine, for while thy breath most sweete With choisest words, thy words with reasons rare: Thy reasons firmely set, are vertues feete, Labor to kill in me this killing care Oh thinke I then, what Paradise of joy It is, so faire a vertue to enjoye.

Oh joy, too high for my Love still to showe, Oh blisse, fit for a nobler seat than mee Envie put out thine eyes, least thou doe see What _Oceans_ of delight in me doth flowe. My friend that oft saw’st through all maskes, my woe, Come, come, and let me poure myself on thee: Gone is the winter of my miserie. My spring appeares, ô see what heere doth growe, For _Stella_ hath with wordes (where faith doth shine) Of her high hart given me the Monarchie I, I, ô I may say that she is mine. And though she give but thus condicionally, This Realme of blisse, while vertues course I take, No Kings be Crownd, but they some covenant make.