Part 219

‘“And, lo! behold these talents of their hair, With twisted metal amorously empleach’d, I have receiv’d from many a several fair, Their kind acceptance weepingly beseech’d, With th’ annexions of fair gems enrich’d, And deep-brain’d sonnets that did amplify Each stone’s dear nature, worth and quality.

‘“The diamond, why ’twas beautiful and hard, Whereto his invis’d properties did tend, The deep green emerald, in whose fresh regard Weak sights their sickly radiance do amend; The heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend With objects manifold; each several stone, With wit well blazon’d smil’d, or made some moan.

‘“Lo, all these trophies of affections hot, Of pensiv’d and subdued desires the tender, Nature hath charg’d me that I hoard them not, But yield them up where I myself must render, That is, to you, my origin and ender: For these of force must your oblations be, Since I their altar, you empatron me.

‘“O then advance of yours that phraseless hand, Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise; Take all these similes to your own command, Hallowed with sighs that burning lungs did raise: What me, your minister for you, obeys, Works under you; and to your audit comes Their distract parcels in combined sums.

‘“Lo, this device was sent me from a nun, Or sister sanctified of holiest note, Which late her noble suit in court did shun, Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote; For she was sought by spirits of richest coat, But kept cold distance, and did thence remove To spend her living in eternal love.

‘“But O, my sweet, what labour is’t to leave The thing we have not, mast’ring what not strives, Planing the place which did no form receive, Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves, She that her fame so to herself contrives, The scars of battle ’scapeth by the flight, And makes her absence valiant, not her might.

‘“O pardon me, in that my boast is true, The accident which brought me to her eye, Upon the moment did her force subdue, And now she would the caged cloister fly: Religious love put out religion’s eye: Not to be tempted would she be immur’d, And now to tempt all, liberty procur’d.

‘“How mighty then you are, O hear me tell! The broken bosoms that to me belong Have emptied all their fountains in my well, And mine I pour your ocean all among: I strong o’er them, and you o’er me being strong, Must for your victory us all congest, As compound love to physic your cold breast.

‘“My parts had pow’r to charm a sacred nun, Who, disciplin’d and dieted in grace, Believ’d her eyes when they t’assail begun, All vows and consecrations giving place. O most potential love! Vow, bond, nor space, In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine, For thou art all and all things else are thine.

‘“When thou impressest, what are precepts worth Of stale example? When thou wilt inflame, How coldly those impediments stand forth, Of wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame! Love’s arms are peace, ’gainst rule, ’gainst sense, ’gainst shame, And sweetens, in the suff’ring pangs it bears, The aloes of all forces, shocks and fears.

‘“Now all these hearts that do on mine depend, Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine, And supplicant their sighs to your extend, To leave the batt’ry that you make ’gainst mine, Lending soft audience to my sweet design, And credent soul to that strong-bonded oath, That shall prefer and undertake my troth.”

‘This said, his wat’ry eyes he did dismount, Whose sights till then were levell’d on my face; Each cheek a river running from a fount With brinish current downward flowed apace. O how the channel to the stream gave grace! Who, glaz’d with crystal gate the glowing roses That flame through water which their hue encloses.

‘O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies In the small orb of one particular tear! But with the inundation of the eyes What rocky heart to water will not wear? What breast so cold that is not warmed here? O cleft effect! Cold modesty, hot wrath, Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath.

‘For lo, his passion, but an art of craft, Even there resolv’d my reason into tears; There my white stole of chastity I daff’d, Shook off my sober guards, and civil fears, Appear to him as he to me appears, All melting, though our drops this diff’rence bore: His poison’d me, and mine did him restore.

‘In him a plenitude of subtle matter, Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives, Of burning blushes, or of weeping water, Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves, In either’s aptness, as it best deceives, To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes, Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows.

‘That not a heart which in his level came Could ’scape the hail of his all-hurting aim, Showing fair nature is both kind and tame; And veil’d in them, did win whom he would maim. Against the thing he sought he would exclaim; When he most burned in heart-wish’d luxury, He preach’d pure maid, and prais’d cold chastity.

‘Thus merely with the garment of a grace, The naked and concealed fiend he cover’d, That th’unexperient gave the tempter place, Which, like a cherubin, above them hover’d. Who, young and simple, would not be so lover’d? Ay me! I fell, and yet do question make What I should do again for such a sake.

‘O, that infected moisture of his eye, O, that false fire which in his cheek so glow’d! O, that forc’d thunder from his heart did fly, O, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestow’d, O, all that borrowed motion, seeming owed, Would yet again betray the fore-betrayed, And new pervert a reconciled maid.’

THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM

I

When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutor’d youth, Unskilful in the world’s false forgeries. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although I know my years be past the best, I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue, Outfacing faults in love with love’s ill rest. But wherefore says my love that she is young? And wherefore say not I that I am old? O, love’s best habit is a soothing tongue, And age, in love, loves not to have years told. Therefore, I’ll lie with love, and love with me, Since that our faults in love thus smother’d be.

II

Two loves I have, of comfort and despair, That like two spirits do suggest me still; My better angel is a man right fair, My worser spirit a woman colour’d ill. To win me soon to hell, my female evil Tempteth my better angel from my side, And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, Wooing his purity with her fair pride. And whether that my angel be turn’d fiend, Suspect I may, yet not directly tell; For being both to me, both to each friend, I guess one angel in another’s hell: The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt, Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

III

Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, ’Gainst whom the world could not hold argument, Persuade my heart to this false perjury? Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment. A woman I forswore; but I will prove, Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee: My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love; Thy grace being gain’d cures all disgrace in me. My vow was breath, and breath a vapour is; Then, thou fair sun, that on this earth doth shine, Exhale this vapour vow; in thee it is; If broken then, it is no fault of mine. If by me broke, what fool is not so wise To break an oath, to win a paradise?

IV

Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook With young Adonis, lovely, fresh and green, Did court the lad with many a lovely look, Such looks as none could look but beauty’s queen. She told him stories to delight his ear; She show’d him favours to allure his eye; To win his heart, she touch’d him here and there; Touches so soft still conquer chastity. But whether unripe years did want conceit, Or he refus’d to take her figur’d proffer, The tender nibbler would not touch the bait, But smile and jest at every gentle offer. Then fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward: He rose and ran away; ah, fool too froward!

V

If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed. Though to myself forsworn, to thee I’ll constant prove; Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers bowed. Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live that art can comprehend. If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice; Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend, All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder; Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire. Thine eye Jove’s lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful thunder, Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, O do not love that wrong, To sing heaven’s praise with such an earthly tongue.

VI

Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn, And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade, When Cytherea, all in love forlorn, A longing tarriance for Adonis made Under an osier growing by a brook, A brook where Adon used to cool his spleen. Hot was the day; she hotter that did look For his approach, that often there had been. Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by, And stood stark naked on the brook’s green brim: The sun look’d on the world with glorious eye, Yet not so wistly as this queen on him. He, spying her, bounc’d in, whereas he stood, “O Jove,” quoth she, “why was not I a flood?”

VII

Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle, Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty, Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle, Softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty: A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her, None fairer, nor none falser to deface her.

Her lips to mine how often hath she joined, Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing! How many tales to please me hath she coined, Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing! Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings, Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings.

She burnt with love, as straw with fire flameth; She burnt out love, as soon as straw out-burneth; She fram’d the love, and yet she foil’d the framing; She bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning. Was this a lover, or a lecher whether? Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.

VIII

If music and sweet poetry agree, As they must needs, the sister and the brother, Then must the love be great ’twixt thee and me, Because thou lov’st the one and I the other. Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch Upon the lute doth ravish human sense; Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such As passing all conceit, needs no defence. Thou lov’st to hear the sweet melodious sound That Phœbus’ lute, the queen of music, makes; And I in deep delight am chiefly drown’d Whenas himself to singing he betakes. One god is god of both, as poets feign; One knight loves both, and both in thee remain.

IX

Fair was the morn when the fair queen of love, * * * * * * Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove, For Adon’s sake, a youngster proud and wild; Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill; Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds; She, silly queen, with more than love’s good will, Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds. “Once,” quoth she, “did I see a fair sweet youth Here in these brakes deep-wounded with a boar, Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth! See in my thigh,” quoth she, “here was the sore.” She showed hers: he saw more wounds than one, And blushing fled, and left her all alone.

X

Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely pluck’d, soon vaded, Pluck’d in the bud and vaded in the spring! Bright orient pearl, alack, too timely shaded! Fair creature, kill’d too soon by death’s sharp sting! Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree, And falls, through wind, before the fall should be.

I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have; For why thou left’st me nothing in thy will; And yet thou left’st me more than I did crave; For why I craved nothing of thee still. O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee, Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.

XI

Venus, with young Adonis sitting by her Under a myrtle shade, began to woo him; She told the youngling how god Mars did try her, And as he fell to her, she fell to him. “Even thus,” quoth she, “the warlike god embrac’d me,” And then she clipp’d Adonis in her arms; “Even thus,” quoth she, “the warlike god unlaced me;” As if the boy should use like loving charms; “Even thus,” quoth she, “he seized on my lips,” And with her lips on his did act the seizure; And as she fetched breath, away he skips, And would not take her meaning nor her pleasure. Ah, that I had my lady at this bay, To kiss and clip me till I run away!

XII

Crabbed age and youth cannot live together: Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care; Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather; Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare. Youth is full of sport, age’s breath is short; Youth is nimble, age is lame; Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold; Youth is wild, and age is tame. Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee; O, my love, my love is young! Age, I do defy thee. O, sweet shepherd, hie thee, For methinks thou stay’st too long.

XIII

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good, A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly; A flower that dies when first it ’gins to bud; A brittle glass that’s broken presently: A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.

And as goods lost are seld or never found, As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh, As flowers dead lie wither’d on the ground, As broken glass no cement can redress, So beauty blemish’d once, for ever’s lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain and cost.

XIV

Good night, good rest. Ah, neither be my share: She bade good night that kept my rest away; And daff’d me to a cabin hang’d with care, To descant on the doubts of my decay. “Farewell,” quoth she, “and come again tomorrow:” Fare well I could not, for I supp’d with sorrow.

Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile, In scorn or friendship, nill I conster whether: ’T may be, she joy’d to jest at my exile, ’T may be, again to make me wander thither: “Wander,” a word for shadows like myself, As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.

Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east! My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest. Not daring trust the office of mine eyes, While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark, And wish her lays were tuned like the lark.

For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty, And drives away dark dreaming night. The night so pack’d, I post unto my pretty; Heart hath his hope and eyes their wished sight; Sorrow chang’d to solace, solace mix’d with sorrow; For why, she sigh’d, and bade me come tomorrow.

Were I with her, the night would post too soon; But now are minutes added to the hours; To spite me now, each minute seems a moon; Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers! Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now borrow: Short, night, tonight, and length thyself tomorrow.

XV

It was a lording’s daughter, the fairest one of three, That liked of her master as well as well might be, Till looking on an Englishman, the fairest that eye could see, Her fancy fell a-turning. Long was the combat doubtful, that love with love did fight, To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight; To put in practice either, alas, it was a spite Unto the silly damsel! But one must be refused; more mickle was the pain, That nothing could be used to turn them both to gain, For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with disdain: Alas she could not help it! Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day, Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away: Then lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gay; For now my song is ended.

XVI

On a day, alack the day! Love, whose month was ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air. Through the velvet leaves the wind All unseen ’gan passage find, That the lover, sick to death, Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath: “Air,” quoth he, “thy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so! But, alas, my hand hath sworn Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn: Vow, alack, for youth unmeet, Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet! Thou for whom Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were, And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love.”

XVII

My flocks feed not, my ewes breed not, My rams speed not, all is amis: Love is dying, faith’s defying, Heart’s denying, causer of this. All my merry jigs are quite forgot, All my lady’s love is lost, God wot: Where her faith was firmely fix’d in love, There a nay is plac’d without remove. One silly cross wrought all my loss; O frowning fortune, cursed fickle dame! For now I see inconstancy More in women than in men remain.

In black mourn I, all fears scorn I, Love hath forlorn me, living in thrall. Heart is bleeding, all help needing, O cruel speeding, fraughted with gall. My shepherd’s pipe can sound no deal. My weather’s bell rings doleful knell; My curtal dog that wont to have play’d, Plays not at all, but seems afraid. With sighs so deep procures to weep, In howling wise, to see my doleful plight. How sighs resound through heartless ground, Like a thousand vanquish’d men in bloody fight!

Clear wells spring not, sweet birds sing not, Green plants bring not forth their dye; Herds stands weeping, flocks all sleeping, Nymphs black peeping fearfully. All our pleasure known to us poor swains, All our merry meetings on the plains, All our evening sport from us is fled, All our love is lost, for love is dead. Farewel, sweet love, thy like ne’er was For a sweet content, the cause of all my woe! Poor Corydon must live alone; Other help for him I see that there is none.

XVIII

Whenas thine eye hath chose the dame, And stall’d the deer that thou shouldst strike, Let reason rule things worthy blame, As well as fancy, partial might; Take counsel of some wiser head, Neither too young nor yet unwed.

And when thou com’st thy tale to tell, Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk, Least she some subtle practice smell,— A cripple soon can find a halt,— But plainly say thou lov’st her well, And set her person forth to sale.

What though her frowning brows be bent, Her cloudy looks will calm ere night, And then too late she will repent, That thus dissembled her delight; And twice desire, ere it be day, That which with scorn she put away.

What though she strive to try her strength, And ban and brawl, and say thee nay, Her feeble force will yield at length, When craft hath taught her thus to say: “Had women been so strong as men, In faith, you had not had it then.”

And to her will frame all thy ways; Spare not to spend, and chiefly there Where thy desert may merit praise, By ringing in thy lady’s ear: The strongest castle, tower and town, The golden bullet beats it down.

Serve always with assured trust, And in thy suit be humble true; Unless thy lady prove unjust, Press never thou to choose a new: When time shall serve, be thou not slack, To proffer, though she put thee back.

The wiles and guiles that women work, Dissembled with an outward show, The tricks and toys that in them lurk, The cock that treads them shall not know, Have you not heard it said full oft, A woman’s nay doth stand for nought.

Think women still to strive with men, To sin and never for to saint: There is no heaven, by holy then, When time with age shall them attaint, Were kisses all the joys in bed, One woman would another wed.

But soft, enough,—too much,—I fear Lest that my mistress hear my song: She will not stick to round me on th’ ear, To teach my tongue to be so long. Yet will she blush, here be it said, To hear her secrets so bewray’d.

XIX

Live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, by whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee a bed of roses, With a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs; And if these pleasures may thee move, Then live with me and be my love.

Love’s Answer.

If that the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd’s tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love.

XX

As it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap and birds did sing, Trees did grow and plants did spring; Everything did banish moan, Save the nightingale alone: She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean’d her breast up-till a thorn, And there sung the dolefull’st ditty, That to hear it was great pitty. “Fie, fie, fie,” now would she cry, “Tereu, Tereu,” by and by;

That to hear her so complain, Scarce I could from tears refrain, For her griefs so lively shown Made me think upon mine own. Ah, thought I, thou mourn’st in vain! None takes pitty on thy pain. Senseless trees they cannot hear thee, Ruthless bears they will not cheer thee; King Pandion he is dead, All thy friends are lapp’d in lead, All thy fellow birds do sing, Careless of thy sorrowing.

Whilst as fickle fortune smiled, Thou and I were both beguiled. Every one that flatters thee Is no friend in misery. Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find. Every man will be thy friend Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend; But if store of crowns be scant, No man will supply thy want. If that one be prodigal, Bountiful they will him call, And with such-like flattering, “Pity but he were a king.”

If he be addict to vice, Quickly him they will entice; If to women he be bent, They have at commandement. But if Fortune once do frown, Then farewell his great renown. They that fawn’d on him before, Use his company no more. He that is thy friend indeed, He will help thee in thy need: If thou sorrow, he will weep; If thou wake, he cannot sleep. Thus of every grief in heart He with thee doth bear a part. These are certain signs to know Faithful friend from flatt’ring foe.

THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE

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.