So when thou saw'st in Nature's cabinet, Stella, thou straight looked'st babies in her eyes, In her cheeks' pit, thou did'st thy pitfold set, And in her breast, bo-peep, or couching, lies, Playing, and shining in each outward part: But, fool! seek'st not to get into her heart.

You that do search for every purling spring,
Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows,
And every flower, not sweet, perhaps, which grows
Near thereabouts, into your poesy wring;
You that do dictionary's method bring

Into your rhymes, running in rattling rows;

You that poor Petrarch's long-deceased woes

With new-born sighs, and denizened wit do sing: You take wrong ways; those far-fetched helps be such, As do bewray a want of inward touch.

And sure, at length, stolen goods do come to light; But if (both for your love and skill) your name

You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of fame,

Stella behold, and then begin t' indite.

Because I oft, in dark abstracted guise,
Seem most alone in greatest company;
With dearth of words, or answers quite awry,

To them that would make speech of speech arise:
They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies,
That poison foul of bubbling pride doth lie
So in my swelling breast, that only I

Fawn on myself, and others do despise: Yet pride, I think, doth not my soul possess,

Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass: But one worse fault, ambition, I confess,

That makes me oft my best friends overpass, Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place Bends all his power, even unto Stella's grace.

Come, Sleep, O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,
The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe,

The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;
With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease
Of those fierce darts, Despair at me doth throw:
O make in me those civil wars to cease;

I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.

Take thou of me, smooth pillows, sweetest bed :
A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light;
A rosy garland, and a weary head:

And if these things, as being thine by right,

Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt, in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance, Guided so well, that I obtained the prize,

Both by the judgment of the English eyes,

And of some sent from that sweet enemy, France;
Horsemen, my skill in horsemanship advance;
Town-folks my strength; a daintier judge applies
His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rise:
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance:
Others, because of both sides I do take

My blood from them who did excel in this,
Think Nature me a man of arms did make;

How far they shot awry! the true cause is,
Stella looked on, and from her heavenly face
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.

In martial sports I had my cunning tried, And yet to break more staves did me address, While, with the people's shouts, I must confess,

Youth, luck, and praise e'en filled my veins with pride;

When Cupid, having me, his slave, descried

In Mars' livery, prancing in the press:

What now, Sir Fool? said he, I would no less:
Look here, I say; I looked, and Stella spied;
Who, hard by, made a window send forth light;

My heart then quaked, then dazzled were mine eyes, One hand forgot to rule, th' other to fight;

Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries:

My foe came on, and beat the air for me,

Till that her blush taught me my shame to see.

Because I breathe not love to every one,
Nor do not use set colours for to wear;
Nor nourish special locks of vowéd hair;

Nor give each speech a full point of a groan;
The courtly nymphs, acquainted with the moan
Of them who, in their lips, Love's standard bear;
What he say they of me, now dare I swear,

He cannot love; no, no; let him alone.
And think so still, so Stella know my mind;
Profess, indeed, I do not, Cupid's art;
But you, fair maids, at length this true shall find,
That his right badge is worn but in the heart.
Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove;
They love indeed who quake to say they love.

Dear! why make you more of a dog than me?

If he do love, I burn, I burn in love;

If he wait well, I never thence would move :
If he be fair, yet but a dog can be:
Little he is, so little worth is he;

He barks, my songs thine own voice oft doth prove;
Bidden, perhaps, he fetcheth thee a glove,

But I, unbid, fetch even my soul to thee.
Yet, while I languish, him that bosom clips,
That lap doth lap, nay lets, in spite of spite,
This sour-breathed mate taste of those sugared lips:
Alas! if you grant only such delight

To witless things, then Love, I hope (since wit
Becomes a clog) will soon ease me of it.

Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be, And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet, Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet, More oft than to a chamber melody:

Now blessed you, bear onward blessed me, To her, where I my heart, safe left, shall meet; My Muse and I must you of duty greet

With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully. Be you still fair, honoured by public heed;

By no encroachment wronged, nor time forgot: Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed; And that you know I envy you no lot

Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,
Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss.

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 swear, I wish not there should be
Graved in my epitaph a Poet's name:
Ne, if I would, I could 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 indite, And Love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.

O happy Thames! that did'st my Stella bear, I saw thee with full many a smiling line,

Upon thy cheerful face joy's livery wear; While those fair planets on thy streams did shine, The boat for joy could not to dance forbear, While wanton winds, with beauties so divine

Ravished, stayed not, till in her golden hair They did themselves (O sweetest prison!) twine.

And fain those Eol's youth there would their stay Have made, but forced by Nature still to fly,

First did with puffing kiss those locks display:
She, so dishevelled blushed; from window I

With sight thereof cried out, "O fair disgrace!
Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place."

Unhappy sight, and hath she vanished by So near, in so good time, so free a place? Dead glass, dost thou thy object so embrace,

As what my heart still sees thou can'st not spy?

I swear by her I love, and lack, that I Was not in fault, who bent thy dazzling race Only unto the heaven of Stella's face;

Counting but dust what in the way did lie. But cease, mine eyes, your tears do witness well,

That you, guiltless thereof, your nectar missed. Cursed be the page, from whom the bad torch fell;

Cursed be the night which did your will resist : Cursed be the coachman which did drive so fast, Which no less curse than absence makes me taste.