Take heed therefore, mine eyes, how ye do stare
Henceforth too rashly on that guileful net,
In which if ever ye entrappéd are,
Out of her bands ye by no means shall get.
Fondness it were for any, being free,
To covet fetters, though they golden be!
Mark when she smiles with amiable cheer,
And tell me whereto can ye liken it;
When on each eyelid sweetly do appear
An hundred Graces as in shade to sit.
Likest it seemeth, in my simple wit,
Unto the fair sunshine in summer's day,
That, when a dreadful storm away is flit,
Through the broad world doth spread his goodly ray;
At sight whereof, each bird that sits on spray,
And every beast that to his den was fled,
Comes forth afresh out of their late dismay,
And to the light lift up their drooping head.
So my storm-beaten heart likewise is cheered
With that sunshine, when cloudy looks are cleared.
When my abode's prefixéd time is spent,
My cruel fair straight bids me wend my way:
But then from heaven most hideous storms are sent,
As willing me against her will to stay.
Whom then shall I or heaven, or her obey?
The heavens know best what is the best for me:
But as she will, whose will my life doth sway,
My lower heaven, so it perforce must be.
But ye, high heavens, that all this sorrow see,
Sith all your tempests cannot hold me back,
Assuage your storms, or else both you and she
Will both together me too sorely wrack.
Enough it is for one man to sustain
The storms which she alone on me doth rain.
The glorious image of the Maker's beauty,
My sovereign saint, the idol of my thought,
Dare not henceforth, above the bounds of duty,
T'accuse of pride, or rashly blame for aught.
For being, as she is, divinely wrought,
And of the brood of angels heavenly born,
And with the crew of blessed saints up-brought,
Each of which did her with their gifts adorn,
The bud of joy, the blossom of the morn,
The beam of light, whom mortal eyes admire,
What reason is it then but she should scorn
Base things, that to her love too bold aspire!
Such heavenly forms ought rather worshipped be,
Than dare be loved by men of mean degree.
Like as an huntsman, after weary chase,
Seeing the game from him escaped away,
Sits down to rest him in some shady place,
With panting hounds, beguiléd of their prey;
So, after long pursuit and vain essay,
When I all-weary had the chase forsook,
The gentle deer returned the self-same way,
Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook.
There she, beholding me with milder look,
Sought not to fly, but fearless still did 'bide,
Till I in hand her yet half trembling took,
And with her own good will her firmly tied.
Strange thing, me seemed, to see a beast so wild
So goodly won, with her own will beguiled.
The famous warriours of the antique world
Used trophies to erect in stately wise,
In which they would the records have enrolled
Of their great deeds and valorous emprize.
What trophy then shall I most fit devise,
In which I may record the memory
Of my love's conquest, peerless beauty's prize,
Adorned with honour, love, and chastity?
Even this verse, vowed to eternity,
Shall be thereof immortal monument,
And tell her praise to all posterity,
That may admire such world's rare wonderment ;
The happy purchase of my glorious spoil,
Gotten at last with labour, and long toil.
Fresh Spring, the herald of Love's mighty king,
In whose coat-armour richly are displayed
All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring,
In goodly colours gloriously arrayed,
Go to my love, where she is careless laid,
Yet in her winter's bower not well awake:
Tell her the joyous time will not be stayed,
Unless she do him by the forelock take;
Bid her therefore her self soon ready make,
To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew,
Where every one that misseth then her make
Shall be by him amerced with penance due.
Make haste therefore, sweet love, while it is prime,
For none can call again the passéd time.
Being myself captivéd here in care,
My heart (whom none with servile bands can tie,
But the fair tresses of your golden hair),
Breaking his prison, forth to you doth fly.
Like as a bird, that in one's hand doth spy
Desiréd food, to it doth make his flight,
Even so my heart, that wont on your fair eye
To feed his fill, flies back unto your sight.
Do you him take, and in your bosom bright
Gently encage, that he may be your thrall:
Perhaps he there may learn, with rare delight,
To sing your name and praises over all:
That it hereafter may you not repent,
Him lodging in your bosom to have lent.
Since I did leave the presence or my love,
Many long weary days I have outworn,
And many nights, that slowly seemed to move
Their sad protract, from even until morn.
For, when as day the heaven doth adorn,
I wish that night the noyous day would end:
And when as night hath us of light forlorn,
I wish that day would shortly re-ascend.
Thus I the time with expectation spend,
And feign my grief with changes to beguile,
That further seems his term still to extend,
And maketh every minute seem a mile.
So sorrow still doth seem too long to last;
But joyous hours do fly away too fast.
Like as the culver, on the bared bough
Sits mourning for the absence of her mate,
And in her songs sends many a wishful vow
For his return, that seems to linger late;
So I alone, now left disconsolate,
Mourn to myself the absence of my love:
And wandering here and there all desolate,
Seek with my plaints to match that mournful dove:
Ne joy of aught that under heaven doth hove,
Can comfort me, but her own joyous sight,
Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move,
In her unspotted pleasaunce to delight.
Dark is my day, whiles her fair light I miss,
And dead my life that wants such lively bliss.
["Fidessa, more chaste than kind." 1596.]
FAIR is my love that feeds among the lilies,
The lilies growing in that pleasant garden,
Where Cupid's mount, that well-belovéd hill is,
And where that little god himself is warden.
See, where my love sits in the beds of spices,
Beset all round with camphor, myrrh, and roses,
And interlaced with curious devices,
Which her from all the world apart incloses. There doth she tune her lute for her delight,
And with sweet music makes the ground to move, Whilst I (poor I) do sit in heavy plight
Wailing alone my unrespected love;
Not daring rush into so rare a place,
That gives to her and she to it a grace.
I have not spent the April of my time,
The sweet of youth in plotting in the air: But do at first adventure seek to climb,
Whilst flowers of blooming years are green and fair.
I am no leaving of all-withering age,
I have not suffered many winter lowers;
I feel no storm, unless my love do rage,
And then in grief I spend both days and hours.
This yet doth comfort, that my flower lasted,
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