To the Reader of
these Sonnets.
Nro these Loves, who but for Passion looks;
At this first sight, here let him lay them by!
And seek elsewhere in turning other books,
Which better may his labour satisfy.
No far-fetched Sigh shall ever wound my
Love from mine eye, a Tear shall never wring!
No "Ah me!"s my whining sonnets drest!
A Libertine! fantasticly I sing!
My Verse is the true image of my Mind,
Ever in motion, still desiring change:
And as thus, tovariety inclined;
So in all humours sportively I range!
My Muse is rightly of the English strain,
That cannot long one fashion entertain.
IKE an adventurous seafarer am I,
Who hath some long and dangerous voyage
And called to tell of his discovery,
How far he sailed, what countries he had
Proceeding from the port whence he put
forth,
Shews by his compass how his course he steered,
When East, when West, when South, and when by North,
As how the Pole, to every place was reared;
What capes he doubled, of what continent,
The gulfs and straits that strangely he had past;
Where most becalmed, where with foul weather spent,
And on what rocks in peril to be cast:
Thus in my Love, Time calls me to relate
My tedious travels, and oft-varying fate.
Y HEART was slain, and none but you and I ?
Who should I think the murder should commit;
Since but yourself, there was no creature by
But only I, guiltless of murdering it?
It slew itself? The verdict on the view
Do quit the dead, and me not accessory.
Well, well! I fear it will be proved of you!
Th'evidence so great a proof doth carry.
But O see! See, we need inquire no further!
Upon your lips, the scarlet drops are found!
And in your eye, the Boy that did the murder!
Your cheeks yet pale, since first he gave the wound!
By this I see, however things be past,
Yet Heaven will still have murder out at last.
AKING my pen, with words to cast my woe,
Duly to count the sum of all my cares;
I find, my griefs innumerable grow:
The reck'nings rise to millions of despairs.
And thus dividing of my fatal hours:
The payments of my Love, I read and cross;
Subtracting, set my Sweets unto my Sours.
My Joys' arrearage leads me to my loss.
And thus mine eyes a debtor to thine eye,
Which by extortion gaineth all their looks;
My heart hath paid such grievous usury,
That all their wealth lies in thy Beauty's books
And all is Thine which hath been due to me;
And I a bankrupt, quite undone by Thee!
RIGHT Star of Beauty! on whose Eyelids sit
A thousand nymph-like and enamoured Graces,
The Goddesses of Memory and Wit,
Which there in order take their several places.
In whose dear Bosom, sweet delicious Love
Lays down his quiver, which he once did bear,
Since he that blessèd Paradise did prove;
And leaves his mother's lap, to sport him there.
Let others strive to entertain with words!
My soul is of a braver mettle made:
I hold that vile, which vulgar Wit affords,
In me's that faith which Time cannot invade!
Let what I praise, be still made good by you!
Be you most worthy, whilst I am most true!
OTHING but "No!" and "*I!", and "I!" and "No!".
"How falls it out so strangely?" you reply.
I tell ye, Fair! I'll not be answered so!
With this affirming "No!", denying "I!".
I say "I love!" You slightly answer "I!".
I say "You love!" You pule me out a "No!".
I say "I die!" You echo me with "I!".
"Save me!" I cry; you sigh me out a "No!".
Must Woe and I have naught but "No!" and "I!"?
No "I!" am I, if I no more can have.
Answer no more! With silence make reply,
And let me take myself what I do crave!
Let "No!" and "I!" with I and you be so,
Then answer "No!" and "I!", and "I!" and "No!".
Ow many paltry foolish painted Things,
That now in coaches trouble every street,
Shall be forgotten (whom no Poet sings)
Ere they be well wrapped in their winding sheet!
Where I, to thee Eternity shall give!
When nothing else remaineth of these days.
And Queens hereafter shall be glad to live
Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise.
Virgins and matrons, reading these my rhymes,
Shall be so much delighted with thy Story,
That they shall grieve they lived not in these Times,
To have seen Thee, their sex's only glory!
So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng,
Still to survive in my immortal Song.
OVE, in a humour, played the prodigal,
And bade my Senses to a solemn feast;
Yet more to grace the company withal,
Invites my Heart to be the chiefest guest.
No other drink would serve this glutton's turn,
But precious Tears distilling from mine ey'n;
Which with my Sighs this epicure doth burn,
Quaffing carouses in this costly wine:
Where, in his cups, o'ercome with foul excess,
Straightways he plays a swaggering ruffian's part,
And at the banquet, in his drunkenness,
Slew his dear friend, my kind and truest Heart.
A gentle warning, friends! thus may you see,
What 'tis to keep a drunkard, company!
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