Yet loves at home to have a daintie wife;
The blunt-spoke Cynicke, poring on his Booke,
Sometimes (aside) at Beautie loves to looke;
The Churche-man, by whose Teaching we are led,
Allowes what keepes love in the Marriage Bed;
The bloudie Souldier, spent in 'dang'rous Broyles,
With Beautie yet content to share his Spoyles;
The busie Lawyer, wrangling in his Pleas,
Findeth that Beautie gives his labour ease;
The toyling Trades-man and the sweating Clowne
Would have his Wench faire though his Bread be browne : So much is Beautie pleasing unto all
That Prince and Pesant equally doth call,
Nor never yet did any Man despise it
Except too deare and that he could not prize it.
Unlearn'd is Learning, Artlesse be all Arts,
If not imploy'd to prayse thy sev'rall parts:
Poore plodding Schoole-men they are farre too low,
Which by Probations, Rules and Axiomes goe;
He must be still familiar with the Skies
Which notes the Revolutions of thine Eyes;
And by that Skill which measures Sea and Land
See Beauties All, thy Waste, thy Foot, thy Hand;
Where he may find, the more that he doth view,
Such rare Delights as are both strange and new,
And other Worlds of Beautie more and more
Which never were discovered before;
And to thy rare Proportion to apply
The Lines and Circles in Geometry,
Using alone Arithmetikes strong ground,
Numbring the Vertues that in thee are found:
And when these all have done what they can doo,
For thy Perfections all too little too.
When from the East the Dawne hath gotten out
And gone to seeke thee all the World about,
Within thy Chamber hath she fix'd her Light
Where, but that place, the World hath all beene Night: Then is it fit that ev'ry vulgar Eye
Should see Love banquet in her Majestie?
We deeme those things our Sight doth most frequent
To be but meane, although most excellent;
For strangers still the streets are swept and strow'd,
Few looke on such as dayly come abroad;
Things much restrain'd doe make us much desire them,
And Beauties seldome seene make us admire them.
Nor is it fit a Citie shop should hide
The Worlds delight and Natures onely Pride;
But in a Princes sumptuous Gallerie
Hung all with Tissue, floor'd with Tapestrie,
Where thou shalt sit and from thy State shalt see
The Tilts and Triumphs that are done for thee.
Then know the difference (if thou list to prove)
Betwixt a Vulgar and a Kingly love;
And when thou find'st, as now thou doubt'st, the troth, Be thou thy selfe unpartiall Judge of both.
Where Hearts be knit what helpes if not injoy! Delay breeds doubts, no Cunning to be coy; Whilst lazie Time his turne by tarriance serves, Love still growes sickly and Hope dayly starves. Meane while receive that Warrant by these lines Which Princely Rule and Sov'raigntie resignes; Till when, these Papers by their Lords command By me shall kisse thy sweet and daintie Hand.
From "Heroicall Epistles," ed. 1619.
Mary the French Queene, to Charles Brandon,
Duke of Suffolke.
UCH health from Heav'n my selfe may wish to mee,
Brandon, how long mak'st thou excuse to stay
And know'st how ill we Women brooke delay ?
If one poore Channell thus can part us two,
Tell me (unkind) what would an Ocean doe?
Leander had an Hellespont to swim,
Yet this from Hero could not hinder him;
His Barke (poore Soule) his Brest, his Armes his Oares;
But thou a Ship to land thee on our shoares,
And opposite to famous Kent doth lie
The pleasant Fields of flowrie Picardie,
Where our faire Callice, walled in her Sands,
In Kenning of the Cliffie Dover stands.
Here is no Beldam Nurse to powt nor lowre
When wantoning we revell in my Towre,
Nor need I top my Turret with a Light
To guide thee to me as thou swim'st by Night,
Compar'd with me wert thou but halfe so kind,
Thy Sighs should stuffe thy Sayles though wanting Wind;
But thy Brest is becalm'd, thy Sighs be slacke,
And mine too stiffe and blow thy broad Sayles backe.
But thou wilt say that I should blame the Floud.
Because the Wind so full against thee stood:
Nay, blame it not that it did roughly blow,
For it did chide thee for thou wert so slow;
For it came not to keepe thee in the Bay,
But came from me to bid thee come away:
But that thou vainely let'st occasion slide
Thou might'st have wafted hither with the tide..
If, when thou com'st, I knit mine angry Brow,
Blame me not, Brandon; thou hast broke thy Vow:
Yet if I meant to frowne I might be dumbe,
For this may make thee stand in doubt to come:
Nay come, sweet Charles; have care thy Ship to guide;
Come, my sweet, Heart, in faith I will not chide.
When as my Brother and his lovely Queene
In sad attyre for my depart were seene,
The utmost date expired of my stay,
When I from Dover did depart away;
Thou know'st what Woe I suff'red for thy sake,
How oft I fain'd of thee my leave to take;
God and thou know'st with what a heavie Heart
I tooke my farewell when I should depart,
And being ship'd gave signall with my Hand
Up to the Cliffe where I did see thee stand,
Nor could refraine in all the peoples view
But cryed to thee, Sweet Charles, adiew, adiew.
Looke how a little Infant that hath lost
The thing wherewith it was delighted most,
Wearie with seeking, to some corner creepes
And there (poore Soule) it sits it downe and weepes;
And when the Nurse would faine content the mind
Yet still it mournes for that it cannot find:
Thus in my carefull Cabbin did I lye
When as the Ship out of the Road did flie.
From "Heroicall Epistles," ed. 1619.
Henry Howard, Earle of Surrey, To the
Lady Geraldine.
HE Earle of Surrey, that renowned Lord,
Th'old English Glory bravely that restor'd,
That Prince and Poet (a Name more divine)
Falling in love with beautious Geraldine,
Of the Geraldi which derive their Name.
From Florence: whither to advance her Fame
He travels, and by publique Fusts maintayn'd
Her Beautie peerelesse, which by Armes he gayn'd;
But staying long, faire Italy to see,
To let her know him constant still to bee,
From Tuskany this Letter to her writes
Which her Rescription instantly invites.
From learned Florence (long time rich in fame)
From whence thy Race, thy noble grandsir[e]s came,
To famous England, that kind Nurse of mine,
Thy Surrey sends to heav'nly Geraldine:
Yet let not Tuscan thinke I doe it wrong
That I from thence write in my Native Tongue,
That in these harsh-tun'd Cadences I sing,
Sitting so neere the Muses sacred Spring;
But rather thinke it selfe adorn'd thereby
|