What guyle is this, that those her _golden
She doth attyre under a net of gold; [tresses
And with sly skill so cunningly them dresses,
That which is gold, or heare, may scarse be
told?
Lyke as a ship, that through the Ocean wyde,
By conduct of some star, doth make her way; Is it that mens frayle eyes, which gaze too bold,
Whenas a storme hath dimd her trusty guyde, She may entangle in that golden snare;
Out of her course doth wander far astray! And, being caught, may craftily enfold
So I, whose star, that wont with her bright. Theyr weaker harts, which are not wel aware?
Take heed, therefore, myne eyes, how ye doe
Henceforth too rashly on that guilefull net,
In which, if ever ye entrapped are,
Out of her bands ye by no meanes shall get.
Fondnesse it were for any, being free,
To covet fetters, though they golden bee!
Arion, when, through tempests cruel wracke,
He forth was thrown into the greedy seas;
Through the sweet musick, which his harp
did make,
Allur'd a Dolphin him from death to ease.
But my rude musick, which was wont to please
Some dainty eares, cannot, with any skill,
The dreadfull tempest of her wrath appease,
Nor move the Dolphin from her stubborn will,
But in her pride she dooth persever still.
All carelesse how my life for her decayes:
Yet with one word she can it save or spill.
To spill were pitty, but to save were prayse!
Chose rather to be praysd for dooing good.
Then to be blam'd for spilling guiltlesse
Sweet Smile! the daughter of the Queene of
Love,
Expressing all thy mothers powrefull art.
With which she wants to temper angry Jove,
When all the gods he threats with thundring
dart:
Sweet is thy vertue, as thy selfe sweet art.
For, when on me thou shinedst late in sadnesse.
A melting pleasance ran through every part,
And me revived with hart-robbing gladnesse.
Whylest rapt with joy resembling heavenly
madnes,
My soule was ravisht quite as in a traunce;
And feeling thence, no more her sorowes
rad on the fulnesse of that chearefull glaunce,
Mark when she smiles with amiable cheare,
And tell me whereto can ye lyken it;
When on each eyelid sweetly doe appeare
An hundred Graces as in shade to sit.
Lykest it seemeth, in my simple wit,
Unto the fayre sunshine in somers day;
That, when a dreadfull storme away is flit,
Thrugh the broad world doth spred his goodly
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 theyr drouping hed.
So my storme-beaten hart likewise is cheared
With that sunshine, when cloudy looks are
cleared.
Is it her nature, or is it her will,
To be so cruell to an humbled foe?
If nature; then she may it mend with skill:
If will; then she at will may will forgoe.
But if her nature and her wil be so,
That she will plague the man that loves her
[most,
And take delight t' encrease a wretches woe;
Then all her natures goodly guifts are lost:
And that same glorious beauties ydle boast
Is but a bayt such wretches to beguile,
As, being long in her loves tempest tost,
She meanes at last to make her pitious spoyle.
O fayrest fayre! let never it be named,
That so fayre beauty was so fowly shamed.
The love which me so cruelly tormenteth,
So pleasing is in my extreamest paine,
That, all the more my sorrow it augmenteth,
The more I love and doe embrace my bane.
Ne doe I wish (for wishing were but vaine)
To be acquit fro my continual smart ;
But joy, her thrall for ever to remayne,
And yield for pledge my poore captyved hart;
The which, that it from her may never start,
Let her, yf please her, bynd with adamant
chayne:
And from all wandring loves, which mote per-
[vart
His safe assurance, strongly it restrayne.
Onely let her abstaine from cruelty.
And doe me not before my time to dy.
Shall I then silent be, or shall I speake?
And, if I speake, her wrath renew I shall;
And, if I silent be, my hart will breake,
Or choked be with overflowing gall.
What tyranny is this, both my hart to thrall,
And eke my toung with proud restraint to tie;
That nether I may speake nor thinke at all,
But like a stupid stock in silence die'
Thrugh stubborn pride, amongst themselves did
When those renoumed noble Peres of Greece,
Forgetfull of the famous golden fleece; [jar,
Then Orpheus with his harp theyr strife did bar.
The which my selfe against my selfe doe make;
But this continuall, cruell, civill warre,
Whilest my weak powres of passions warreid
No skill can stint, nor reason can aslake. [arre;
But, when in hand my tunelesse harp I take,
Then doe I more augment my foes despight;
To battaile, fresh against my selfe to fight.
And griefe renew, and passions doe awake
Mongst whome the more I seeke to settle
peace,
The more I find their malice to increase.
Leave, lady! in your glasse of cristall clene,
Your goodly selfe for evermore to vew:
Within my hart, though hardly it can shew
And in my selfe, my inward selfe, I meane,
Most lively lyke behold your semblant trew.
Thing so divine to vew of earthly eye,
The fayre Idea of your celestiall hew
And every part remaines immortally:
And were it not that, through your cruelty,
The goodly ymage of your visnomy,
With sorrow dimmed and deform'd it were,
Clearer then cristall, would therein appere.
But, if your selfe in me ye playne will see,
Remove the cause by which your fayre
beames darkned be.
When my abodes prefixed time is spent,
My cruell fayre streight bids me wend my way:
But then from heaven most hideous stormes
are sent,
As willing me against her will to stay.
Whom then shall I, or heaven or her, obay?
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 bee.
But ye high hevens, that all this sorowe see,
Sith all your tempests cannot hold me backe,
Will both together me too sorely wracke.
Aswage your storms; or else both you, and she,
Enough it is for one man to sustaine
The storme-
Trust not the treason of those smyling lookes,
Untill ye have theyr guylefull traynes well
tryde:
For they are lyke but unto golden hookes,
That from the foolish fish they'r bayts doe hyde:
So she with flattring smyles weake harts doth
guyde
Unto her love, and tempte to theyr decay;
Whome, being caught, she kills with cruell
pryde,
Vayne man, quod I, that hast but little priefe
In deep discovery of the mynds disease;
And rules the members as it selfe doth please?
Is not the hart of all the body chiefe,
Then, with some cordialls, seeke first to appease
The inward languor of my wounded hart,
But such sweet cordialls passe Physitions art.
And then my body shall have shortly ease:
Then, my lyfes Leach! doe your skill reveale;
And, with one salve, both hart and body
heale.
And feeds at pleasure on the wretched pray:
Yet, even whylst her bloody hands them slay, Doe I not see that fayrest ymages
For that they should endure through many ages,
Her eyes looke lovely, and upon them smyle; Of hardest marble are of purpose made,
That they take pleasure in her cruell play,
And, dying, doe themselves of payne beguyle. Ne let theyr famous moniments to fade?
O mighty charm! which makes men love Why then doe I, untrainde in lovers trade,
[payne. Her hardnes blame, which I should more com-
theyr bane,
And thinck they dy with pleasure, live with Sith neve rought was excellent assayde [mend?
Which was not hard t' atchieve and bring to
Innocent paper; whom too cruell hand
Did make the matter to avenge her yre:
And, ere she could thy cause wel understand,
Did sacrifize unto the greedy fyre.
Well worthy thou to have found better hyre,
Then so bad end for hereticks ordayned;
Yet heresy nor treason didst conspire,
But plead thy maisters cause, unjustly payned.
Whom she, all carelesse of his griefe con-
strayned
To utter forth the anguish of his hart:
And would not heare, when he to her complayned
The piteous passion of his dying smart.
Yet live for ever, though against her will,
And speake her good, though she requite it ill.
Fayre cruell! why are ye so fierce and cruell?
Is it because your eyes have powre to kill?
Then know that mercy is the Mighties jewell:
And greater glory thinke, to save then spill.
But if it be your pleasure, and proud will,
To shew the powre of your imperious eyes;
Then not on him that never thought you ill,
But bend your force against your enemyes:
Let them feele the utmost of your crueltyes;
And kill with looks as Cockatrices doo:
But him, that at your footstoole humbled lies,
With mercifull regard give mercy too.
Such mercy shall you make admyr'd to be;
So shall you live, by giving life to me.
Ne ought so hard, but he, that would attend,
Mote soften it and to his will allure:
So doe I hope her stubborne hart to bend,
And that it then more stedfast will endure:
Onely my paines wil be the more to get her;
But, having her, my joy wil be the greater.
So oft as homeward I from her depart,
I goe lyke one that, having lost the field,
Is prisoner led away with heavy hart,
Despoyld of warlike armes and knowen shield.
So doe I now my selfe a prisoner yeeld
To sorrow and to solitary paine;
From presence of my dearest deare exylde,
Long-while alone in langour to remaine.
There let no thought of joy, or pleasure vaine,
Dare to approch, that may my solace breed;
But sudden dumps, and drery sad disdayne
Of all worlds gladnesse, more my torment feed.
So I her absens will my penaunce make,
That of her presens I my meed may take.
The Panther, knowing that his spotted hyde
Doth please all beasts, but that his looks them
To let them gaze, whylest he on them may pray
Within a bush his dreadfull head doth hide,
Right so my cruell fayre with me doth play;
For, with the goodly semblant of her hew,
She doth allure me to mine owne decay,
And then no mercy will unto me shew.
Great shame it is, thing so divine in view,
worlds most ornament,
Cembrew:
But mercy doth with beautie best agree,
As in theyr Maker ye them best may see.
Of this worlds Theatre in which we stay,
My love, lyke the Spectator. ydly sits;
Beholding me, that all the pageants play,
Disguysing diversly my troubled wits.
Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits,
And mask in myrth lyke to a Comedy:
Soone after, when my joy to sorrow flits,
I waile, and make my woes a Tragedy.
Yet she, beholding me with constant eye,
Delights not in my merth, nor rues my smart:
But, when I laugh, she mocks; and, when I cry,
She laughes, and hardens evermore her hart.
What then can move her? if nor merth nor
mone,
She is no woman, but a sencelesse stone.
So oft as I her beauty doe behold,
And therewith doe her cruelty compare,
I marvaile of what substance was the mould,
The which her made attonce so cruell faire.
Not earth, for her high thoghts more heavenly
Not water, for her love doth burne like fyre:
Not ayre; for she is not so light or rare:
Not fyre: for she doth friese with faint desire.
Then needs another Element inquire
Whereof she mote be made, that is, the skye.
For to the heaven her haughty lookes aspire:
And eke her mind is pure immortall hye.
Then, sith so heaven ye lykened are the best,
Be lyke in mercy as in all the rest.
Fayre ye be sure, but cruell and unkind,
As is a Tygre, that with greedinesse
Hunts after bloud; when he by chance doth
A feeble beast, doth felly him oppresse.
Fayre be ye sure, but proud and pittilesse,
As is a storme, that all things doth prostrate;
Finding a tree alone all comfortlesse,
Beats on it strongly, it to ruinate.
Fayre be ye sure, but hard and obstinate,
As is a rocke amidst the raging floods:
Gaynst which, a ship, of succour desolate,
Doth suffer wreck both of her selfe and goods.
That ship, that tree, and that same beast,
am I,
Whom
ye edoe wreck, doe ruine, and destroy.
Which I no lenger can endure to sue,
Ne your incessant battry more to beare:
So weake my powres, so sore my wounds,
appeare,
That wonder is how I should live a jot,
Seeing my hart through-launced every where
With thousand arrowes, which your eies have
shot:
Yet shoot ye sharpely still, and spare me not,
But glory thinke to make these cruel stoures.
Ye cruell one! what glory can be got,
In slaying him that would live gladly yours!
Make peace therefore, and graunt me timely
That al my wounds wil heale in little space.
By her that is most assured to her selfe. Weake is th' assurance that weake flesh reposeth
Her selfe assurd, and is of nought affrayd.
In her owne powre, and scorneth others ayde;
That soonest fals, when as she most supposeth
Like a vaine bubble blowen up with ayre:
All flesh is frayle, and all her strength unstayd,
Devouring tyme and changeful chance have
prayd,
Ne none so rich or wise, so strong or fayre,
Her glories pride that none may it repayre.
And he, that standeth on the hyghest stayre,
Fals lowest; for on earth nought hath endur-
But fayleth, trusting on his owne assurance;
Why then doe ye, proud fayre, misdeeme
[so farre,
That to your selfe ye most assured arre!
That nether will for better be allured,
Thrise happie she! that is so well assured
Unto her selfe, and setled so in hart,
Ne feard with worse to any chaunce to start;
The raging waves, and keepes her course
But, like a steddy ship, doth strongly part
aright;
Ne ought for tempest doth from it depart,
Ne ought for fayrer weathers false delight.
Such selfe-assurance need not feare the spight
But, in the stay of her owne stedfast might,
Nether to one her selfe nor other bends.
Of grudging foes, ne favour seek of friends:
Most happy she, that most assur'd doth rest;
But he most happy, who such one loves best.
Sweet warriour! when shall I have peace They, that in course of heavenly spheares are
High time it is this warre now ended were
In which her circles voyage is fulfild,
As Mars in three-score yeares doth run his
spheare.
So, since the winged god his planet cleare
Began in me to move, one yeare is spent:
The which doth longer unto me appeare,
Then al those fourty which my life out-went.
Then by that count, which lovers books invent,
The spheare of Cupid fourty yeares containes:
Which I have wasted in long languishment,
That seemd the longer for my greater paines.
But let my loves fayre Planet short her
This yeare ensuing, or else short my dayes.
The glorious image of the Makers beautie,
My soverayne saynt, the Idoll of my thought,
Dare not henceforth, above the bounds of
dewtie,
T'accuse of pride, or rashly blame for ought.
For being, as she is, divinely wrought,
And of the brood of Angels hevenly borne;
And with the crew of blessed Saynts upbrought,
Each of which did her with theyr guifts adorne;
The bud of joy, the blossome of the morne,
The beame of light, whom mortal eyes admyre;
What reason is it then but she should scorne
Base things, that to her love too bold aspire!
Such heavenly formes ought rather worshipt
be,
Then dare be lov'd by men of meane degree.
The weary yeare his race now having run,
The new begins his compast course anew:
With shew of morning mylde he hath begun,
Betokening peace and plenty to ensew.
So let us, which this chaunge of weather vew,
Chaunge eke our mynds, and former lives
amend;
The old yeares sinnes forepast let us eschew,
And fly the faults with which we did offend.
Then shall the new yeares joy forth freshly
send,
Into the glooming world, his gladsome ray:
And all these stormes, which now his beauty
blend,
Shall turne to caulmes, and tymely cleare away.
So, likewise, Love! cheare you your heavy
spright,
And chaunge old yeares annoy to new de-
light.
After long stormes and tempests sad assay,
Which hardly I endured heretofore,
In dread of death, and daungerous dismay,
tossed sore:
I doe at length descry the happy shore,
In which I hope ere long for to arryve:
Fayre soyle it seemes from far, and fraught
Of all that deare and daynty is alyve.
Most happy he! that can at last atchyve
The joyous safety of so sweet a rest;
Whose least delight sufficeth to deprive
Remembrance of all paines which him opprest.
All paines are nothing in respect of this;
All sorrowes short that gaine eternall blisse.
Comming to kisse her lyps, (such grace I found.)
Me seemd, I smelt a gardin of sweet flowres,
That dainty odours from them threw around,
For damzels fit to decke their lovers bowres.
Her lips did smell lyke unto Gilly flowers;
Her ruddy cheekes, lyke unto Roses red;
Her snowy browes, like budded Bellamoures;
Her lovely eyes, lyke Pincks but newly spred;
Her goodly bosome, lyke a Strawberry bed;
Her neck, lyke to a bounch of Cullambynes:
Her brest, lyke Lillyes, ere theyr leaves be
shed;
Her nipples, lyke yong blossomed Jessemynes:
Such fragrant flowers doe give most odorous
But her sweet odour did them all excell.
The doubt which ye misdeeme, fayre love, is
That fondly feare to loose your liberty; [vaine,
When, loosing one, two liberties ye gayne,
And make him bond that bondage earst dyd fly.
Sweet be the bands, the which true love doth
Without constraynt, or dread of any ill: [tye
The gentle birde feeles no captivity
Within her cage; but singes, and feeds her fill.
There pride dare not approch, nor discord spill
The league twixt them, that loyal love hath
bound:
But simple truth, and mutuall good-will,
[towre,
Seekes with sweet peace, to salve each others
There Fayth doth fearlesse dwell in brasen And spotlesse Pleasure builds her sacred bowre.
To all those happy blessings, which ye have
With plenteous hand by heaven upon you
This one disparagement they to you gave,
That ye your love lent to so meane a one.
Yee, whose high worths surpassing paragon
Could not on earth have found one fit for mate,
Ne but in heaven matchable to none,
Why did ye stoup unto so lowly state?
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