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SONNETS.

[From the Poems.]

In my first years, and prime yet not at height,
When sweet conceits my wits did entertain,
Ere beauty's force I knew, or false delight,
Or to what oar she did her captives chain,
Led by a sacred troop of Phœbus' train,
I first began to read, then lov'd to write,
And so to praise a perfect red and white,

But, God wot, wist not what was in my brain :
Love smil❜d to see in what an awful guise
I turn'd those antiques of the age of gold,
And, that I might more mysteries behold,
He set so fair a volume to mine eyes,

That I (quires clos'd which dead, dead sighs but breathe)
Joy on this living book to read my death.

Then is she gone? O fool and coward I!

O good occasion lost, ne'er to be found!
What fatal chains have my dull senses bound,
When best they may, that they not fortune try?
Here is the flow'ry bed where she did lie,
With roses here she stellified the ground,
She fix'd her eyes on this yet smiling pond,
Nor time, nor courteous place, seem'd ought deny.
Too long, too long, Respect, I do embrace
Your counsel, full of threats and sharp disdain ;
Disdain in her sweet heart can have no place,
And though come there, must straight retire again:
Henceforth, Respect, farewell, I oft hear told
Who lives in love can never be too bold.

If crost with all mishaps be my poor life,
If one short day I never spent in mirth,
If my spright with itself holds lasting strife,
If sorrow's death is but new sorrow's birth;
If this vain world be but a sable stage
Where slave-born man plays to the scoffing stars;
If youth be toss'd with love, with weakness age,
If knowledge serve to hold our thoughts in wars;
If time can close the hundred mouths of fame,
And make, what long since past, like that to be;
If virtue only be an idle name,

If I, when I was born, was born to die;

Why seek I to prolong these loathsome days?
The fairest rose in shortest time decays.

Thou window, once which served for a sphere
To that dear planet of my heart, whose light
Made often blush the glorious queen of night,
While she in thee more beauteous did appear,
What mourning weeds, alas! now dost thou wear?
How loathsome to mine eyes is thy sad sight?
How poorly look'st thou, with what heavy cheer,
Since that sun set, which made thee shine so bright?
Unhappy now thee close, for as of late

To wond'ring eyes thou wast a paradise,
Bereft of her who made thee fortunate,

A gulf thou art, whence clouds of sighs arise;
But unto none so noisome as to me,

Who hourly see my murder'd joys in thee.

Alexis, here she stay'd; among these pines,
Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair;

Here did she spread the treasure of her hair,
More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines.
She sate her by these musked eglantines,

The happy place the print seems yet to bear;

Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar'd lines,

To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend their ear.
Me here she first perceiv'd, and here a morn
Of bright carnations did o'erspread her face;
Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born,
And I first got a pledge of promis'd grace:

But, ah! what serv'd it to be happy so,
Sith passed pleasures double but new woe?

SEXTAIN.

The heaven doth not contain so many stars,

So many leaves not prostrate lie in woods,
When autumn's old, and Boreas sounds his wars,
So many waves have not the ocean floods,
As my rent mind hath torments all the night,

And heart spends sighs, when Phoebus brings the light.

Why should I been a partner of the light,
Who, crost in birth by bad aspects of stars,
Have never since had happy day nor night?
Why was not I a liver in the woods,

Or citizen of Thetis' crystal floods,

Than made a man, for love and fortune's wars?

I look each day when death should end the wars,
Uncivil wars, 'twixt sense and reason's light;
My pains I count to mountains, meads, and floods,
And of my sorrow partners make the stars;
All desolate I haunt the fearful woods,
When I should give myself to rest at night.

With watchful eyes I ne'er behold the night,

Mother of peace, but ah! to me of wars,

And Cynthia queen-like shining through the woods,
When straight those lamps come in my thought, whose light

My judgment dazzled, passing brightest stars,

And then mine eyes en-isle themselves with floods.

Turn to their springs again first shall the floods,
Clear shall the sun the sad and gloomy night,
To dance about the pole cease shall the stars,
The elements renew their ancient wars
Shall first, and be depriv'd of place and light,
Ere I find rest in city, fields, or woods.

End these my days, indwellers of the woods,
Take this my life, ye deep and raging floods;
Sun, never rise to clear me with thy light,
Horror and darkness, keep a lasting night;
Consume me, care, with thy intestine wars,
And stay your influence o'er me, bright stars!

In vain the stars, indwellers of the woods,
Care, horror, wars, I call, and raging floods,
For all have sworn no night shall dim my sight.

Phœbus, arise,

SONG.

And paint the sable skies

With azure, white, and red;

Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed,
That she thy cáreer1 may with roses spread;
The nightingales thy coming each where sing;
Make an eternal spring,

Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
Spread forth thy golden hair

In larger locks than thou wast wont before,

1 Printed careere in the Bodleian copy. Elsewhere cariere or carrier.

And, emperor like, decore

With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:

Chase hence the ugly night,

Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.

This is that happy morn

That day, long-wished day,

Of all my life so dark

(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn, And fates not hope betray),

Which, only white, deserves

A diamond for ever should it mark:
This is the morn should bring unto this grove
My love, to hear and recompense my love.
Fair king, who all preserves,

But show thy blushing beams,

And thou two sweeter eyes

Shalt see, than those which by Peneus' streams Did once thy heart surprise;

Nay, suns, which shine as clear

As thou when two thou did to Rome appear.

Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise;

If that ye, winds, would hear

A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,

Your stormy chiding stay;

Let zephyr only breathe,

And with her tresses play,

Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death.
The winds all silent are,
And Phoebus in his chair,
Ensaffroning sea and air,
Makes vanish every star:
Night like a drunkard reels

Beyond the hills to shun his flaming wheels;
The fields with flow'rs are deck'd in every hue,

The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue: Here is the pleasant place,

And every thing, save her, who all should grace.

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