Where silver sand and pebbles sing
Eternal ditties with the spring.
There shall you see the nymphs at play;
And how the satyrs spend the day;
The fishes gliding on the sands,
Offering their bellies to your hands.
The birds, with heavenly-tuned throats,
Possess woods' echoes with sweet notes;
Which to your senses will impart
A music to inflame the heart.
Upon the bare and leafless oak
The ring-dove's wooings will provoke
A colder blood than you possess,
To play with me and do no less.
In bowers of laurel trimly dight
We will outwear the silent night;
While Flora busy is to spread
Her richest treasure on our bed.
Ten thousand glowworms shall attend, And all their sparkling lights shall spend, All to adorn and beautify
Your lodging with most majesty.
Then in mine arms will I enclose
Lilies' fair mixture with the rose;
Whose nice perfections in love's play
Shall tune me to the highest key.
Thus as we pass the welcome night,
In sportful pleasures and delight,
The nimble fairies on the grounds
Shall dance and sing melodious sounds.
If these may serve for to entice
Your presence to Love's paradise,
Then come with me, and be my dear,
And we will straight begin the year.
My wanton Muse, that whilom wont to sing
Fair Beauty's praise and Venus' sweet delight,
Of late had chang'd the tenor of her string
To higher tunes than serve for Cupid's fight:
Shrill trumpets' sound, sharp swords, and lances strong, War, blood, and death, were matter of her song.
The God of Love by chance had heard thereof,
That I was prov'd a rebel to his crown;
"Fit words for war," quoth he, with angry scoff,
"A likely man to write of Mars his frown.
Well are they sped whose praises he shall write,
Whose wanton pen can nought but love endite."
This said, he whisk'd his partycolour'd wings,
And down to earth he comes more swift than thought;
Then to my heart in angry haste he flings,
To see what change these news of wars had wrought.
He pries, and looks; he ransacks ev'ry vein;
Yet finds he nought, save love, and lover's pain.
Then I, that now perceiv'd his needless fear,
With heavy smile began to plead my cause:
"In vain," quoth I," this endless grief I bear;
In vain I strive to keep thy grievous laws:
If after proof, so often trusty found,
Unjust Suspect condemn me as unsound.
Is this the guerdon of my faithful heart?
Is this the hope on which my life is stayed?
Is this the ease of never-ceasing smart?
Is this the price that for my pains is paid?
Yet better serve fierce Mars in bloody field, Where death, or conquest, end, or joy doth yield!
Long have I serv'd: what is my pay but pain?
Oft have I su'd: what gain I but delay?
My faithful love is 'quited with disdain ;
My grief a game, my pen is made a play;
Yea, love, that doth in other favour find,
In me is counted madness out of kind.
And last of all, but grievous most of all,
Thyself, sweet Love, hath kill'd me with suspect:
Could Love believe, that I from love would fall?
Is war of force to make me love neglect?
No, Cupid knows, my mind is faster set,
Than that by war I should my love forget.
My Muse, indeed, to war inclines her mind;
The famous acts of worthy Brute to write:
To whom the gods this island's rule assign'd,
Which long he sought by seas through Neptune's spite.
With such conceits my busy head doth swell;
But in my heart nought else but love doth dwell.
And in this war thy part is not the least:
Here shall my Muse Brute's noble love declare ;
Here shalt thou see thy double love increas'd,
Of fairest twins that ever lady bare.
Let Mars triumph in armour shining bright,
His conquer'd arms shall be thy triumph's light.
As he the world, so thou shalt him subdue,
And I thy glory through the world will ring;
So, by my pains, thou wilt vouchsafe to rue,
And kill Despair." With that he whisk'd his wing,
And bid me write, and promis'd wished rest,
But sore I fear, false hope will be the best.
The Shepherd to the Flowers.
SWEET violets, Love's paradise, that spread
Your gracious odours, which you couched bear
Within your paly faces,
Upon the gentle wing of some calm breathing wind,
That plays amidst the plain,
If by the favour of propitious stars you gain
Such grace as in my lady's bosom place to find,
Be proud to touch those places!
And when her warmth your moisture forth doth wear,
Whereby her dainty parts are sweetly fed,
Your honours of the flowery meads I pray,
You pretty daughters of the earth and sun,
With mild and seemly breathing, straight display
My bitter sighs, that have my heart undone !
Vermilion roses, that with new days rise,
Display your crimson folds fresh looking fair,
Whose radiant bright disgraces
The rich adorn'd rays of roseate rising morn!
Ah, if her virgin's hand
Do pluck your purse, ere Phoebus view the land, And veil your gracious pomp in lovely Nature's scorn, If chance my mistress traces
Fast by the flowers to take the summer's air,
Then woeful blushing tempt her glorious eyes To spread their tears, Adonis' death reporting, And tell Love's torments, sorrowing for her friend, Whose drops of blood, within your leaves consorting, Report fair Venus' moans to have no end! Then may Remorse, in pitying of my smart, Dry up my tears, and dwell within her heart!
Upon Gascoigne's Poem, called " The Steel-glass." SWEET were the sauce would please each kind of taste; The life likewise was pure that never swerv'd;
For spiteful tongues, in canker'd stomachs plac'd,
Deem worst of things, which best, percase, deserv'd.
But what for that? this medicine may suffice
To scorn the rest, and seek to please the wise.
Though sundry minds in sundry sort do deem,
Yet worthiest wights yield praise for every pain;
But envious brains do nought, or light, esteem
Such stately steps as they cannot attain:
For whoso reaps renown above the rest,
With heaps of hate shall surely be opprest.
Wherefore, to write my censure of this book,
This "Glass of Steel" impartially doth shew
Abuses all to such as in it look,
From prince to poor; from high estate to low.
As for the verse, who list like trade to try,
I fear me much, shall hardly reach so high!
Thirsis the Shepherd to his Pipe.
LIKE desert woods, with darksome shades obscured, Where dreadful beasts, where hateful horror reigneth, Such is my wounded heart, whom sorrow paineth.
The trees are fatal shafts, to death inured,
That cruel love within my breast maintaineth,
To whet my grief, when as my sorrow waineth.
The ghastly beasts my thoughts in cares assured, Which wage me war, while heart no succour gaineth, With false suspect, and fear that still remaineth.
The horrors, burning sighs, by cares procured, Which forth I send, whilst weeping eye complaineth, To cool the heat the helpless heart containeth.
But shafts, but cares, but sighs, honours unrecured,
|
