« AnteriorContinuar »
Then misconceive not, dearest heart !
My true, though secret, passion ;
And sues for no compassion !
A Vision upon the Fairy Queen.
Within that temple where the vestal flame
To see that buried dust of living fame,
All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen;
And, from thenceforth, those Graces were not seen : For they this queen attended ; in whose stead
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse :
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed,
On the same. The praise of meaner wits this work like profit brings, As doth the cuckoo's song delight, when Philomela sings; If thou hast formed right true Virtue's face herein, Virtue herself can best discern, to whom they written been. If thou hast Beauty prais'd, let her sole looks divine, Judge if ought therein be amiss, and mend it by her eyne. If Chastity want ought, or Temperance her due, Behold her princely mind aright, and write thy Queen anew. Meanwhile she shall perceive, how far her virtues soar Above the reach of all that live, or such as wrote of yore: And thereby will excuse and favour thy good will; Whose virtue cannot be express'd but by an angel's quill.
Of me no lines are lov’d, nor letters are of price,
The Lover's absence kills me, her presence kills me.
By struggling hard gets out her tender head,
But all in vain she looks upon the light,
What doth it help a wretch in prison pent,
Long time with biting hunger overpress'd,
Yet snake and prisoner both behold the thing,
Such is my taste, or worse, if worse may be ;
My heart oppress’d with heavy frost of care,
And yet I see the thing might yield relief,
So Thisbe saw her lover through the wall,
And saw thereby she wanted that she saw :
And so my death were twenty times my friend,
A Defiance to disdainful Love. Now have I learn'd, with much ado at last,
By true disdain to kill desire ;
This was the mark at which I shot so fast ;
Proud Love, now do thy worst, and spare not ;
What hast thou left wherewith to move my mind?
What life to quicken dead desire ?
In vain thou bait'st thy hook with Beauty's blaze;
In vain thy wanton eyes allure:
Some strange conceit must be devised,
The two following Poems are taken from Cayley's LIFE OF Ralegh; but it is not known from which of the authorities
referred to by him they are extracted.
In her sweet and shady bower,
But from her look
A wound he took
The nymph he prays;
Whereto she says,
But in vain she did conjure him
To depart her presence so,
When lips invite,
And eyes delight,
What boots to say,
He demands, what time for pleasure
Can there be more fit than now?
In Venus' plays
Makes bold,” she says,
But what promise, or profession,
From his hands could purchase scope ?
Or for the sight
Of lingering night,
Tho' ne'er so fair
Her speeches were,
How at last agreed these lovers ?
She was fair, and he was young:
Joys unseen are never sung.
Did she consent,
Or he relent ? Accepts he night, or grants she noon?
Left he her maid,
Or not? She said “ Forego me now, come to me soon !"
His Love admits no Rival.
If she undervalue me,
Were her tresses angel gold,
Were her lips as rich a prize
No; she must be perfect snow,