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Table of Contents | |
Section | Page |
Start of eBook | 1 |
MARTHA FOOTE CROW | 1 |
TO THE READER OF THESE SONNETS | 3 |
TO THE SOUL | 6 |
HIS REMEDY FOR LOVE | 7 |
TO TIME | 7 |
TO HUMOUR | 8 |
TO DESPAIR | 9 |
TO THE VESTALS | 11 |
TO THE RIVER ANKOR | 11 |
TO ADMIRATION | 12 |
CUPID CONJURED | 12 |
XXXIX | 13 |
XL | 13 |
ANOTHER TO THE RIVER ANKOR | 17 |
TO PROVERBS | 18 |
BARTHOLOMEW GRIFFIN | 19 |
TO FIDESSA | 20 |
WILLIAM SMITH | 36 |
TO THE MOST EXCELLENT AND LEARNED SHEPHERD COLIN CLOUT | 36 |
Kegan Paul, Trench, Truebner and Co.
Paternoster House London W.C.
1897
Idea
by
Michael Drayton
Fidessa
by
Bartholomew Griffin
Chloris
by
William Smith
Idea
by
Michael Drayton
The true story of the life of Michael Drayton might be told to vindicate the poetic traditions of the olden time. A child-poet wandering in fay-haunted Arden, or listening to the harper that frequented the fireside of Polesworth Hall where the boy was a petted page, later the honoured almoner of the bounty of many patrons, one who “not unworthily,” as Tofte said, “beareth the name of the chiefest archangel, singing after this soule-ravishing manner,” yet leaving but “five pounds lying by him at his death, which was satis viatici ad coelum”—is not this the panorama of a poetic career? But above all, to complete the picture of the ideal poet, he worshipped, and hopelessly, from youth to age the image of one, woman. He never married, and while many patronesses were honoured with his poetic addresses, there was one fair dame to whom he never offered dedicatory sonnet, a silence that is full of meaning. Yet the praises of Idea, his poetic name for the lady of his admiration and love, are written all over the pages of his voluminous lyrical and chorographical and historical poems, and her very name is quaintly revealed to us. Anne Goodere was the younger daughter in the noble family where Drayton was bred and educated; and one may picture the fair child standing “gravely merry” by the little page to listen to “John Hews his lyre,” at that ancestral fireside. “Where I love, I love for years,” said Drayton in 1621. As late as 1627, but four years before his death, he writes an elegy of his lady’s not coming to London, in which he complains that he has been starved for her short letters and has had to read last year’s over again. About the same time he is writing that immortal sonnet, the sixty-first, the one that Rossetti, with perhaps something too much of partiality, has declared to be almost, if not quite, the best in the language. The tragedy of a whole life is concentrated in that sonnet, and the heart-pang in it is unmistakable. But Drayton had stood as witness to the will of Anne’s father, by which L1500 was set down for her marriage portion. She was an heiress, he a penniless poet, and what was to be done?
About 1590, when Drayton was twenty-eight, and Anne was probably twenty-one years old, Drayton left Polesworth Hall and came to London. Perhaps the very parting was the means of revealing his heart to himself, for it is from near this time that, as he confesses later, he dates the first consciousness of his love. He soon publishes Idea, the Shepherd’s Garland, Rowland’s Sacrifice to the Nine Muses, where
Idea’s Mirrour, Amours in Quatorzains, formed the title under which the sonnet-cycle appeared in 1594. Idea was reprinted eight times before 1637, the edition of 1619 being the chief and serving for the foundation of our text. Many changes and additions were made by the author in the successive editions; in fact only twenty of the fifty-one “amours” in Idea’s Mirrour escaped the winnowing, while the famous sixty-first appears for the first time in 1619. There is a distinct progress manifest in the subdual of language and form to artistic finish, and while the cycle in its unevenness represents the early and late stages of poetic progress, the more delicate examples of his work show him worthy of the praise bestowed by his latest admirer and critic,
“Faith, Michael Drayton bears
the bell
For numbers airy.”
It will be noted that, while many rhyme-arrangements are experimented upon, the Shakespearean or quatrain-and-couplet form predominates. In the less praiseworthy sonnets he is found to lack grammatical clamping and to allow frequent faults in rhythm, and he toys with the glittering and soulless conceit as much as any; but where his individuality has fullest sway, as in the picturesque Arden memory of the fifty-third, the personal reminiscences of the Ankor sonnets, and the vivid theatre theme of the forty-seventh, in what Main calls that “magical realisation of the spirit of evening” in the thirty-seventh, and above all in the naive and passionate sixty-first, there is a rude strength that pierces beneath the formalities and touches and moves the heart. Drayton, like Sidney and Daniel and Shakespeare, draws freely upon the general thought-storehouse of the Italianate sonneteers: time and the transitoriness of beauty, the lover’s extremes, the Platonic ideas of soul-functions and of love-madness, the phoenix and Icarus and all the classic gods, engage his fancy first or last; and no sonnet trifler has been more attracted by the great theme of immortality in verse than he. When honouring Idea in the favourite mode he cries
“Queens hereafter shall
be glad to live
Upon the alms of thy superfluous
praise.”
A late writer holds that years have falsified this prophecy. It is true that Lamb valued Drayton chiefly as the panegyrist of his native earth, and we would hardly venture to predict the future of our sonneteer; but the fact remains that now three hundred years after his time, his lifelong devotion to the prototype of Idea constitutes, as he conventionally asserted it would, his most valid claim to interest, and that the sonnets where this love has found most potent expression mount the nearest to the true note of immortality.
Into these loves who but for
passion looks,
At this first sight here let
him lay them by,
And seek elsewhere in turning
other books,
Which better may his labour
satisfy.
No far-fetched
sigh shall ever wound my breast;
Love from mine eye a tear
shall never wring;
Nor in “Ah me’s!”
my whining sonnets drest,
A libertine fantasticly I
sing.
My verse is the
true image of my mind,
Ever in motion, still desiring
change;
To choice of all variety inclined,
And in all humours sportively
I range.
My muse is rightly
of the English strain,
That cannot long
one fashion entertain.
IDEA
I
Like an adventurous sea-farer
am I,
Who hath some long and dang’rous
voyage been,
And called to tell of his
discovery,
How far he sailed, what countries
he had seen,
Proceeding from
the port whence he put forth,
Shows by his compass how his
course he steered,
When east, when west, when
south, and when by north,
As how the pole to every place
was reared,
What capes he
doubled, of what continent,
The gulfs and straits that
strangely he had past,
Where most becalmed, where
with foul weather spent,
And on what rocks in peril
to be cast:
Thus in my love,
time calls me to relate
My tedious travels
and oft-varying fate.
II
My heart was slain, and none
but you and I;
Who should I think the murder
should commit?
Since but yourself there was
no creature by
But only I, guiltless of murdering
it.
It slew itself;
the verdict on the view
Do quit the dead, and me not
accessary.
Well, well, I fear it will
be proved by you,
The evidence so great a proof
doth carry.
But O see, see,
we need inquire no further!
Upon your lips the scarlet
drops are found,
And in your eye the boy that
did the murder,
Your cheeks yet pale since
first he gave the wound!
By this I see,
however things be past,
Yet heaven will
still have murder out at last.
III
Taking my pen, with words
to cast my woe,
Duly to count the sum of all
my cares,
I find my griefs innumerable
grow,
The reck’nings rise
to millions of despairs.
And thus dividing
of my fatal hours,
The payments of my love I
read and cross;
Subtracting, set my sweets
unto my sours,
My joys’ arrearage leads
me to my loss.
And thus mine
eyes a debtor to thine eye,
Which by extortion gaineth
all their looks,
My heart hath paid such grievous
usury,
That all their wealth lies
in thy beauty’s books.
And all is thine
which hath been due to me,
And I a bankrupt,
quite undone by thee.
IV
Bright star of beauty, on
whose eyelids sit
A thousand nymph-like and
enamoured graces,
The goddesses of memory and
wit,
Which there in order take
their several places;
In whose dear
bosom, sweet delicious love
Lays down his quiver which
he once did bear,
Since he that blessed paradise
did prove,
And leaves his mother’s
lap to sport him there
Let others strive
to entertain with words
My soul is of a braver mettle
made;
I hold that vile which vulgar
wit affords;
In me’s that faith which
time cannot invade.
Let what I praise
be still made good by you;
Be you most worthy
whilst I am most true!
V
Nothing but “No!”
and “I!"[A] and “I!” and “No!”
“How falls it out so
strangely?” you reply.
I tell ye, Fair, I’ll
not be answered so,
With this affirming “No!”
denying “I!”
I say “I love!”
You slightly answer “I!”
I say “You love!”
You pule me out a “No!”
I say “I die!”
You echo me with “I!”
“Save me!” I cry;
you sigh me out a “No!”
Must woe and I have naught
but “No!” and “I!”?
No “I!” am I,
if I no more can have.
Answer no more; with silence
make reply,
And let me take myself what
I do crave;
Let “No!”
and “I!” with I and you be so,
Then answer “No!”
and “I!” and “I!” and “No!”
[Footnote A: The “I” of course equals “aye.”]
VI
How many paltry, foolish,
painted things,
That now in coaches trouble
every street,
Shall be forgotten, whom no
poet sings,
Ere they be well wrapped in
their winding sheet!
Where I to thee
eternity shall give,
When nothing else remaineth
of these days,
And queens hereafter shall
be glad to live
Upon the alms of thy superfluous
praise;
Virgins and matrons
reading these my rhymes,
Shall be so much delighted
with thy story,
That they shall grieve they
lived not in these times,
To have seen thee, their sex’s
only glory.
So shalt thou
fly above the vulgar throng,
Still to survive
in my immortal song.
VII
Love, in a humour, played
the prodigal,
And bade my senses to a solemn
feast;
Yet more to grace the company
withal,
Invites my heart to be the
chiefest guest.
No other drink
would serve this glutton’s turn,
But precious tears distilling
from mine eyne,
Which with my sighs this epicure
doth burn,
Quaffing carouses in this
costly wine;
Where, in his
cups, o’ercome with foul excess,
Straightways he plays a swaggering
ruffian’s part,
And at the banquet in his
drunkenness,
Slew his dear friend, my kind
and truest heart.
A gentle warning,
friends, thus may you see,
What ’tis
to keep a drunkard company!
VIII
There’s nothing grieves
me but that age should haste,
That in my days I may not
see thee old;
That where those two clear
sparkling eyes are placed,
Only two loopholes that I
might behold;
That lovely arched
ivory-polished brow
Defaced with wrinkles, that
I might but see;
Thy dainty hair, so curled
and crisped now,
Like grizzled moss upon some
aged tree;
Thy cheek now
flush with roses, sunk and lean;
Thy lips, with age as any
wafer thin!
Thy pearly teeth out of thy
head so clean,
That when thou feed’st
thy nose shall touch thy chin!
These lines that
now thou scornst, which should delight thee,
Then would I make
thee read but to despite thee.
IX
As other men, so I myself
do muse
Why in this sort I wrest invention
so,
And why these giddy metaphors
I use,
Leaving the path the greater
part do go.
I will resolve
you. I’m a lunatic;
And ever this in madmen you
shall find,
What they last thought of
when the brain grew sick,
In most distraction they keep
that in mind.
Thus talking idly
in this bedlam fit,
Reason and I, you must conceive,
are twain;
’Tis nine years now
since first I lost my wit.
Bear with me then though troubled
be my brain.
With diet and
correction men distraught,
Not too far past,
may to their wits be brought.
X
To nothing fitter can I thee
compare
Than to the son of some rich
penny-father,
Who having now brought on
his end with care,
Leaves to his son all he had
heaped together.
This new rich
novice, lavish of his chest,
To one man gives, doth on
another spend;
Then here he riots; yet amongst
the rest,
Haps to lend some to one true
honest friend.
Thy gifts thou
in obscurity dost waste:
False friends, thy kindness
born but to deceive thee;
Thy love that is on the unworthy
placed;
Time hath thy beauty which
with age will leave thee.
Only that little
which to me was lent,
I give thee back
when all the rest is spent.
XI
You’re not alone when
you are still alone;
O God! from you that I could
private be!
Since you one were, I never
since was one;
Since you in me, myself since
out of me.
Transported from
myself into your being,
Though either distant, present
yet to either;
Senseless with too much joy,
each other seeing;
And only absent when we are
together.
Give me my self,
and take your self again!
Devise some means but how
I may forsake you!
So much is mine that doth
with you remain,
That taking what is mine,
with me I take you.
You do bewitch
me! O that I could fly
From my self you,
or from your own self I!
XII
That learned Father which so firmly proves The soul of man immortal and divine, And doth the several offices define Anima. Gives her that name, as she the body moves. Amor. Then is she love, embracing charity. Animus. Moving a will in us, it is the mind; Mens. Retaining knowledge, still the same in kind. Memoria. As intellectual, it is memory. Ratio. In judging, reason only is her name. Sensus. In speedy apprehension, it is sense. Conscientia. In right and wrong they call her conscience; Spiritus. The spirit, when it to God-ward doth inflame: These of the soul the several functions be, Which my heart lightened by thy love doth see.
TO THE SHADOW
XIII
Letters and lines we see are
soon defaced
Metals do waste
and fret with canker’s rust,
The diamond shall
once consume to dust,
And freshest colours with
foul stains disgraced;
Paper and ink can paint but
naked words,
To write with
blood of force offends the sight;
And if with tears,
I find them all too light,
And sighs and signs a silly
hope affords.
O sweetest shadow, how thou
serv’st my turn!
Which still shalt
be as long as there is sun,
Nor whilst the
world is never shall be done;
Whilst moon shall shine or
any fire shall burn,
That everything
whence shadow doth proceed,
May in his shadow
my love’s story read.
XIV
If he, from heaven that filched
that living fire,
Condemned by Jove
to endless torment be,
I greatly marvel
how you still go free
That far beyond Prometheus
did aspire.
The fire he stole, although
of heavenly kind,
Which from above
he craftily did take,
Of lifeless clods
us living men to make
He did bestow in temper of
the mind.
But you broke into heaven’s
immortal store,
Where virtue,
honour, wit, and beauty lay;
Which taking thence,
you have escaped away,
Yet stand as free as e’er
you did before.
Yet old Prometheus
punished for his rape;
Thus poor thieves
suffer when the greater ’scape.
XV
Since to obtain thee nothing
me will stead,
I have a med’cine that
shall cure my love.
The powder of her heart dried,
when she’s dead,
That gold nor honour ne’er
had power to move;
Mixed with her
tears that ne’er her true love crost,
Nor at fifteen ne’er
longed to be a bride;
Boiled with her sighs, in
giving up the ghost,
That for her late deceased
husband died;
Into the same
then let a woman breathe,
That being chid did never
word reply;
With one thrice married’s
prayers, that did bequeath
A legacy to stale virginity.
If this receipt
have not the power to win me,
Little I’ll
say, but think the devil’s in me!
AN ALLUSION TO THE PHOENIX
XVI
’Mongst all the creatures
in this spacious round
Of the birds’
kind, the phoenix is alone,
Which best by
you of living things is known;
None like to that, none like
to you is found!
Your beauty is the hot and
splend’rous sun;
The precious spices
be your chaste desire,
Which being kindled
by that heavenly fire,
Your life, so like the phoenix’s
begun.
Yourself thus burned in that
sacred flame,
With so rare sweetness
all the heavens perfuming;
Again increasing
as you are consuming,
Only by dying born the very
same.
And winged by
fame you to the stars ascend;
So you of time
shall live beyond the end.
XVII
Stay, speedy time! Behold,
before thou pass
From age to age,
what thou hast sought to see,
One in whom all
the excellencies be,
In whom heaven looks itself
as in a glass.
Time, look thou too in this
translucent glass,
And thy youth
past in this pure mirror see!
As the world’s
beauty in his infancy,
What it was then, and thou
before it was.
Pass on and to posterity tell
this—
Yet see thou tell
but truly what hath been.
Say to our nephews
that thou once hast seen
In perfect human shape all
heavenly bliss;
And bid them mourn,
nay more, despair with thee,
That she is gone,
her like again to see.
TO THE CELESTIAL NUMBERS
XVIII
To this our world, to learning,
and to heaven,
Three nines there
are, to every one a nine;
One number of
the earth, the other both divine;
One woman now makes three
odd numbers even.
Nine orders first of angels
be in heaven;
Nine muses do
with learning still frequent:
These with the
gods are ever resident.
Nine worthy women to the world
were given.
My worthy one to these nine
XIX
You cannot love, my pretty
heart, and why?
There was a time you told
me that you would,
But how again you will the
same deny.
If it might please you, would
to God you could!
What, will you
hate? Nay, that you will not neither;
Nor love, nor
hate! How then? What will you do?
What, will you keep a mean
then betwixt either?
Or will you love me, and yet
hate me too?
Yet serves not
this! What next, what other shift?
You will, and will not; what
a coil is here!
I see your craft, now I perceive
your drift,
And all this while I was mistaken
there.
Your love and
hate is this, I now do prove you:
You love in hate,
by hate to make me love you.
XX
An evil spirit, your beauty,
haunts me still,
Wherewith, alas, I have been
long possessed!
Which ceaseth not to tempt
me to each ill,
Nor give me once but one poor
minute’s rest.
In me it speaks
whether I sleep or wake;
And when by means to drive
it out I try,
With greater torments then
it me doth take,
And tortures me in most extremity.
Before my face
it lays down my despairs,
And hastes me on unto a sudden
death;
Now tempting me to drown myself
in tears,
And then in sighing to give
up my breath.
Thus am I still
provoked to every evil,
By this good wicked
spirit, sweet angel-devil.
XXI
A witless gallant a young
wench that wooed—
Yet his dull spirit her not
one jot could move—
Intreated me as e’er
I wished his good,
To write him but one sonnet
to his love.
When I as fast
as e’er my pen could trot,
Poured out what first from
quick invention came,
Nor never stood one word thereof
to blot;
Much like his wit that was
to use the same.
But with my verses
he his mistress won,
Who doated on the dolt beyond
all measure.
But see, for you to heaven
for phrase I run,
And ransack all Apollo’s
golden treasure!
Yet by my troth,
this fool his love obtains,
And I lose you
for all my wit and pains!
TO FOLLY
XXII
With fools and children good
discretion bears;
Then, honest people,
bear with love and me,
Nor older yet
nor wiser made by years,
Amongst the rest of fools
and children be.
Love, still a
baby, plays with gauds and toys,
And like a wanton sports with
XXIII
Love, banished heaven, in
earth was held in scorn,
Wand’ring abroad in
need and beggary;
And wanting friends, though
of a goddess born,
Yet craved the alms of such
as passed by.
I, like a man
devout and charitable,
Clothed the naked, lodged
this wandering guest;
With sighs and tears still
furnishing his table
With what might make the miserable
blest.
But this ungrateful
for my good desert,
Enticed my thoughts against
me to conspire,
Who gave consent to steal
away my heart,
And set my breast, his lodging,
on a fire.
Well, well, my
friends, when beggars grow thus bold,
No marvel then
though charity grow cold.
XXIV
I hear some say, “This
man is not in love!”
“Who! can he love? a
likely thing!” they say.
“Read but his verse,
and it will easily prove!”
O, judge not rashly, gentle
Sir, I pray!
Because I loosely
trifle in this sort,
As one that fain his sorrows
would beguile,
You now suppose me all this
time in sport,
And please yourself with this
conceit the while.
Ye shallow cens’rers!
sometimes, see ye not,
In greatest perils some men
pleasant be,
Where fame by death is only
to be got,
They resolute! So stands
the case with me.
Where other men
in depth of passion cry,
I laugh at fortune,
as in jest to die.
XXV
O, why should nature niggardly
restrain
That foreign nations relish
not our tongue?
Else should my lines glide
on the waves of Rhine,
And crown the Pyren’s
with my living song.
But bounded thus,
to Scotland get you forth!
Thence take you wing unto
the Orcades!
There let my verse get glory
in the north,
Making my sighs to thaw the
frozen seas.
And let the bards
within that Irish isle,
To whom my Muse with fiery
wings shall pass,
Call back the stiff-necked
rebels from exile,
And mollify the slaughtering
gallowglass;
And when my flowing
numbers they rehearse,
Let wolves and
bears be charmed with my verse.
XXVI
I ever love where never hope
appears,
Yet hope draws
on my never-hoping care,
And my life’s
hope would die but for despair;
My never certain joy breeds
ever certain fears.
Uncertain dread gives wings
unto my hope;
Yet my hope’s
wings are laden so with fear
As they cannot
ascend to my hope’s sphere,
Though fear gives them more
than a heavenly scope.
Yet this large room is bounded
with despair,
So my love is
still fettered with vain hope,
And liberty deprives
him of his scope,
And thus am I imprisoned in
the air.
Then, sweet despair,
awhile hold up thy head,
Or all my hope
for sorrow will be dead.
XXVII
Is not love here as ’tis
in other climes,
And differeth it as do the
several nations?
Or hath it lost the virtue
with the times,
Or in this island alt’reth
with the fashions?
Or have our passions
lesser power than theirs,
Who had less art them lively
to express?
Is nature grown less powerful
in their heirs,
Or in our fathers did she
more transgress?
I am sure my sighs
come from a heart as true
As any man’s that memory
can boast,
And my respects and services
to you,
Equal with his that loves
his mistress most.
Or nature must
be partial in my cause,
Or only you do
violate her laws.
XXVIII
To such as say thy love I
overprize,
And do not stick to term my
praises folly,
Against these folks that think
themselves so wise,
I thus oppose my reason’s
forces wholly:
Though I give
more than well affords my state,
In which expense the most
suppose me vain
Which yields them nothing
at the easiest rate,
Yet at this price returns
me treble gain;
They value not,
unskilful how to use,
And I give much because I
gain thereby.
I that thus take or they that
thus refuse,
Whether are these deceived
then, or I?
In everything
I hold this maxim still,
The circumstance
doth make it good or ill.
TO THE SENSES
XXIX
When conquering love did first
my heart assail,
Unto mine aid I summoned every
sense,
Doubting if that proud tyrant
should prevail,
My heart should suffer for
mine eyes’ offence.
But he with beauty
first corrupted sight,
My hearing bribed with her
tongue’s harmony,
My taste by her sweet lips
drawn with delight,
My smelling won with her breath’s
spicery,
But when my touching
came to play his part,
The king of senses, greater
than the rest,
He yields love up the keys
unto my heart,
And tells the others how they
should be blest.
And thus by those
of whom I hoped for aid,
To cruel love
my soul was first betrayed.
XXX
Those priests which first
the vestal fire begun,
Which might be borrowed from
no earthly flame,
Devised a vessel to receive
the sun,
Being stedfastly opposed to
the same;
Where with sweet
wood laid curiously by art,
On which the sun might by
reflection beat,
Receiving strength for every
secret part,
The fuel kindled with celestial
heat.
Thy blessed eyes,
the sun which lights this fire,
My holy thoughts, they be
the vestal flame,
Thy precious odours be my
chaste desires,
My breast’s the vessel
which includes the same;
Thou art my Vesta,
thou my goddess art,
Thy hallowed temple
only is my heart.
TO THE CRITICS
XXXI
Methinks I see some crooked
mimic jeer,
And tax my Muse with this
fantastic grace;
Turning my papers asks, “What
have we here?”
Making withal some filthy
antic face.
I fear no censure
nor what thou canst say,
Nor shall my spirit one jot
of vigour lose.
Think’st thou, my wit
shall keep the packhorse way,
That every dudgeon low invention
goes?
Since sonnets
thus in bundles are imprest,
And every drudge doth dull
our satiate ear,
Think’st thou my love
shall in those rags be drest
That every dowdy, every trull
doth wear?
Up to my pitch
no common judgment flies;
I scorn all earthly
dung-bred scarabies.
XXXII
Our floods’ queen, Thames,
for ships and swans is crowned,
And stately Severn for her
shore is praised;
The crystal Trent for fords
and fish renowned,
And Avon’s fame to Albion’s
cliff is raised.
Carlegion Chester
vaunts her holy Dee;
York many wonders of her Ouse
can tell;
The Peak, her Dove, whose
banks so fertile be;
And Kent will say her Medway
doth excel.
Cotswold commends
her Isis to the Thame;
Our northern borders boast
of Tweed’s fair flood;
Our western parts extol their
Wilis’ fame;
And the old Lea brags of the
Danish blood.
Arden’s
sweet Ankor, let thy glory be,
That fair Idea
only lives by thee!
TO IMAGINATION
XXXIII
Whilst yet mine eyes do surfeit
with delight,
My woful heart imprisoned
in my breast,
Wisheth to be transformed
to my sight,
That it like those by looking
might be blest.
But whilst mine
eyes thus greedily do gaze,
Finding their objects over-soon
depart,
These now the other’s
happiness do praise,
Wishing themselves that they
had been my heart,
That eyes were
heart, or that the heart were eyes,
As covetous the other’s
XXXIV
Marvel not, love, though I
thy power admire,
Ravished a world
beyond the farthest thought,
And knowing more
than ever hath been taught,
That I am only starved in
my desire.
Marvel not, love, though I
thy power admire,
Aiming at things
exceeding all perfection,
To wisdom’s
self to minister direction,
That I am only starved in
my desire.
Marvel not, love, though I
thy power admire,
Though my conceit
I further seem to bend
Than possibly
invention can extend,
And yet am only starved in
my desire.
If thou wilt wonder,
here’s the wonder, love,
That this to me
doth yet no wonder prove.
TO MIRACLE
XXXV
Some misbelieving and profane
in love,
When I do speak
of miracles by thee,
May say that thou
art flattered by me,
Who only write my skill in
verse to prove
See miracles, ye unbelieving,
see!
A dumb-born Muse
made to express the mind,
A cripple hand
to write, yet lame by kind,
One by thy name, the other
touching thee.
Blind were mine eyes, till
they were seen of thine;
And mine ears
deaf by thy fame healed be;
My vices cured
by virtues sprung from thee;
My hopes revived which long
in grave had lien.
All unclean thoughts,
foul spirits, cast out in me,
Only by virtue
that proceeds from thee.
XXXVI
Thou purblind boy, since thou
hast been so slack
To wound her heart whose eyes
have wounded me
And suffered her to glory
in my wrack,
Thus to my aid I lastly conjure
thee!
By hellish Styx,
by which the Thund’rer swears,
By thy fair mother’s
unavoided power,
By Hecate’s names, by
Proserpine’s sad tears,
When she was wrapt to the
infernal bower!
By thine own loved
Psyche, by the fires
Spent on thine altars flaming
up to heaven,
By all true lovers’
sighs, vows, and desires,
By all the wounds that ever
thou hast given;
I conjure thee
by all that I have named,
To make her love,
or, Cupid, be thou damned!
XXXVII
Dear, why should you command
me to my rest,
When now the night doth summon
all to sleep?
Methinks this time becometh
lovers best;
Night was ordained together
friends to keep.
How happy are
all other living things,
Which though the day disjoin
by several flight,
XXXVIII
Sitting alone, love bids me
go and write;
Reason plucks
back, commanding me to stay,
Boasting that
she doth still direct the way,
Or else love were unable to
indite.
Love growing angry, vexed
at the spleen,
And scorning reason’s
maimed argument,
Straight taxeth
reason, wanting to invent
Where she with love conversing
hath not been.
Reason reproached with this
coy disdain,
Despiteth love,
and laugheth at her folly;
And love contemning
reason’s reason wholly,
Thought it in weight too light
by many a grain.
Reason put back
doth out of sight remove,
And love alone
picks reason out of love.
Some, when in rhyme they of
their loves do tell,
With flames and lightnings
their exordiums paint.
Some call on heaven, some
invocate on hell,
And Fates and Furies, with
their woes acquaint.
Elizium is too
high a seat for me,
I will not come in Styx or
Phlegethon,
The thrice-three Muses but
too wanton be,
Like they that lust, I care
not, I will none.
Spiteful Erinnys
frights me with her looks,
My manhood dares not with
foul Ate mell,
I quake to look on Hecate’s
charming books,
I still fear bugbears in Apollo’s
cell.
I pass not for
Minerva, nor Astrea,
Only I call on
my divine Idea!
My heart the anvil where my
thoughts do beat,
My words the hammers fashioning
my desire,
My breast the forge including
all the heat,
Love is the fuel which maintains
the fire;
My sighs the bellows
which the flame increaseth,
Filling mine ears with noise
and nightly groaning;
Toiling with pain, my labour
never ceaseth,
In grievous passions my woes
still bemoaning;
My eyes with tears
against the fire striving,
Whose scorching gleed my heart
to cinders turneth;
But with those drops the flame
again reviving,
Still more and more it to
my torment burneth,
With Sisyphus
thus do I roll the stone,
And turn the wheel
with damned Ixion.
LOVE’S LUNACY
XLI
Why do I speak of joy or write
of love,
When my heart is the very
den of horror,
And in my soul the pains of
hell I prove,
With all his torments and
infernal terror?
What should I
say? what yet remains to do?
My brain is dry with weeping
all too long;
My sighs be spent in utt’ring
of my woe,
And I want words wherewith
to tell my wrong.
But still distracted
in love’s lunacy,
And bedlam-like thus raving
in my grief,
Now rail upon her hair, then
on her eye,
Now call her goddess, then
I call her thief;
Now I deny her,
then I do confess her,
Now do I curse
her, then again I bless her.
XLII
Some men there be which like
my method well,
And much commend
the strangeness of my vein;
Some say I have
a passing pleasing strain,
Some say that in my humour
I excel.
Some who not kindly relish
my conceit,
They say, as poets
do, I use to feign,
And in bare words
paint out by passions’ pain.
Thus sundry men their sundry
minds repeat.
I pass not, I, how men affected
be,
Nor who commends
or discommends my verse!
It pleaseth me
if I my woes rehearse,
And in my lines if she my
love may see.
Only my comfort
still consists in this,
Writing her praise
I cannot write amiss.
XLIII
Why should your fair eyes
with such sov’reign grace
Disperse their rays on every
vulgar spirit,
Whilst I in darkness in the
self-same place,
Get not one glance to recompense
my merit?
So doth the plowman
gaze the wand’ring star,
And only rest contented with
the light,
That never learned what constellations
are,
Beyond the bent of his unknowing
sight.
O why should beauty,
custom to obey,
To their gross sense apply
herself so ill!
Would God I were as ignorant
as they,
When I am made unhappy by
my skill,
Only compelled
on this poor good to boast!
Heavens are not
kind to them that know them most.
XLIV
Whilst thus my pen strives
to eternise thee,
Age rules my lines with wrinkles
in my face,
Where in the map of all my
misery
Is modelled out the world
of my disgrace;
Whilst in despite
of tyrannising times,
Medea-like, I make thee young
again,
Proudly thou scorn’st
my world-outwearing rhymes,
And murther’st virtue
with thy coy disdain;
And though in
youth my youth untimely perish,
To keep thee from oblivion
and the grave,
Ensuing ages yet my rhymes
shall cherish,
Where I intombed my better
part shall save;
And though this
earthly body fade and die,
My name shall
mount upon eternity.
XLV
Muses which sadly sit about
my chair,
Drowned in the tears extorted
by my lines;
With heavy sighs whilst thus
I break the air,
Painting my passions in these
sad designs,
Since she disdains
to bless my happy verse,
The strong built trophies
to her living fame,
Ever henceforth my bosom be
your hearse,
Wherein the world shall now
entomb her name.
Enclose my music,
you poor senseless walls,
Sith she is deaf and will
not hear my moans;
Soften yourselves with every
tear that falls,
Whilst I like Orpheus sing
to trees and stones,
Which with my
plaint seem yet with pity moved,
Kinder than she
whom I so long have loved.
XLVI
Plain-pathed experience, the
unlearned’s guide,
Her simple followers evidently
shows
Sometimes what schoolmen scarcely
can decide,
Nor yet wise reason absolutely
knows;
In making trial
of a murder wrought,
If the vile actors of the
heinous deed
Near the dead body happily
be brought,
Oft ’t hath been proved
the breathless corse will bleed.
She coming near,
that my poor heart hath slain,
Long since departed, to the
world no more,
The ancient wounds no longer
can contain,
But fall to bleeding as they
did before.
But what of this?
Should she to death be led,
It furthers justice
but helps not the dead.
XLVII
In pride of wit, when high
desire of fame
Gave life and courage to my
lab’ring pen,
And first the sound and virtue
of my name
Won grace and credit in the
ears of men,
With those the
thronged theatres that press,
I in the circuit for the laurel
strove,
Where the full praise I freely
must confess,
In heat of blood a modest
mind might move;
With shouts and
claps at every little pause,
When the proud round on every
side hath rung,
Sadly I sit unmoved with the
applause,
As though to me it nothing
did belong.
No public glory
vainly I pursue;
All that I seek
is to eternise you.
XLVIII
Cupid, I hate thee, which
I’d have thee know;
A naked starveling ever mayst
thou be!
Poor rogue, go pawn thy fascia
and thy bow
For some poor rags wherewith
to cover thee;
Or if thou’lt
not thy archery forbear,
To some base rustic do thyself
prefer,
And when corn’s sown
or grown into the ear,
Practice thy quiver and turn
crowkeeper;
Or being blind,
as fittest for the trade,
Go hire thyself some bungling
harper’s boy;
They that are blind are minstrels
often made,
So mayst thou live to thy
fair mother’s joy;
That whilst with
Mars she holdeth her old way,
Thou, her blind
son, mayst sit by them and play.
XLIX
Thou leaden brain, which censur’st
what I write,
And sayst my lines be dull
and do not move,
I marvel not thou feel’st
not my delight,
Which never felt’st
my fiery touch of love;
But thou whose
pen hath like a packhorse served,
Whose stomach unto gall hath
turned thy food,
Whose senses like poor prisoners,
hunger-starved
Whose grief hath parched thy
body, dried thy blood;
Thou which hast
scorned life and hated death,
And in a moment, mad, sober,
glad, and sorry;
Thou which hast banned thy
thoughts and curst thy birth
With thousand plagues more
than in purgatory;
Thou thus whose
spirit love in his fire refines,
Come thou and
read, admire, applaud my lines!
L
As in some countries far remote
from hence,
The wretched creature destined
to die,
Having the judgment due to
his offence,
By surgeons begged, their
art on him to try,
Which on the living
work without remorse,
First make incision on each
mastering vein,
Then staunch the bleeding,
then transpierce the corse,
And with their balms recure
the wounds again,
Then poison and
with physic him restore;
Not that they fear the hopeless
man to kill,
But their experience to increase
the more:
Even so my mistress works
upon my ill,
By curing me and
killing me each hour,
Only to show her
beauty’s sovereign power.
LI
Calling to mind since first
my love begun,
Th’uncertain times,
oft varying in their course,
How things still unexpectedly
have run,
As’t please the Fates
by their resistless force;
Lastly, mine eyes
amazedly have seen
Essex’s great fall,
Tyrone his peace to gain,
The quiet end of that long
living Queen,
This King’s fair entrance,
and our peace with Spain,
We and the Dutch
at length ourselves to sever;
Thus the world doth and evermore
shall reel;
Yet to my goddess am I constant
ever,
Howe’er blind Fortune
turn her giddy wheel;
Though heaven
and earth prove both to me untrue,
Yet am I still
inviolate to you.
LII
What dost thou mean to cheat
me of my heart,
To take all mine and give
me none again?
Or have thine eyes such magic
or that art
That what they get they ever
do retain?
Play not the tyrant
but take some remorse;
Rebate thy spleen if but for
pity’s sake;
Or cruel, if thou can’st
not, let us scorse,
And for one piece of thine
my whole heart take.
But what of pity
do I speak to thee,
Whose breast is proof against
complaint or prayer?
Or can I think what my reward
shall be
From that proud beauty which
was my betrayer!
What talk I of
a heart when thou hast none?
Or if thou hast,
it is a flinty one.
LIII
Clear Ankor, on whose silver-sanded
shore,
My soul-shrined saint, my
fair Idea lives;
O blessed brook, whose milk-white
swans adore
Thy crystal stream, refined
by her eyes,
Where sweet myrrh-breathing
Zephyr in the spring
Gently distils his nectar-dropping
showers,
Where nightingales in Arden
sit and sing
Amongst the dainty dew-impearled
flowers;
Say thus, fair
brook, when thou shalt see thy queen,
“Lo, here thy shepherd
spent his wand’ring years
And in these shades, dear
nymph, he oft hath been;
And here to thee he sacrificed
his tears.”
Fair Arden, thou
my Tempe art alone,
And thou, sweet
Ankor, art my Helicon!
LIV
Yet read at last the story
of my woe,
The dreary abstracts of my
endless cares,
With my life’s sorrow
interlined so,
Smoked with my sighs, and
blotted with my tears,
The sad memorials
of my miseries,
Penned in the grief of mine
afflicted ghost,
My life’s complaint
in doleful elegies,
With so pure love as time
could never boast.
Receive the incense
which I offer here,
By my strong faith ascending
to thy fame,
My zeal, my hope, my vows,
my praise, my prayer,
My soul’s oblations
to thy sacred name;
Which name my
Muse to highest heavens shall raise,
By chaste desire, true love,
and virtuous praise.
LV
My fair, if thou wilt register
my love,
A world of volumes shall thereof
arise;
Preserve my tears, and thou
thyself shall prove
A second flood down raining
from mine eyes;
Note but my sighs,
and thine eyes shall behold
The sunbeams smothered with
immortal smoke;
And if by thee my prayers
may be enrolled,
They heaven and earth to pity
shall provoke.
Look thou into
my breast, and thou shalt see
Chaste holy vows for my soul’s
sacrifice,
That soul, sweet maid, which
so hath honoured thee,
Erecting trophies to thy sacred
eyes,
Those eyes to
my heart shining ever bright,
When darkness
hath obscured each other light.
AN ALLUSION TO THE EAGLETS
LVI
When like an eaglet I first
found my love,
For that the virtue I thereof
would know,
Upon the nest I set it forth
to prove
If it were of that kingly
kind or no;
But it no sooner
saw my sun appear,
But on her rays with open
eyes it stood,
To show that I had hatched
it for the air,
And rightly came from that
brave mounting brood;
And when the plumes
were summed with sweet desire,
To prove the pinions it ascends
the skies;
Do what I could, it needsly
would aspire
To my soul’s sun, those
two celestial eyes.
Thus from my breast,
where it was bred alone,
It after thee
is like an eaglet flown.
LVII
You best discerned of my mind’s
inward eyes,
And yet your graces outwardly
divine,
Whose dear remembrance in
my bosom lies,
Too rich a relic for so poor
a shrine;
You, in whom nature
chose herself to view,
When she her own perfection
would admire;
Bestowing all her excellence
on you,
At whose pure eyes Love lights
his hallowed fire;
Even as a man
that in some trance hath seen
More than his wond’ring
utterance can unfold,
That rapt in spirit in better
worlds hath been,
So must your praise distractedly
be told;
Most of all short
when I would show you most,
In your perfections
so much am I lost.
LVIII
In former times, such as had
store of coin,
In wars at home or when for
conquests bound,
For fear that some their treasure
should purloin,
Gave it to keep to spirits
within the ground;
And to attend
it them as strongly tied
Till they returned. Home
when they never came,
Such as by art to get the
same have tried,
From the strong spirit by
no means force the same.
Nearer men come,
that further flies away,
Striving to hold it strongly
in the deep.
Ev’n as this spirit,
so you alone do play
With those rich beauties Heav’n
gives you to keep;
Pity so left to
th’ coldness of your blood,
Not to avail you
nor do others good.
LIX
As Love and I late harboured
in one inn,
With Proverbs thus each other
entertain.
“In love there is no
lack,” thus I begin:
“Fair words make fools,”
replieth he again.
“Who spares
to speak, doth spare to speed,” quoth I.
“As well,” saith
he, “too forward as too slow.”
“Fortune assists the
boldest,” I reply.
“A hasty man,”
quoth he, “ne’er wanted woe!”
“Labour
is light, where love,” quoth I, “doth pay.”
Saith he, “Light burden’s
heavy, if far born.”
Quoth I, “The main lost,
cast the by away!”
“You have
spun a fair thread,” he replies in scorn.
And having thus
awhile each other thwarted,
Fools as we met,
so fools again we parted.
LX
Define my weal, and tell the
joys of heaven;
Express my woes and show the
pains of hell;
Declare what fate unlucky
stars have given,
And ask a world upon my life
to dwell;
Make known the
faith that fortune could no move,
Compare my worth with others’
base desert,
Let virtue be the touchstone
of my love,
So may the heavens read wonders
in my heart;
Behold the clouds
which have eclipsed my sun,
And view the crosses which
my course do let;
Tell me, if ever since the
world begun
So fair a rising had so foul
a set?
And see if time,
if he would strive to prove,
Can show a second
to so pure a love.
LXI
Since there’s no help,
come let us kiss and part,
Nay I have done, you get no
more of me;
And I am glad, yea glad with
all my heart,
That thus so cleanly I myself
can free;
Shakes hands for
ever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time
again,
Be it not seen in either of
our brows
That we one jot of former
love retain.
Now at the last
gasp of Love’s latest breath,
When his pulse failing, Passion
speechless lies,
When Faith is kneeling by
his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up
his eyes:
Now if thou wouldst,
when all have given him over,
From death to
life thou might’st him yet recover!
LXII
When first I ended, then I
first began;
Then more I travelled further
from my rest.
Where most I lost, there most
of all I won;
Pined with hunger, rising
from a feast.
Methinks I fly,
yet want I legs to go,
Wise in conceit, in act a
very sot,
Ravished with joy amidst a
hell of woe,
What most I seem that surest
am I not.
I build my hopes
a world above the sky,
Yet with the mole I creep
into the earth;
In plenty I am starved with
penury,
And yet I surfeit in the greatest
dearth.
I have, I want,
despair, and yet desire,
Burned in a sea
of ice, and drowned amidst a fire.
LXIII
Truce, gentle Love, a parley
now I crave,
Methinks ’tis long since
first these wars begun;
Nor thou, nor I, the better
yet can have;
Bad is the match where neither
party won.
I offer free conditions
of fair peace,
My heart for hostage that
it shall remain.
Discharge our forces, here
let malice cease,
So for my pledge thou give
me pledge again.
Or if no thing
but death will serve thy turn,
Still thirsting for subversion
of my state,
Do what thou canst, raze,
massacre, and burn;
Let the world see the utmost
of thy hate;
I send defiance,
since if overthrown,
Thou vanquishing,
the conquest is mine own.
Fidessa
more chaste than kind
by
B. Griffin, Gent.
The author of Fidessa has gained undeserved notice from the fact that the piratical printer W. Jaggard, included a transcript of one of his sonnets in a volume that he put forth in 1599, under the name of Shakespeare. It would be easy to believe, in spite of the doubtful rimes characteristic of Fidessa, that sonnet three was not Griffin’s, for no singer in the Elizabethan choir was more skilful in turning his voice to other people’s melodies than was he. He has been called “a gross plagiary;” yet it must be realised that the sonneteers of that time felt they had a right, almost a duty, to take up the poetic themes used by their models. Griffin shows great ingenuity in the manipulation of the stock-themes, and the lover of Petrarch and all the young Abraham-Slenders of the day must have been delighted with the familiar “designs” as they re-appeared in Fidessa.
Bartholomew Griffin was buried in Coventry in 1602. In 1596 he dedicated his “slender work” Fidessa to William Essex of Lamebourne in Berkshire. He adds an address to the Gentlemen of the Inns of Court, whom he begs to “censure mildly as protectors of a poor stranger” and “judge the best as encouragers of a young beginner.” Of the poet little further is known. From the sonnets themselves we learn that Fidessa was “of high regard,” the child of a beautiful mother and of a renowned father; she sprang in fact from the same root with the poet himself, who writes “Gent.” after his name on the title-page. She had been kind to him in sickness and had “yielded to each look of his a sweet reply.” After giving these slight hints, he pushes forth from the moorings of realism and sets sail on the ocean of the sonneteer’s fancy, meeting the usual adventures. His sonnets, while showing versatility and ingenuity, lack spontaneous feeling and have serious defects in form; yet these defects are in part offset by their conversational ease and dramatic vividness.
I
Fertur Fortunam Fortuna favere ferenti
Fidessa fair, long live a
happy maiden!
Blest from thy
cradle by a worthy mother,
High-thoughted
like to her, with bounty laden,
Like pleasing
grace affording, one and other;
Sweet model of thy far renowned
sire!
Hold back a while
thy ever-giving hand,
And though these
free penned lines do nought require,
For that they
scorn at base reward to stand,
Yet crave they most for that
they beg the least
Dumb is the message
of my hidden grief,
And store of speech
by silence is increased;
O let me die or
purchase some relief!
Bounteous Fidessa cannot be
so cruel
As for to make my heart her
fancy’s fuel!
II
How can that piercing crystal-painted
eye,
That gave the
onset to my high aspiring.
Yielding each
look of mine a sweet reply,
Adding new courage
to my heart’s desiring,
How can it shut itself within
her ark,
And keep herself
and me both from the light,
Making us walk
in all misguiding dark,
Aye to remain
in confines of the night?
How is it that so little room
contains it,
That guides the
orient as the world the sun,
Which once obscured
most bitterly complains it,
Because it knows
and rules whate’er is done?
The reason is that they may
dread her sight,
Who doth both give and take
away their light.
III
Venus, and young Adonis sitting
by her,
Under a myrtle
shade, began to woo him;
She told the youngling
how god Mars did try her,
And as he fell
to her, so fell she to him.
“Even thus,” quoth
IV
Did you sometimes three German
brethren see,
Rancour ’twixt
two of them so raging rife,
That th’
one could stick the other with his knife?
Now if the third assaulted
chance to be
By a fourth stranger, him
set on the three,
Them two ’twixt
whom afore was deadly strife
Made one to rob
the stranger of his life;
Then do you know our state
as well as we.
Beauty and chastity
with her were born,
Both at one birth, and up
with her did grow.
Beauty still foe
to chastity was sworn,
And chastity sworn to be beauty’s
foe;
And yet when I
lay siege unto her heart,
Beauty and chastity
both take her part.
V
Arraigned, poor captive at
the bar I stand,
The bar of beauty,
bar to all my joys;
And up I hold
my ever trembling hand,
Wishing or life
or death to end annoys.
And when the judge doth question
of the guilt,
And bids me speak,
then sorrow shuts up words.
Yea, though he
say, “Speak boldly what thou wilt!”
Yet my confused
affects no speech affords,
For why? Alas, my passions
have no bound,
For fear of death
that penetrates so near;
And still one
grief another doth confound,
Yet doth at length
a way to speech appear.
Then, for I speak too late,
the Judge doth give
His sentence that in prison
I shall live.
VI
Unhappy sentence, worst of
worst of pains,
To be in darksome
silence, out of ken,
Banished from
all that bliss the world contains,
And thrust from
out the companies of men!
Unhappy sentence, worse than
worst of deaths,
Never to see Fidessa’s
lovely face!
O better were
I lose ten thousand breaths,
Than ever live
in such unseen disgrace!
Unhappy sentence, worse than
pains of hell,
To live in self-tormenting
griefs alone;
Having my heart,
my prison and my cell,
And there consumed
without relief to moan!
If that the sentence so unhappy
be,
Then what am I that gave the
same to me?
VII
Oft have mine eyes, the agents
of mine heart,
False traitor
eyes conspiring my decay,
Pleaded for grace
with dumb and silent art,
Streaming forth
tears my sorrows to allay;
VIII
Grief-urging guest, great
cause have I to plain me,
Yet hope persuading
hope expecteth grace,
And saith none
but myself shall ever pain me;
But grief my hopes
exceedeth in this case;
For still my fortune ever
more doth cross me
By worse events
than ever I expected;
And here and there
ten thousand ways doth toss me,
With sad remembrance
of my time neglected.
These breed such thoughts
as set my heart on fire,
And like fell
hounds pursue me to my death;
Traitors unto
their sovereign lord and sire,
Unkind exactors
of their father’s breath,
Whom in their rage they shall
no sooner kill
Than they themselves themselves
unjustly spill.
IX
My spotless love that never
yet was tainted,
My loyal heart
that never can be moved,
My growing hope
that never yet hath fainted,
My constancy that
you full well have proved,
All these consented have to
plead for grace
These all lie
crying at the door of beauty;—
This wails, this
sends out tears, this cries apace,
All do reward
expect of faith and duty;
Now either thou must prove
th’ unkindest one,
And as thou fairest
art must cruelest be,
Or else with pity
yield unto their moan,
Their moan that
ever will importune thee.
Ah, thou must be unkind, and
give denial,
And I, poor I, must stand
unto my trial!
X
Clip not, sweet love, the
wings of my desire,
Although it soar
aloft and mount too high:
But rather bear
with me though I aspire,
For I have wings
to bear me to the sky.
What though I mount, there
is no sun but thee!
And sith no other
sun, why should I fear?
Thou wilt not
burn me, though thou terrify,
And though thy
brightness do so great appear.
Dear, I seek not to batter
down thy glory,
Nor do I envy
that thy hope increaseth;
O never think
thy fame doth make me sorry!
For thou must
live by fame when beauty ceaseth.
Besides, since from one root
we both did spring,
Why should not I thy fame
and beauty sing?
XI
Winged with sad woes, why
doth fair zephyr blow
Upon my face,
the map of discontent?
Is it to have
the weeds of sorrow grow
So long and thick,
that they will ne’er be spent?
No, fondling, no! It
is to cool the fire
Which hot desire
within thy breast hath made.
Check him but
once and he will soon retire.
O but he sorrows
brought which cannot fade!
The sorrows that he brought,
he took from thee,
Which fair Fidessa
span and thou must wear!
Yet hath she nothing
done of cruelty,
But for her sake
to try what thou wilt bear.
Come, sorrows, come!
You are to me assigned;
I’ll bear you all, it
is Fidessa’s mind.
XII
O if my heavenly sighs must
prove annoy,
Which are the
sweetest music to my heart,
Let it suffice
I count them as my joy,
Sweet bitter joy
and pleasant painful smart!
For when my breast is clogged
with thousand cares,
That my poor loaded
heart is like to break,
Then every sigh
doth question how it fares,
Seeming to add
their strength, which makes me weak;
Yet for they friendly are,
I entertain them,
And they too well
are pleased with their host.
But I, had not
Fidessa been, ere now had slain them;
It’s for
her cause they live, in her they boast;
They promise help but when
they see her face;
They fainting yield, and dare
not sue for grace.
XIII
Compare me to the child that
plays with fire,
Or to the fly
that dieth in the flame,
Or to the foolish
boy that did aspire
To touch the glory
of high heaven’s frame;
Compare me to Leander struggling
in the waves,
Not able to attain
his safety’s shore,
Or to the sick
that do expect their graves,
Or to the captive
crying evermore;
Compare me to the weeping
wounded hart,
Moaning with tears
the period of his life,
Or to the boar
that will not feel the smart,
When he is stricken
with the butcher’s knife;
No man to these can fitly
me compare;
These live to die, I die to
live in care.
XIV
When silent sleep had closed
up mine eyes,
My watchful mind
did then begin to muse;
A thousand pleasing
thoughts did then arise,
That sought by
slights their master to abuse.
I saw, O heavenly sight!
Fidessa’s face,
And fair dame
nature blushing to behold it;
Now did she laugh,
now wink, now smile apace,
She took me by
the hand and fast did hold it;
Sweetly her sweet body did
she lay down by me;
“Alas, poor
wretch,” quoth she, “great is thy sorrow;
But thou shall
comfort find if thou wilt try me.
I hope, sir boy,
you’ll tell me news to-morrow.”
With that, away she went,
and I did wake withal;
When ah! my honey thoughts
were turned to gall.
XV
Care-charmer sleep! Sweet
ease in restless misery!
The captive’s
liberty, and his freedom’s song!
Balm of the bruised
heart! Man’s chief felicity!
Brother of quiet
death, when life is too too long!
A comedy it is, and now an
history;
What is not sleep
unto the feeble mind!
It easeth him
that toils and him that’s sorry;
It makes the deaf
to hear, to see the blind;
Ungentle sleep, thou helpest
all but me!
For when I sleep
my soul is vexed most.
It is Fidessa
that doth master thee;
If she approach,
alas, thy power is lost!
But here she is! See
how he runs amain!
I fear at night he will not
come again.
XVI
For I have loved long, I crave
reward;
Reward me not
unkindly, think on kindness;
Kindness becometh
those of high regard;
Regard with clemency
a poor man’s blindness;
Blindness provokes to pity
when it crieth;
It crieth “Give!”
Dear lady, shew some pity!
Pity or let him
die that daily dieth;
Dieth he not oft
who often sings this ditty?
This ditty pleaseth me although
it choke me;
Methinks dame
Echo weepeth at my moaning,
Moaning the woes
that to complain provoke me.
Provoke me now
no more, but hear my groaning,
Groaning both day and night
doth tear my heart,
My heart doth know the cause
and triumphs in the smart.
XVII
Sweet stroke,—so
might I thrive as I must praise—
But sweeter hand
that gives so sweet a stroke!
The lute itself
is sweetest when she plays.
But what hear
I? A string through fear is broke!
The lute doth shake as if
it were afraid.
O sure some goddess
holds it in her hand,
A heavenly power
that oft hath me dismayed,
Yet such a power
as doth in beauty stand!
Cease lute, my ceaseless suit
will ne’er be heard!
Ah, too hard-hearted
she that will not hear it!
If I but think
on joy, my joy is marred;
My grief is great,
yet ever must I bear it;
But love ’twixt us will
prove a faithful page,
And she will love my sorrows
to assuage.
XVIII
O she must love my sorrows
to assuage.
O God, what joy
felt I when she did smile,
Whom killing grief
before did cause to rage!
Beauty is able
sorrow to beguile.
Out, traitor absence! thou
dost hinder me,
And mak’st
my mistress often to forget,
Causing me to
rail upon her cruelty,
Whilst thou my
suit injuriously dost let;
Again her presence doth astonish
me,
And strikes me
dumb as if my sense were gone;
Oh, is not this
a strange perplexity?
In presence dumb,
she hears not absent moan;
Thus absent presence, present
absence maketh,
That hearing my poor suit,
she it mistaketh.
XIX
My pain paints out my love
in doleful verse,
The lively glass
wherein she may behold it;
My verse her wrong
to me doth still rehearse,
But so as it lamenteth
to unfold it.
Myself with ceaseless tears
my harms bewail,
And her obdurate
heart not to be moved;
Though long-continued
woes my senses fail,
And curse the
day, the hour when first I loved.
She takes the glass wherein
herself she sees,
In bloody colours
cruelly depainted;
And her poor prisoner
humbly on his knees,
Pleading for grace,
with heart that never fainted.
She breaks the glass; alas,
I cannot choose
But grieve that I should so
my labour lose!
XX
Great is the joy that no tongue
can express!
Fair babe new
born, how much dost thou delight me!
But what, is mine
so great? Yea, no whit less!
So great that
of all woes it doth acquite me.
It’s fair Fidessa that
this comfort bringeth,
Who sorry for
the wrongs by her procured,
Delightful tunes
of love, of true love singeth,
Wherewith her
too chaste thoughts were ne’er inured.
She loves, she saith, but
with a love not blind.
Her love is counsel
that I should not love,
But upon virtues
fix a stayed mind.
But what!
This new-coined love, love doth reprove?
If this be love of which you
make such store,
Sweet, love me less, that
you may love me more!
XXI
He that will Caesar be, or
else not be—
Who can aspire
to Caesar’s bleeding fame,
Must be of high
resolve; but what is he
That thinks to
gain a second Caesar’s name?
Whoe’er he be that climbs
above his strength,
And climbeth high,
the greater is his fall!
For though he
sit awhile, we see at length,
His slippery place
no firmness hath at all,
Great is his bruise that falleth
from on high.
This warneth me
that I should not aspire;
Examples should
prevail; I care not, I!
I perish must
or have what I desire!
This humour doth with mine
full well agree
I must Fidessa’s be,
or else not be!
XXII
It was of love, ungentle gentle
boy!
That thou didst
come and harbour in my breast;
Not of intent
my body to destroy,
And have my soul,
with restless cares opprest.
But sith thy love doth turn
unto my pain,
Return to Greece,
sweet lad, where thou wast born.
Leave me alone
my griefs to entertain,
If thou forsake
me, I am less forlorn;
Although alone, yet shall
I find more ease.
Then see thou
hie thee hence, or I will chase thee;
Men highly wronged
care not to displease;
My fortune hangs
on thee, thou dost disgrace me,
Yet at thy farewell, play
a friendly part;
To make amends, fly to Fidessa’s
heart.
XXIII
Fly to her heart, hover about
her heart,
With dainty kisses mollify
her heart,
Pierce with thy arrows her
obdurate heart,
With sweet allurements ever
move her heart,
At midday and at midnight
touch her heart,
Be lurking closely, nestle
about her heart,
With power—thou
art a god!—command her heart,
Kindle thy coals of love about
her heart,
Yea, even into thyself transform
her heart!
Ah, she must love! Be
sure thou have her heart;
And I must die if thou have
not her heart;
Thy bed if thou rest well,
must be her heart;
He hath the best part sure
that hath her heart;
What have I not, if I have
but her heart!
XXIV
Striving is past! Ah,
I must sink and drown,
And that in sight
of long descried shore!
I cannot send
for aid unto the town,
All help is vain
and I must die therefore.
Then poor distressed caitiff,
be resolved
To leave this
earthly dwelling fraught with care;
Cease will thy
woes, thy corpse in earth involved,
Thou diest for
her that will no help prepare.
O see, my case herself doth
now behold;
The casement open
is; she seems to speak;—
But she has gone!
O then I dare be bold
And needs must
say she caused my heart to break.
I die before I drown, O heavy
case!
It was because I saw my mistress’
face.
XXV
Compare me to Pygmalion with
his image sotted,
For, as was he,
even so am I deceived.
The shadow only
is to me allotted,
The substance
hath of substance me bereaved.
Then poor and helpless must
I wander still
In deep laments
to pass succeeding days,
Welt’ring
in woes that poor and mighty kill.
O who is mighty
that so soon decays!
The dread Almighty hath appointed
so
The final period
of all worldly things.
Then as in time
they come, so must they go;
Death common is
to beggars and to kings
For whither do I run beside
my text?
I run to death, for death
must be the next.
XXVI
The silly bird that hastes
unto the net,
And flutters to
and fro till she be taken,
Doth look some
food or succour there to get,
But loseth life,
so much is she mistaken.
The foolish fly that fleeth
to the flame
With ceaseless
hovering and with restless flight,
Is burned straight
to ashes in the same,
And finds her
death where was her most delight
The proud aspiring boy that
needs would pry
Into the secrets
of the highest seat,
Had some conceit
to gain content thereby,
Or else his folly
sure was wondrous great.
These did through folly perish
all and die:
And though I know it, even
so do I.
XXVII
Poor worm, poor silly worm,
alas, poor beast!
Fear makes thee
hide thy head within the ground,
Because of creeping
things thou art the least,
Yet every foot
gives thee thy mortal wound.
But I, thy fellow worm, am
in worse state,
For thou thy sun
enjoyest, but I want mine.
I live in irksome
night, O cruel fate!
My sun will never
rise, nor ever shine.
Thus blind of light, mine
eyes misguide my feet,
And baleful darkness
makes me still afraid;
Men mock me when
I stumble in the street,
And wonder how
my young sight so decayed.
Yet do I joy in this, even
when I fall,
That I shall see again and
then see all.
XXVIII
Well may my soul, immortal
and divine,
That is imprisoned
in a lump of clay,
Breathe out laments
until this body pine,
That from her
takes her pleasures all away.
Pine then, thou loathed prison
of my life,
Untoward subject
of the least aggrievance!
O let me die!
Mortality is rife;
Death comes by
wounds, by sickness, care, and chance.
O earth, the time will come
when I’ll resume thee,
And in thy bosom
make my resting-place;
Then do not unto
hardest sentence doom me;
Yield, yield betimes;
I must and will have grace!
Richly shalt thou be entombed,
since, for thy grave,
Fidessa, fair Fidessa, thou
shalt have!
XXIX
Earth, take this earth wherein
my spirits languish;
Spirits, leave
this earth that doth in griefs retain you;
Griefs, chase
this earth that it may fade with anguish;
Spirits, avoid
these furies which do pain you!
O leave your loathsome prison;
freedom gain you;
Your essence is
divine; great is your power;
And yet you moan
your wrongs and sore complain you,
Hoping for joy
which fadeth every hour.
O spirits, your prison loathe
and freedom gain you;
The destinies
in deep laments have shut you
Of mortal hate,
because they do disdain you,
And yet of joy
that they in prison put you.
Earth, take this earth with
thee to be enclosed;
Life is to me, and I to it,
opposed!
XXX
Weep now no more, mine eyes,
but be you drowned
In your own tears,
so many years distilled.
And let her know
that at them long hath frowned,
That you can weep
no more although she willed;
This hap her cruelty hath
her allotten,
Who whilom
was commandress of each part;
That now
her proper griefs must be forgotten
By those
true outward signs of inward smart.
For how can he that hath not
one tear left him,
Stream out
those floods that are due unto her moaning,
When both
of eyes and tears she hath bereft him?
O yet I’ll
signify my grief with groaning;
True sighs, true groans shall
echo in the air
And say, Fidessa, though most
cruel, is most fair!
XXXI
Tongue, never cease to sing
Fidessa’s praise;
Heart, however
she deserve conceive the best;
Eyes, stand amazed
to see her beauty’s rays;
Lips, steal one
kiss and be for ever blest;
Hands, touch that hand wherein
your life is closed;
Breast, lock up
fast in thee thy life’s sole treasure;
Arms, still embrace
and never be disclosed;
Feet, run to her
without or pace or measure;
Tongue, heart, eyes, lips,
hands, breast, arms, feet,
Consent to do
true homage to your Queen,
Lovely, fair,
gentle, wise, virtuous, sober, sweet,
Whose like shall
never be, hath never been!
O that I were all tongue,
her praise to shew;
Then surely my poor heart
were freed from woe!
XXXII
Sore sick of late, nature
her due would have,
Great was my pain
where still my mind did rest;
No hope but heaven,
no comfort but my grave,
Which is of comforts
both the last and least;
But on a sudden, the Almighty
sent
Sweet ease to
the distressed and comfortless,
And gave me longer
time for to repent,
With health and
strength the foes of feebleness;
Yet I my health no sooner
’gan recover,
But my old thoughts,
though full of cares, retained,
Made me, as erst,
become a wretched lover
Of her that love
and lovers aye disdained.
Then was my pain with ease
of pain increased,
And I ne’er sick until
my sickness ceased.
XXXIII
He that would fain Fidessa’s
image see,
My face of force
may be his looking-glass.
There is she portrayed
and her cruelty,
Which as a wonder
through the world must pass.
But were I dead, she would
not be betrayed;
It’s I,
that ’gainst my will, shall make it known.
Her cruelty by
me must be bewrayed,
Or I must hide
my head and live alone.
I’ll pluck my silver
hairs from out my head,
And wash away
the wrinkles of my face;
Closely immured
I’ll live as I were dead,
Before she suffer
but the least disgrace.
How can I hide that is already
known?
I have been seen and have
no face but one.
XXXIV
Fie pleasure, fie! Thou
cloy’st me with delight;
Sweet thoughts,
you kill me if you lower stray!
O many be the
joys of one short night!
Tush, fancies
never can desire allay!
Happy, unhappy thoughts!
I think, and have not.
Pleasure, O pleasing
pain! Shows nought avail me!
Mine own conceit
doth glad me, more I crave not;
Yet wanting substance,
woe doth still assail me.
Babies do children please,
and shadows fools;
Shows have deceived
the wisest many a time.
Ever to want our
wish, our courage cools.
The ladder broken,
’tis in vain to climb.
But I must wish, and crave,
and seek, and climb;
It’s hard if I obtain
not grace in time.
XXXV
I have not spent the April
of my time,
The sweet of youth
in plotting in the air,
But do at first
adventure seek to climb,
Whilst flowers
of blooming years are green and fair.
I am no leaving of all-withering
age,
I have not suffered
many winter lours;
I feel no storm
unless my love do rage,
And then in grief
I spend both days and hours.
This yet doth comfort that
my flower lasted
Until it did approach
my sun too near;
And then, alas,
untimely was it blasted,
So soon as once
thy beauty did appear!
But after all, my comfort
rests in this,
That for thy sake my youth
decayed is.
XXXVI
O let my heart, my body, and
my tongue
Bleed forth the
lively streams of faith unfeigned,
Worship my saint
the gods and saints among,
Praise and extol
her fair that me hath pained!
O let the smoke of my suppressed
desire,
Raked up in ashes
of my burning breast,
Break out at length
and to the clouds aspire,
Urging the heavens
to afford me rest;
But let my body naturally
descend
Into the bowels
of our common mother,
And to the very
centre let it wend,
When it no lower
can, her griefs to smother!
And yet when I so low do buried
lie,
Then shall my love ascend
unto the sky.
XXXVII
Fair is my love that feeds
among the lilies,
The lilies growing
in that pleasant garden
Where Cupid’s
mount, that well beloved hill is,
And where that
little god himself is warden.
See where my love sits in
the beds of spices,
Beset all round
with camphor, myrrh, and roses,
And interlaced
with curious devices,
Which her from
all the world apart incloses.
There doth she tune her lute
for her delight,
And with sweet
music makes the ground to move;
Whilst I, poor
I, do sit in heavy plight,
Wailing alone
my unrespected love,
Not daring rush into so rare
a place,
That gives to her, and she
to it, a grace.
XXXVIII
Was never eye did see my mistress’
face,
Was never ear
did hear Fidessa’s tongue,
Was never mind
that once did mind her grace,
That ever thought
the travail to be long.
When her I see, no creature
I behold,
So plainly say
these advocates of love,
That now do fear
and now to speak are bold,
Trembling apace
when they resolve to prove.
These strange effects do show
a hidden power,
A majesty all
base attempts reproving,
That glads or
daunts as she doth laugh or lower;
Surely some goddess
harbours in their moving
Who thus my Muse from base
attempts hath raised,
Whom thus my Muse beyond compare
hath praised.
XXXIX
My lady’s hair is threads
of beaten gold,
Her front the
purest crystal eye hath seen,
Her eyes the brightest
stars the heavens hold,
Her cheeks red
roses such as seld have been;
Her pretty lips of red vermillion
die,
Her hand of ivory
the purest white,
Her blush Aurora
or the morning sky,
Her breast displays
two silver fountains bright
The spheres her voice, her
grace the Graces three:
Her body is the
saint that I adore;
Her smiles and
favours sweet as honey be;
Her feet fair
Thetis praiseth evermore.
But ah, the worst and last
is yet behind,
For of a griffon she doth
bear the mind!
XL
Injurious Fates, to rob me
of my bliss,
And dispossess
my heart of all his hope!
You ought with
just revenge to punish miss,
For unto you the
hearts of men are ope.
Injurious Fates, that hardened
have her heart,
Yet make her face
to send out pleasing smiles!
And both are done
but to increase my smart,
And entertain
my love with falsed wiles.
Yet being when she smiles
surprised with joy,
I fain would languish
in so sweet a pain,
Beseeching death
my body to destroy,
Lest on the sudden
she should frown again.
When men do wish for death,
Fates have no force;
But they, when men would live,
have no remorse.
XLI
The prison I am in is thy
fair face,
Wherein my liberty
enchained lies;
My thoughts, the
bolts that hold me in the place;
My food, the pleasing
looks of thy fair eyes.
Deep is the prison where I
lie enclosed,
Strong are the
bolts that in this cell contain me;
Sharp is the food
necessity imposed,
When hunger makes
me feed on that which pains me.
Yet do I love, embrace, and
follow fast,
That holds, that
keeps, that discontents me most;
And list not break,
unlock, or seek to waste
The place, the
bolts, the food, though I be lost;
Better in prison ever to remain,
Than being out to suffer greater
pain.
XLII
When never-speaking silence
proves a wonder,
When ever-flying
flame at home remaineth,
When all-concealing
night keeps darkness under,
When men-devouring
wrong true glory gaineth,
When soul-tormenting grief
agrees with joy,
When Lucifer foreruns
the baleful night,
When Venus doth
forsake her little boy,
When her untoward
boy obtaineth sight,
When Sisyphus doth cease to
roll his stone,
When Otus shaketh
off his heavy chain,
When beauty, queen
of pleasure, is alone,
When love and
virtue quiet peace disdain;
When these shall be, and I
not be,
Then will Fidessa pity me.
XLIII
Tell me of love, sweet Love,
who is thy sire,
Or if thou mortal
or immortal be?
Some say thou
art begotten by desire,
Nourished with
hope, and fed with fantasy,
Engendered by a heavenly goddess’
eye,
Lurking most sweetly
in an angel’s face.
Others, that beauty
thee doth deify;—
O sovereign beauty,
full of power and grace!—
But I must be absurd all this
denying,
Because the fairest
fair alive ne’er knew thee.
Now, Cupid, comes
thy godhead to the trying;
’Twas she
alone—such is her power—that
slew me;
She shall be Love, and thou
a foolish boy,
Whose virtue proves thy power
is but a toy.
XLIV
No choice of change can ever
change my mind;
Choiceless my
choice, the choicest choice alive;
Wonder of women,
were she not unkind,
The pitiless of
pity to deprive.
Yet she, the kindest creature
of her kind,
Accuseth me of
self-ingratitude,
And well she may,
sith by good proof I find
Myself had died,
had she not helpful stood.
For when my sickness had the
upper hand,
And death began
to show his awful face,
She took great
pains my pains for to withstand,
And eased my heart
that was in heavy case.
But cruel now, she scorneth
what it craveth;
Unkind in kindness, murdering
while she saveth.
XLV
Mine eye bewrays the secrets
of my heart,
My heart unfolds
his grief before her face;
Her face—bewitching
pleasure of my smart!—
Deigns not one
look of mercy and of grace.
My guilty eye of murder and
of treason,—
Friendly conspirator
of my decay,
Dumb eloquence,
the lover’s strongest reason!—
Doth weep itself
for anger quite away,
And chooseth rather not to
be, than be
Disloyal, by too
well discharging duty;
And being out,
joys it no more can see
The sugared charms
of all deceiving beauty.
But, for the other greedily
doth eye it,
I pray you tell me, what do
I get by it?
XLVI
So soon as peeping Lucifer,
Aurora’s star,
The sky with golden
periwigs doth spangle;
So soon as Phoebus
gives us light from far,
So soon as fowler
doth the bird entangle;
Soon as the watchful bird,
clock of the morn,
Gives intimation
of the day’s appearing;
Soon as the jolly
hunter winds his horn,
His speech and
voice with custom’s echo clearing;
Soon as the hungry lion seeks
his prey
In solitary range
of pathless mountains;
Soon as the passenger
sets on his way,
So soon as beasts
resort unto the fountains;
So soon mine eyes their office
are discharging,
And I my griefs with greater
griefs enlarging.
XLVII
I see, I hear, I feel, I know,
I rue
My fate, my fame,
my pain, my loss, my fall,
Mishap, reproach,
disdain, a crown, her hue,
Cruel, still flying,
false, fair, funeral,
To cross, to shame, bewitch,
deceive, and kill
My first proceedings
in their flowing bloom.
My worthless pen
fast chained to my will,
My erring life
through an uncertain doom,
My thoughts that yet in lowliness
do mount,
My heart the subject
of her tyranny;
What now remains
but her severe account
Of murder’s
crying guilt, foul butchery!
She was unhappy in her cradle
breath,
That given was to be another’s
death.
XLVIII
“Murder! O murder!”
I can cry no longer.
“Murder!
O murder!” Is there none to aid me?
Life feeble is
in force, death is much stronger;
Then let me die
that shame may not upbraid me;
Nothing is left me now but
shame or death.
I fear she feareth
not foul murder’s guilt,
Nor do I fear
to lose a servile breath.
I know my blood
was given to be spilt.
What is this life but maze
of countless strays,
The enemy of true
felicity,
Fitly compared
to dreams, to flowers, to plays!
O life, no life
to me, but misery!
Of shame or death, if thou
must one,
Make choice of death and both
are gone.
XLIX
My cruel fortunes clouded
with a frown,
Lurk in the bosom
of eternal night;
My climbing thoughts
are basely hauled down;
My best devices
prove but after-sight.
Poor outcast of the world’s
exiled room,
I live in wilderness
of deep lament;
No hope reserved
me but a hopeless tomb,
When fruitless
life and fruitful woes are spent.
Shall Phoebus hinder little
stars to shine,
Or lofty cedar
mushrooms leave to grow?
Sure mighty men
at little ones repine,
The rich is to
the poor a common foe.
Fidessa, seeing how the world
doth go,
Joineth with fortune in my
overthrow.
L
When I the hooks of pleasure
first devoured,
Which undigested
threaten now to choke me,
Fortune on me
her golden graces showered;
O then delight
did to delight provoke me!
Delight, false instrument
of my decay,
Delight, the nothing
that doth all things move,
Made me first
wander from the perfect way,
And fast entangled
me in the snares of love.
Then my unhappy happiness
at first began,
Happy in that
I loved the fairest fair;
Unhappily despised,
a hapless man;
Thus joy did triumph,
triumph did despair.
My conquest is—which
shall the conquest gain?—
Fidessa, author both of joy
and pain!
LI
Work, work apace, you blessed
sisters three,
In restless twining
of my fatal thread!
O let your nimble
hands at once agree,
To weave it out
and cut it off with speed!
Then shall my vexed and tormented
ghost
Have quiet passage
to the Elysian rest,
And sweetly over
death and fortune boast
In everlasting
triumphs with the blest.
But ah, too well I know you
have conspired
A lingering death
for him that loatheth life,
As if with woes
he never could be tired.
For this you hide
your all-dividing knife.
One comfort yet the heavens
have assigned me;
That I must die and leave
my griefs behind me.
LII
It is some comfort to the
wronged man,
The wronger of
injustice to upbraid.
Justly myself
herein I comfort can,
And justly call
her an ungrateful maid.
Thus am I pleased to rid myself
of crime
And stop the mouth
of all-reporting fame,
Counting my greatest
cross the loss of time
And all my private
grief her public shame.
Ah, but to speak the truth,
hence are my cares,
And in this comfort
all discomfort resteth;
My harms I cause
her scandal unawares;
Thus love procures
the thing that love detesteth.
For he that views the glasses
of my smart
Must need report she hath
a flinty heart.
LIII
I was a king of sweet content
at least,
But now from out
my kingdom banished;
I was chief guest
at fair dame pleasure’s feast,
But now I am for
want of succour famished;
I was a saint and heaven was
my rest,
But now cast down
into the lowest hell.
Vile caitiffs
may not live among the blest,
Nor blessed men
amongst cursed caitiffs dwell.
Thus am I made an exile of
a king;
Thus choice of
meats to want of food is changed;
Thus heaven’s
loss doth hellish torments bring;
Self crosses make
me from myself estranged.
Yet am I still the same but
made another;
Then not the same; alas, I
am no other!
LIV
If great Apollo offered as
a dower
His burning throne
to beauty’s excellence;
If Jove himself
came in a golden shower
Down to the earth
to fetch fair Io thence;
If Venus in the curled locks
was tied
Of proud Adonis
not of gentle kind;
If Tellus for
a shepherd’s favour died,
The favour cruel
Love to her assigned;
If Heaven’s winged herald
Hermes had
His heart enchanted
with a country maid;
If poor Pygmalion
was for beauty mad;
If gods and men
have all for beauty strayed:
I am not then ashamed to be
included
’Mongst those that love,
and be with love deluded.
LV
O, No, I dare not! O,
I may not speak!
Yes, yes, I dare,
I can, I must, I will!
Then heart, pour
forth thy plaints and do not break;
Let never fancy
manly courage kill;
Intreat her mildly, words
have pleasing charms
Of force to move
the most obdurate heart,
To take relenting
pity of my harms,
And with unfeigned
tears to wail my smart.
Is she a stock, a block, a
stone, a flint?
Hath she nor ears
to hear nor eyes to see?
If so my cries,
my prayers, my tears shall stint!
Lord! how can
lovers so bewitched be!
I took her to be beauty’s
queen alone;
But now I see she is a senseless
stone.
LVI
Is trust betrayed? Doth
kindness grow unkind?
Can beauty both
at once give life and kill?
Shall fortune
alter the most constant mind?
Will reason yield
unto rebelling will?
Doth fancy purchase praise,
and virtue shame?
May show of goodness
lurk in treachery?
Hath truth unto
herself procured blame?
Must sacred muses
suffer misery?
Are women woe to men, traps
for their falls?
Differ their words,
their deeds, their looks, their lives?
Have lovers ever
been their tennis balls?
Be husbands fearful
of the chastest wives?
All men do these affirm, and
so must I,
Unless Fidessa give to me
the lie.
LVII
Three playfellows—such
three were never seen
In Venus’
court—upon a summer’s day,
Met altogether
on a pleasant green,
Intending at some
pretty game to play.
They Dian, Cupid, and Fidessa
were.
Their wager, beauty,
bow, and cruelty;
The conqueress
the stakes away did bear.
Whose fortune
then was it to win all three?
Fidessa, which doth these
as weapons use,
To make the greatest
heart her will obey;
And yet the most
obedient to refuse
As having power
poor lovers to betray.
With these she wounds, she
heals, gives life and death;
More power hath none that
lives by mortal breath.
LVIII
O beauty, siren! kept with
Circe’s rod;
The fairest good
in seem but foulest ill;
The sweetest plague
ordained for man by God,
The pleasing subject
of presumptuous will;
Th’ alluring object
of unstayed eyes;
Friended of all,
but unto all a foe;
The dearest thing
that any creature buys,
And vainest too,
it serves but for a show;
In seem a heaven, and yet
from bliss exiling;
Paying for truest
service nought but pain;
Young men’s
undoing, young and old beguiling;
Man’s greatest
loss though thought his greatest gain!
True, that all this with pain
enough I prove;
And yet most true, I will
Fidessa love.
LIX
Do I unto a cruel tiger play,
That preys on
me as wolf upon the lambs,
Who fear the danger
both of night and day
And run for succour
to their tender dams?
Yet will I pray, though she
be ever cruel,
On bended knee
and with submissive heart.
She is the fire
and I must be the fuel;
She must inflict
and I endure the smart.
She must, she shall be mistress
of her will,
And I, poor I,
obedient to the same;
As fit to suffer
death as she to kill;
As ready to be
blamed as she to blame.
And for I am the subject of
her ire,
All men shall know thereby
my love entire.
LX
O let me sigh, weep, wail,
and cry no more;
Or let me sigh, weep, wail,
cry more and more!
Yea, let me sigh, weep, wail,
cry evermore,
For she doth pity my complaints
no more
Than cruel pagan or the savage
Moor;
But still doth add unto my
torments more,
Which grievous are to me by
so much more
As she inflicts them and doth
wish them more.
O let thy mercy, merciless,
be never more!
So shall sweet death to me
be welcome, more
Than is to hungry beasts the
grassy moor,
As she that to affliction
adds yet more,
Becomes more cruel by still
adding more!
Weary am I to speak of this
word “more;”
Yet never weary she, to plague
me more!
LXI
Fidessa’s worth in time
begetteth praise;
Time, praise;
praise, fame; fame, wonderment;
Wonder, fame,
praise, time, her worth do raise
To highest pitch
of dread astonishment.
Yet time in time her hardened
heart bewrayeth
And praise itself
her cruelty dispraiseth.
So that through
praise, alas, her praise decayeth,
And that which
makes it fall her honour raiseth!
Most strange, yet true!
So wonder, wonder still,
And follow fast
the wonder of these days;
For well I know
all wonder to fulfil
Her will at length
unto my will obeys.
Meantime let others praise
her constancy,
And me attend upon her clemency.
LXII
Most true that I must fair
Fidessa love.
Most true that fair Fidessa
cannot love.
Most true that I do feel the
pains of love.
Most true that I am captive
unto love.
Most true that I deluded am
with love.
Most true that I do find the
sleights of love.
Most true that nothing can
procure her love.
Most true that I must perish
in my love.
Most true that she contemns
the god of love.
Most true that he is snared
with her love.
Most true that she would have
me cease to love.
Most true that she herself
alone is love.
Most true that though she
hated, I would love.
Most true that dearest life
shall end with love.
FINIS
Talis apud tales, talis
sub tempore tali:
Subque meo tali judice, talis
ero.
CHLORIS OR, THE COMPLAINT OF THE PASSIONATE DESPISED SHEPHERD by WILLIAM SMITH
The sub-title of Chloris arouses an expectation that is gratified in the pastoral modishness of the sonnets. Corin sits under the “lofty pines, co-partners of his woe,” with oaten reed at his lips, and calls on sylvans, lambkins and all Parnassans to testify to the beauty and cruelty of Chloris. The attitude is a self-conscious one, yet the poem reveals little of the personality of the author beyond the facts of his youthfulness and of his devotion to “the most excellent and learned Shepheard, Colin Cloute.” It was in 1595, but one year before the publication of Chloris, that Spenser had sung his own sonnets of true love, and it is perhaps on this account that William Smith finds him in a mood favourable to the defence of a young aspirant. At any rate, the language of the dedication rings with something more than mere desire for distinguished patronage. The youth looks with a beautiful humility upward toward the greater but “dear and most entire beloved” poet. His own sonnets, he says, are “of my study the budding springs”; they are but “young-hatched orphan things.” He nowhere boasts that they will give immortal renown to the scornful beauty, but modestly promises that if her cruel disdain does not ruin him, the time shall come when he “more large” her “praises forth shall pen.” Chloris had once been favourable, as sonnet forty-eight distinctly shows, but the cycle does not bring any happy conclusion to the story. Corin is left weeping but faithful, and the picture of Chloris is composed of such faint outlines only as the sonneteer’s conventions can delineate. Beyond this no certain information in regard to poet or honoured lady has yet been unearthed.
For all its formality, however, the sonnet-cycle is not wanting in touches of real feeling and lines of musical sweetness; the writer shows considerable skill in the management of rime, and in structure he adopts the form preferred by Shakespeare, whose “sugared sonnets” may by this date have passed beneath his eye. The melodies piped by other sonnet-shepherds re-echo with a great deal of distinctness in Covin’s strains; nevertheless he has himself taken a draught from the true Elizabethan fount of lyric inspiration, and the nymph Chloris with her heart-robbing eye well deserves a place on the snow-soft downs where the sonneteering shepherds were wont to assemble.
I
Colin my dear and most entire
beloved,
My muse audacious
stoops her pitch to thee,
Desiring that
thy patience be not moved
By these rude
lines, written here you see;
Fain would my muse whom cruel
love hath wronged,
Shroud her love
labours under thy protection,
And I myself with
ardent zeal have longed
That thou mightst
know to thee my true affection.
Therefore, good Colin, graciously
accept
A few sad sonnets
which my muse hath framed;
Though they but
newly from the shell are crept,
Suffer them not
by envy to be blamed,
But underneath the shadow
of thy wings
Give warmth to these young-hatched
orphan things.
II
Give warmth to these young-hatched
orphan things,
Which chill with
cold to thee for succour creep;
They of my study
are the budding springs;
Longer I cannot
them in silence keep.
They will be gadding sore
against my mind.
But courteous
shepherd, if they run astray,
Conduct them that
they may the pathway find,
And teach them
how the mean observe they may.
Thou shalt them ken by their
discording notes,
Their weeds are
plain, such as poor shepherds wear;
Unshapen, torn,
and ragged are their coats,
Yet forth they
wand’ring are devoid of fear.
They which have tasted of
the muses’ spring,
I hope will smile upon the
tunes they sing.
TO ALL SHEPHERDS IN GENERAL
You whom the world admires
for rarest style,
You which have
sung the sonnets of true love,
Upon my maiden
verse with favour smile,
Whose weak-penned
muse to fly too soon doth prove;
Before her feathers have their
full perfection,
She soars aloft, pricked on
by blind affection.
You whose deep wits, ingine,
and industry,
The everlasting
palm of praise have won,
You paragons of
learned poesy,
Favour these mists,
which fall before your sun,
Intentions leading to a more
effect
If you them grace but with
your mild aspect.
And thou the Genius of my
ill-tuned note,
Whose beauty urged
hath my rustic vein
Through mighty
oceans of despair to float,
That I in rime
thy cruelty complain:
Vouchsafe to read these lines
both harsh and bad
Nuntiates of woe with sorrow
being clad.
CHLORIS
I
Courteous Calliope, vouchsafe
to lend
Thy helping hand
to my untuned song,
And grace these
lines which I to write pretend,
Compelled by love
which doth poor Corin wrong.
And those thy sacred sisters
I beseech,
Which on Parnassus’
mount do ever dwell,
To shield my country
muse and rural speech
By their divine
authority and spell.
II
Thy beauty subject of my song
I make,
O fairest fair,
on whom depends my life!
Refuse not then
the task I undertake,
To please thy
rage and to appease my strife;
But with one smile remunerate
my toil,
None other guerdon
I of thee desire.
Give not my lowly
muse new-hatched the foil,
But warmth that
she may at the length aspire
Unto the temples of thy star-bright
eyes,
Upon whose round
orbs perfect beauty sits,
From whence such
glorious crystal beams arise,
As best my Chloris’
seemly face befits;
Which eyes, which beauty,
which bright crystal beam,
Which face of thine hath made
my love extreme.
III
Feed, silly sheep, although
your keeper pineth,
Yet like to Tantalus
doth see his food.
Skip you and leap,
no bright Apollo shineth,
Whilst I bewail
my sorrows in yon wood,
Where woeful Philomela doth
record,
And sings with
notes of sad and dire lament
The tragedy wrought
by her sisters’ lord;
I’ll bear
a part in her black discontent.
That pipe which erst was wont
to make you glee
Upon these downs
whereon you careless graze,
Shall to her mournful
music tuned be.
Let not my plaints,
poor lambkins, you amaze;
There underneath that dark
and dusky bower,
Whole showers of tears to
Chloris I will pour.
IV
Whole showers of tears to
Chloris I will pour,
As true oblations
of my sincere love,
If that will not
suffice, most fairest flower,
Then shall my
sighs thee unto pity move.
If neither tears nor sighs
can aught prevail,
My streaming blood
thine anger shall appease,
This hand of mine
by vigour shall assail
To tear my heart
asunder thee to please.
Celestial powers on you I
invocate;
You know the chaste
affections of my mind,
I never did my
faith yet violate;
Why should my
Chloris then be so unkind?
That neither tears, nor sighs,
nor streaming blood,
Can unto mercy move her cruel
mood.
V
You fawns and silvans, when
my Chloris brings
Her flocks to
water in your pleasant plains,
Solicit her to
pity Corin’s strings,
The smart whereof
for her he still sustains.
For she is ruthless of my
woeful song;
My oaten reed
she not delights to hear.
O Chloris, Chloris!
Corin thou dost wrong,
Who loves thee
better than his own heart dear.
VI
You lofty pines, co-partners
of my woe,
When Chloris sitteth
underneath your shade,
To her those sighs
and tears I pray you show,
Whilst you attending
I for her have made.
Whilst you attending, dropped
have sweet balm
In token that
you pity my distress,
Zephirus hath
your stately boughs made calm.
Whilst I to you
my sorrows did express,
The neighbour mountains bended
have their tops,
When they have
heard my rueful melody,
And elves in rings
about me leaps and hops,
To frame my passions
to their jollity.
Resounding echoes from their
obscure caves,
Reiterate what most my fancy
craves.
VII
What need I mourn, seeing
Pan our sacred king
Was of that nymph
fair Syrinx coy disdained?
The world’s
great light which comforteth each thing,
All comfortless
for Daphne’s sake remained.
If gods can find no help to
heal the sore
Made by love’s
shafts, which pointed are with fire,
Unhappy Corin,
then thy chance deplore,
Sith they despair
by wanting their desire.
I am not Pan though I a shepherd
be,
Yet is my love
as fair as Syrinx was.
My songs cannot
with Phoebus’ tunes agree,
Yet Chloris’
doth his Daphne’s far surpass.
How much more fair by so much
more unkind,
Than Syrinx coy, or Daphne,
I her find!
VIII
No sooner had fair Phoebus
trimmed his car,
Being newly risen
from Aurora’s bed,
But I in whom
despair and hope did war,
My unpenned flock
unto the mountains led.
Tripping upon the snow-soft
downs I spied
Three nymphs more
fairer than those beautys three
Which did appear
to Paris on mount Ide.
Coming more near,
my goddess I there see;
For she the field-nymphs oftentimes
doth haunt,
To hunt with them
the fierce and savage boar;
And having sported
virelays they chaunt,
Whilst I unhappy
helpless cares deplore.
There did I call to her, ah
too unkind!
But tiger-like, of me she
had no mind.
IX
Unto the fountain where fair
Delia chaste
The proud Acteon
turned to a hart,
I drove my flock,
that water sweet to taste,
’Cause from
the welkin Phoebus ’gan depart.
There did I see the nymph
whom I admire,
Rememb’ring
her locks, of which the yellow hue
Made blush the
beauties of her curled wire,
Which Jove himself
with wonder well might view;
X
Am I a Gorgon that she doth
me fly,
Or was I hatched
in the river Nile?
Or doth my Chloris
stand in doubt that I
With syren songs
do seek her to beguile?
If any one of these she can
object
’Gainst
me, which chaste affected love protest,
Then might my
fortunes by her frowns be checked,
And blameless
she from scandal free might rest.
But seeing I am no hideous
monster born,
But have that
shape which other men do bear,
Which form great
Jupiter did never scorn,
Amongst his subjects
here on earth to wear,
Why should she then that soul
with sorrow fill,
Which vowed hath to love and
serve her still?
XI
Tell me, my dear, what moves
thy ruthless mind
To be so cruel,
seeing thou art so fair?
Did nature frame
thy beauty so unkind?
Or dost thou scorn
to pity my despair?
O no, it was not nature’s
ornament,
But winged love’s
unpartial cruel wound,
Which in my heart
is ever permanent,
Until my Chloris
make me whole and sound.
O glorious love-god, think
on my heart’s grief;
Let not thy vassal
pine through deep disdain;
By wounding Chloris
I shall find relief,
If thou impart
to her some of my pain.
She doth thy temples and thy
shrines abject;
They with Amintas’ flowers
by me are decked.
XII
Cease, eyes, to weep sith
none bemoans your weeping;
Leave off, good
muse, to sound the cruel name
Of my love’s
queen which hath my heart in keeping,
Yet of my love
doth make a jesting game!
Long hath my sufferance laboured
to inforce
One pearl of pity
from her pretty eyes,
Whilst I with
restless oceans of remorse
Bedew the banks
where my fair Chloris lies,
Where my fair Chloris bathes
her tender skin,
And doth triumph
to see such rivers fall
From those moist
springs, which never dry have been
Since she their
honour hath detained in thrall;
And still she scorns one favouring
smile to show
Unto those waves proceeding
from my woe.
XIII
A Dream
What time fair Titan in the
zenith sat,
And equally the
fixed poles did heat,
When to my flock
my daily woes I chat,
And underneath
a broad beech took my seat,
The dreaming god which Morpheus
poets call,
Augmenting fuel
to my Aetna’s fire,
With sleep possessing
my weak senses all,
XIV
Mournful Amintas, thou didst
pine with care,
Because the fates
by their untimely doom
Of life bereft
thy loving Phillis fair,
When thy love’s
spring did first begin to bloom.
My care doth countervail that
care of thine,
And yet my Chloris
draws her angry breath;
My hopes still
hoping hopeless now repine,
For living she
doth add to me but death.
Thy Phinis, dying, loved thee
full dear;
My Chloris, living,
hates poor Corin’s love,
Thus doth my woe
as great as thine appear,
Though sundry
accents both our sorrows move.
Thy swan-like songs did show
thy dying anguish;
These weeping truce-men show
I living languish.
XV
These weeping truce-men show
I living languish,
My woeful wailings
tells my discontent;
Yet Chloris nought
esteemeth of mine anguish,
My thrilling throbs
her heart cannot relent.
My kids to hear the rimes
and roundelays
Which I on wasteful
hills was wont to sing,
Did more delight
the lark in summer days,
Whose echo made
the neighbour groves to ring.
But now my flock all drooping
bleats and cries,
Because my pipe,
the author of their sport,
All rent and torn
and unrespected lies;
Their lamentations
do my cares consort.
They cease to feed and listen
to the plaint
Which I pour forth unto a
cruel saint.
XVI
Which I pour forth unto a
cruel saint,
Who merciless
my prayers doth attend,
Who tiger-like
doth pity my complaint,
And never ear
unto my woes will lend!
But still false hope dispairing
life deludes,
And tells my fancy
I shall grace obtain;
But Chloris fair
my orisons concludes
With fearful frowns,
presagers of my pain.
Thus do I spend the weary
wand’ring day,
Oppressed with
a chaos of heart’s grief;
Thus I consume
the obscure night away,
Neglecting sleep
which brings all cares relief;
Thus do I pass my ling’ring
life in woe;
But when my bliss will come
I do not know.
XVII
The perils which Leander took
in hand
Fair Hero’s
love and favour to obtain,
When void of fear
securely leaving land,
Through Hellespont
he swam to Cestos’ main,
His dangers should not counterpoise
my toil,
If my dear love
would once but pity show,
To quench these
flames which in my breast do broil,
Or dry these springs
which from mine eyes do flow.
Not only Hellespont but ocean
seas,
For her sweet
sake to ford I would attempt,
So that my travels
would her ire appease,
My soul from thrall
and languish to exempt.
O what is’t not poor
I would undertake,
If labour could my peace with
Chloris make!
XVIII
My love, I cannot thy rare
beauties place
Under those forms
which many writers use:
Some like to stones
compare their mistress’ face;
Some in the name
of flowers do love abuse;
Some makes their love a goldsmith’s
shop to be,
Where orient pearls
and precious stones abound;
In my conceit
these far do disagree
The perfect praise
of beauty forth to sound.
O Chloris, thou dost imitate
thyself,
Self’s imitating
passeth precious stones,
Or all the eastern
Indian golden pelf;
Thy red and white
with purest fair atones;
Matchless for beauty nature
hath thee framed,
Only unkind and cruel thou
art named!
XIX
The hound by eating grass
doth find relief,
For being sick
it is his choicest meat;
The wounded hart
doth ease his pain and grief
If he the herb
dictamion may eat;
The loathsome snake renews
his sight again,
When he casts
off his withered coat and hue;
The sky-bred eagle
fresh age doth obtain
When he his beak
decayed doth renew.
I worse than these whose sore
no salve can cure,
Whose grief no
herb nor plant nor tree can ease;
Remediless, I
still must pain endure,
Till I my Chloris’
furious mood can please;
She like the scorpion gave
to me a wound,
And like the scorpion she
must make me sound.
XX
Ye wasteful woods, bear witness
of my woe,
Wherein my plaints
did oftentimes abound;
Ye careless birds
my sorrows well do know,
They in your songs
were wont to make a sound!
Thou pleasant spring canst
record likewise bear
Of my designs
and sad disparagement,
When thy transparent
billows mingled were
With those downfalls
which from mine eyes were sent!
The echo of my still-lamenting
cries,
From hollow vaults
in treble voice resoundeth,
And then into
the empty air it flies,
And back again
from whence it came reboundeth.
That nymph unto my clamors
doth reply,
Being likewise scorned in
love as well as I.
XXI
Being likewise scorned in
love as well as I
By that self-loving
boy, which did disdain
To hear her after
him for love to cry,
For which in dens
obscure she doth remain;
Yet doth she answer to each
speech and voice,
And renders back
the last of what we speak,
But specially,
if she might have her choice,
She of unkindness
would her talk forth break.
She loves to hear of love’s
most sacred name,
Although, poor
nymph, in love she was despised;
And ever since
she hides her head for shame,
That her true
meaning was so lightly prised;
She pitying me, part of my
woes doth bear,
As you, good shepherds, listening
now shall hear.
XXII
O fairest fair, to thee I make
my plaint,
(my
plaint)
To thee from whom my cause of grief doth spring;
(doth
spring)
Attentive be unto the groans, sweet saint,
(sweet
saint)
Which unto thee in doleful tunes I sing.
(I
sing)
My mournful muse doth always speak of thee;
(of
thee)
My love is pure, O do it not disdain!
(disdain)
With bitter sorrow still oppress not me,
(not
me)
But mildly look upon me which complain.
(which
complain)
Kill not my true-affecting thoughts, but give
(but
give)
Such precious balm of comfort to my heart,
(my
heart)
That casting off despair in hope to live,
(hope
to live)
I may find help at length to ease my smart.
(to
ease my smart)
So shall you add such courage to my love,
(my
love)
That fortune false my faith shall not remove.
(shall
not remove)
XXIII
The phoenix fair which rich Arabia
breeds,
When wasting time expires her tragedy,
No more on Phoebus’ radiant rays she feeds,
But heapeth up great store of spicery;
And on a lofty towering cedar tree,
With heavenly substance she herself consumes,
From whence she young again appears to be,
Out of the cinders of her peerless plumes.
So I which long have fried in love’s flame,
The fire not made of spice but sighs and tears,
Revive again in hope disdain to shame,
And put to flight the author of my fears.
Her eyes revive decaying life in me,
Though they augmenters of my thraldom be.
XXIV
Though they augmenters of
my thraldom be,
For her I live
and her I love and none else;
O then, fair eyes,
look mildly upon me,
Who poor, despised,
forlorn must live alone else,
And like Amintas haunt the
desert cells,
And moanless there
breathe out thy cruelty,
Where none but
care and melancholy dwells.
I for revenge
to Nemesis will cry;
If that will not prevail,
my wandering ghost,
Which breathless
here this love-scorched trunk shall leave,
Shall unto thee
with tragic tidings post,
How thy disdain
did life from soul bereave.
Then all too late my death
thou wilt repent,
When murther’s guilt
thy conscience shall torment.
XXV
Who doth not know that love
is triumphant,
Sitting upon the
throne of majesty?
The gods themselves
his cruel darts do daunt,
And he, blind
boy, smiles at their misery.
Love made great Jove ofttimes
transform his shape;
Love made the
fierce Alcides stoop at last;
Achilles, stout
and bold, could not escape
The direful doom
which love upon him cast;
Love made Leander pass the
dreadful flood
Which Cestos from
Abydos doth divide;
Love made a chaos
where proud Ilion stood,
Through love the
Carthaginian Dido died.
Thus may we see how love doth
rule and reigns,
Bringing those under which
his power disdains.
XXVI
Though you be fair and beautiful
withal,
And I am black
for which you me despise,
Know that your
beauty subject is to fall,
Though you esteem
it at so high a price.
And time may come when that
whereof you boast,
Which is your
youth’s chief wealth and ornament,
Shall withered
be by winter’s raging frost,
When beauty’s
pride and flowering years are spent.
Then wilt thou mourn when
none shall thee respect;
Then wilt thou
think how thou hast scorned my tears;
Then pitiless
each one will thee neglect,
When hoary grey
shall dye thy yellow hairs;
Then wilt thou think upon
poor Corin’s case,
Who loved thee dear, yet lived
in thy disgrace.
XXVII
O Love, leave off with sorrow
to torment me;
Let my heart’s grief
and pining pain content thee!
The breach is made, I give
thee leave to enter;
Thee to resist, great god,
I dare not venter!
Restless desire doth aggravate
mine anguish,
Careful conceits do fill my
soul with languish.
Be not too cruel in thy conquest
gained,
Thy deadly shafts hath victory
obtained;
Batter no more my fort with
fierce affection,
But shield me captive under
thy protection.
I yield to thee, O Love, thou
art the stronger,
Raise then thy siege and trouble
me no longer!
XXVIII
What cruel star or fate had
domination
When I was born,
that thus my love is crossed?
Or from what planet
had I derivation
That thus my life
in seas of woe is crossed?
Doth any live that ever had
such hap
That all their
actions are of none effect,
Whom fortune never
dandled in her lap
But as an abject
still doth me reject?
Ah tickle dame! and yet thou
constant art
My daily grief
and anguish to increase,
And to augment
the troubles of my heart
Thou of these
bonds wilt never me release;
So that thy darlings me to
be may know
The true idea of all worldly
woe.
XXIX
Some in their hearts their
mistress’ colours bears;
Some hath her
gloves, some other hath her garters,
Some in a bracelet
wears her golden hairs,
And some with
kisses seal their loving charters.
But I which never favour reaped
yet,
Nor had one pleasant
look from her fair brow,
Content myself
in silent shade to sit
In hope at length
my cares to overplow.
Meanwhile mine eyes shall
feed on her fair face,
My sighs shall
tell to her my sad designs,
My painful pen
shall ever sue for grace
To help my heart,
which languishing now pines;
And I will triumph still amidst
my woe
Till mercy shall my sorrows
overflow.
XXX
The raging sea within his
limits lies
And with an ebb
his flowing doth discharge;
The rivers when
beyond their bounds they rise,
Themselves do
empty in the ocean large;
But my love’s sea which
never limit keepeth,
Which never ebbs
but always ever floweth,
In liquid salt
unto my Chloris weepeth,
Yet frustrate
are the tears which he bestoweth.
This sea which first was but
a little spring
Is now so great
and far beyond all reason,
That it a deluge
to my thoughts doth bring,
Which overwhelmed
hath my joying season.
So hard and dry is my saint’s
cruel mind,
These waves no way in her
to sink can find.
XXXI
These waves no way in her
to sink can find
To penetrate the
pith of contemplation;
These tears cannot
dissolve her hardened mind,
Nor move her heart
on me to take compassion;
O then, poor Corin, scorned
and quite despised,
Loathe now to
live since life procures thy woe;
Enough, thou hast
thy heart anatomised,
For her sweet
sake which will no pity show;
But as cold winter’s
storms and nipping frost
Can never change
sweet Aramanthus’ hue,
So though my love
and life by her are crossed.
My heart shall
still be constant firm and true.
Although Erynnis hinders Hymen’s
rites,
My fixed faith against oblivion
fights.
XXXII
My fixed faith against oblivion
fights,
And I cannot forget
her, pretty elf,
Although she cruel
be unto my plights;
Yet let me rather
clean forget myself,
Then her sweet name out of
my mind should go,
Which is th’
elixir of my pining soul,
From whence the
essence of my life doth flow,
Whose beauty rare
my senses all control;
Themselves most happy evermore
accounting,
That such a nymph
is queen of their affection,
With ravished
rage they to the skies are mounting,
Esteeming not
their thraldom nor subjection;
But still do joy amidst their
misery,
With patience bearing love’s
captivity.
XXXIII
With patience bearing love’s
captivity,
Themselves unguilty
of his wrath alleging;
These homely lines,
abjects of poesy,
For liberty and
for their ransom pledging,
And being free they solemnly
do vow,
Under his banner
ever arms to bear
Against those
rebels which do disallow
That love of bliss
should be the sovereign heir;
And Chloris if these weeping
truce-men may
One spark of pity
from thine eyes obtain,
In recompense
of their sad heavy lay,
Poor Corin shall
thy faithful friend remain;
And what I say I ever will
approve,
No joy may be compared to
thy love!
XXXIV
The bird of Thrace which doth
bewail her rape,
And murthered
Itys eaten by his sire,
When she her woes
in doleful tunes doth shape,
She sets her breast
against a thorny briar;
Because care-charmer sleep
should not disturb
The tragic tale
which to the night she tells,
She doth her rest
and quietness thus curb
Amongst the groves
where secret silence dwells:
Even so I wake, and waking
wail all night;
Chloris’
unkindness slumbers doth expel;
I need not thorn’s
sweet sleep to put to flight,
Her cruelty my
golden rest doth quell,
That day and night to me are
always one,
Consumed in woe, in tears,
in sighs and moan.
XXXV
Like to the shipman in his
brittle boat.
Tossed aloft by
the unconstant wind,
By dangerous rocks
and whirling gulfs doth float,
Hoping at length
the wished port to find;
So doth my love in stormy
billows sail,
And passeth the
gaping Scilla’s waves,
In hope at length
with Chloris to prevail
And win that prize
which most my fancy craves,
Which unto me of value will
be more
Then was that
rich and wealthy golden fleece.
Which Jason stout
from Colchos’ island bore
With wind in sails
unto the shore of Greece.
More rich, more rare, more
worth her love I prize
Then all the wealth which
under heaven lies.
XXXVI
O what a wound and what a
deadly stroke,
Doth Cupid give
to us perplexed lovers,
Which cleaves
more fast then ivy doth to oak,
Unto our hearts
where he his might discovers!
Though warlike Mars were armed
at all points,
With that tried
coat which fiery Vulcan made,
Love’s shafts
did penetrate his steeled joints,
And in his breast
in streaming gore did wade.
So pitiless is this fell conqueror
That in his mother’s
paps his arrows stuck;
Such is his rage
that he doth not defer
To wound those
orbs from whence he life did suck.
Then sith no mercy he shows
to his mother,
We meekly must his force and
rigour smother.
XXXVII
Each beast in field doth wish
the morning light;
The birds to Hesper
pleasant lays do sing;
The wanton kids
well-fed rejoice in night,
Being likewise
glad when day begins to spring.
But night nor day are welcome
unto me,
Both can bear
witness of my lamentation;
All day sad sighing
Corin you shall see,
All night he spends
in tears and exclamation.
Thus still I live although
I take no rest,
But living look
as one that is a-dying;
Thus my sad soul
with care and grief oppressed,
Seems as a ghost
to Styx and Lethe flying.
Thus hath fond love bereft
my youthful years
Of all good hap before old
age appears.
XXXVIII
That day wherein mine eyes
cannot her see,
Which is the essence
of their crystal sight,
Both blind, obscure
and dim that day they be,
And are debarred
of fair heaven’s light;
That day wherein mine ears
do want to hear her,
Hearing that day
is from me quite bereft;
That day wherein
to touch I come not near her,
That day no sense
of touching I have left;
That day wherein I lack the
fragrant smell,
Which from her
pleasant amber breath proceedeth,
Smelling that
day disdains with me to dwell,
Only weak hope
my pining carcase feedeth.
But burst, poor heart, thou
hast no better hope,
Since all thy senses have
no further scope!
XXXIX
The stately lion and the furious
bear
The skill of man
doth alter from their kind;
For where before
they wild and savage were,
By art both tame
and meek you shall them find.
The elephant although a mighty
beast,
A man may rule
according to his skill;
The lusty horse
obeyeth our behest,
For with the curb
you may him guide at will.
Although the flint most hard
contains the fire,
By force we do
his virtue soon obtain,
For with a steel
you shall have your desire,
Thus man may all
things by industry gain;
Only a woman if she list not
love,
No art, nor force, can unto
pity move.
XL
No art nor force can unto
pity move
Her stony heart
that makes my heart to pant;
No pleading passions
of my extreme love
Can mollify her
mind of adamant.
Ah cruel sex, and foe to all
mankind,
Either you love
or else you hate too much!
A glist’ring
show of gold in you we find,
And yet you prove
but copper in the touch.
But why, O why, do I so far
digress?
Nature you made
of pure and fairest mould,
The pomp and glory
of man to depress,
And as your slaves
in thraldom them to hold;
Which by experience now too
well I prove,
There is no pain unto the
pains of love.
XLI
Fair shepherdess, when as
these rustic lines
Comes to thy sight,
weigh but with what affection
Thy servile doth
depaint his sad designs,
Which to redress
of thee he makes election.
If so you scorn, you kill;
if you seem coy,
You wound poor
Corin to the very heart;
If that you smile,
you shall increase his joy;
If these you like,
you banish do all smart.
And this I do protest, most
fairest fair,
My muse shall
never cease that hill to climb,
To which the learned
Muses do repair,
And all to deify
thy name in rime;
And never none shall write
with truer mind,
As by all proof and trial
you shall find.
XLII
Die, die, my hopes! for you
do but augment
The burning accents
of my deep despair;
Disdain and scorn
your downfall do consent;
Tell to the world
she is unkind yet fair!
O eyes, close up those ever-running
fountains,
For pitiless are
all the tears you shed
Wherewith you
watered have both dales and mountains!
I see, I see,
remorse from her is fled.
Pack hence, ye sighs, into
the empty air,
Into the air that
none your sound may hear,
Sith cruel Chloris
hath of you no care,
Although she once
esteemed you full dear!
Let sable night all your disgraces
cover,
Yet truer sighs were never
sighed by lover.
XLIII
Thou glorious sun, from whence
my lesser light
The substance
of his crystal shine doth borrow,
Let these my moans
find favour in thy sight.
And with remorse
extinguish now my sorrow!
Renew those lamps which thy
disdain hath quenched,
As Phoebus doth
his sister Phoebe’s shine;
Consider how thy
Corin being drenched
In seas of woe,
to thee his plaints incline,
And at thy feet with tears
doth sue for grace,
Which art the
goddess of his chaste desire;
Let not thy frowns
these labours poor deface
Although aloft
they at the first aspire;
And time shall come as yet
unknown to men
When I more large thy praises
forth shall pen!
XLIV
When I more large thy praises
forth shall show,
That all the world
thy beauty shall admire,
Desiring that
most sacred nymph to know
Which hath the
shepherd’s fancy set on fire;
Till then, my dear, let these
thine eyes content,
Till then, fair
love, think if I merit favour,
Till then, O let
thy merciful assent
Relish my hopes
with some comforting savour;
So shall you add such courage
to my muse
That she shall
climb the steep Parnassus hill,
That learned poets
shall my deeds peruse
When I from thence
obtained have more skill;
And what I sing shall always
be of thee
As long as life or breath
remains in me!
XLV
When she was born whom I entirely
love,
Th’ immortal
gods her birth-rites forth to grace,
Descending from
their glorious seat above,
They did on her
these several virtues place:
First Saturn gave to her sobriety,
Jove then indued
her with comeliness,
And Sol with wisdom
did her beautify,
Mercury with wit
and knowledge did her bless,
Venus with beauty did all
parts bedeck,
Luna therewith
did modesty combine,
Diana chaste all
loose desires did check,
And like a lamp
in clearness she doth shine.
But Mars, according to his
stubborn kind,
No virtue gave, but a disdainful
mind.
XLVI
When Chloris first with her
heart-robbing eye
Inchanted had
my silly senses all,
I little did respect
love’s cruelty,
I never thought
his snares should me enthrall;
But since her tresses have
entangled me,
My pining flock
did never hear me sing
Those jolly notes
which erst did make them glee,
Nor do my kids
about me leap and spring
As they were wont, but when
they hear me cry
They likewise
cry and fill the air with bleating;
Then do my sheep
upon the cold earth lie,
And feed no more,
my griefs they are repeating.
O Chloris, if thou then saw’st
them and me
I’m sure thou wouldst
both pity them and me!
XLVII
I need not tell thee of the
lily white,
Nor of the roseate
red which doth thee grace,
Nor of thy golden
hairs like Phoebus bright,
Nor of the beauty
of thy fairest face.
Nor of thine eyes which heavenly
stars excel,
Nor of thine azured
veins which are so clear,
Nor of thy paps
where Love himself doth dwell,
Which like two
hills of violets appear.
Nor of thy tender sides, nor
belly soft,
Nor of thy goodly
thighs as white as snow,
Whose glory to
my fancy seemeth oft
That like an arch
triumphal they do show.
All these I know that thou
dost know too well,
But of thy heart too cruel
I thee tell.
XLVIII
But of thy heart too cruel
I thee tell,
Which hath tormented
my young budding age,
And doth, unless
your mildness passions quell,
My utter ruin
near at hand presage.
Instead of blood which wont
was to display
His ruddy red
upon my hairless face,
By over-grieving
that is fled away,
Pale dying colour
there hath taken place.
Those curled locks which thou
wast wont to twist
Unkempt, unshorn,
and out of order been;
Since my disgrace
I had of them no list,
Since when these
eyes no joyful day have seen
Nor never shall till you renew
again
The mutual love which did
possess us twain.
XLIX
You that embrace enchanting
poesy,
Be gracious to
perplexed Corin’s lines;
You that do feel
love’s proud authority,
Help me to sing
my sighs and sad designs.
Chloris, requite not faithful
love with scorn,
But as thou oughtest
have commiseration;
I have enough
anatomised and torn
My heart, thereof
to make a pure oblation.
Likewise consider how thy
Corin prizeth
Thy parts above
each absolute perfection,
How he of every
precious thing deviseth
To make thee sovereign.
Grant me then affection!
Else thus I prize thee:
Chloris is alone
More hard than gold or pearl
or precious stone.