The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney :: :: University of Virginia Library

Since shunning paine, I ease can never find:
Since bashfull dread seekes where he knowes me harmed:
Since will is won, and stopped eares are charmed:
Since force doth faint, and sight doth make me blind.

Since loosing long, the faster still I bind:
Since naked sence can conquer reason armed:
Since heart in chilling feare with yce is warmed:
In fine, since strife of thought but marres the mind,

302

I yeeld, ô Love, unto thy loathed yoke,
Yet craving law of armes, whose rule doth teach,
That hardly usde, who ever prison broke,
In justice quit, of honour made no breach:
Whereas if I a gratefull gardien have,
Thou art my Lord, and I thy vowed slave.

[When Love puft up with rage of hy disdaine]

When Love puft up with rage of hy disdaine,
Resolv'd to make me patterne of his might,
Like foe, whose wits inclin'd to deadly spite,
Would often kill to breed more feeling paine.

He would not arm'd with beautie, only raigne
On those affectes which easily yeeld to sight,
But vertue sets so high, that reasons light,
For all his strife can onlie bondage gaine.

So that I live to pay a mortall fee,
Dead palsie sicke of all my chiefest parts:
Like those whom dreames make uglie monsters see,
And can crie helpe with nought but grones and starts:
Longing to have, having no wit to wish,
To starving minds such is God Cupids dish.

[The fire to see my wrongs for anger burneth]

[_]

To the tune of Non credo gia che piu infelice amante.

The fire to see my wrongs for anger burneth:
The aire in raine for my affliction weepeth:
The sea to ebbe for griefe his flowing turneth:
The earth with pitie dull the center keepeth:
Fame is with wonder blazed:
Time runnes away for sorow:
Place standeth still amazed
To see my night of evils, which hath no morow.
Alas, a lovely she no pitie taketh,
To know my miseries, but chaste and cruell:
My fall her glorie maketh,
Yet still her eyes give to my flames their fuell.

303

Fire burne me quite, till sense of burning leave me:
Aire let me draw no more thy breath in anguish:
Sea drownd in thee, of tedious life bereave me:
Earth take this earth, wherein my spirits languish.
Fame say I was not borne:
Time haste my dying hower:
Place see my grave uptorne:
Fire, aire, sea, earth, fame, time, place, shew your power.
Alas, from all their helpe I am exiled,
For hers am I, and death feares her displeasure.
Fie death, thou art beguiled,
Though I be hers, she makes of me no treasure.

[The Nightingale as soone as Aprill bringeth]

[_]

To the same tune.

The Nightingale as soone as Aprill bringeth
Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,
While late bare earth, proud of new clothing springeth,
Sings out her woes, a thorne her song-booke making:
And mournfully bewailing,
Her throate in tunes expresseth
What griefe her breast oppresseth,
For Thereus force on her chaste will prevailing.
O Philomela faire, ô take some gladnesse,
That here is juster cause of plaintfull sadnesse:
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth,
Thy thorne without, my thorne my heart invadeth.

Alas she hath no other cause of anguish
But Thereus love, on her by strong hand wrokne,
Wherein she suffring all her spirits languish,
Full womanlike complaines her will was brokne.
But I who dayly craving,
Cannot have to content me,
Have more cause to lament me,
Since wanting is more woe then too much having.
O Philomela faire, ô take some gladnesse,
That here is juster cause of plaintfull sadnesse:
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth:
Thy thorne without, my thorne my heart invadeth.

304

[Sleepe Babie mine, Desire nurse Beautie singeth]

[_]

To the tune of Basciami vita mia.

Sleepe Babie mine, Desire nurse Beautie singeth:
Thy cries, ô Babie, set mine head on aking:
The Babe cries way, thy love doth keepe me waking.

Lully, lully, my babe, hope cradle bringeth
Unto my children alway good rest taking:
The babe cries way, thy love doth keepe me waking.

Since babie mine, from me thy watching springeth,
Sleepe then a litle, pap content is making:
The babe cries nay, for that abide I waking.

[O faire, ô sweet, when I do looke on thee]

[_]

To the tune of the Spanish song, Se tu sen̄ora no dueles de mi.

O faire, ô sweet, when I do looke on thee,
In Whom all joyes so well agree,
Heart and soule do sing in me.
This you heare is not my tongue,
Which once said what I conceaved,
For it was of use bereaved,
With a cruell answer stong.
No, though tongue to roofe be cleaved,
Fearing least he chastisde be,
Heart and soule do sing in me.

O faire, O sweete, &c.
Just accord all musike makes;
In thee just accord excelleth,
Where each part in such peace dwelleth,
One of other beautie takes.
Since then truth to all minds telleth,
That in thee lives harmonie,
Heart and soule do sing in me.

O faire, O sweet, &c.
They that heav'n have knowne, do say
That who so that grace obtaineth,
To see what faire sight there raigneth,
Forced are to sing alway;

305

So then since that heaven ramaineth,
In thy face I plainly see,
Heart and soule do sing in me.

O faire, O sweete, &c.
Sweete thinke not I am at ease,
For because my cheefe part singeth,
This song from deathes sorrow springeth:
As to Swanne in last disease:
For no dumbnesse nor death bringeth
Stay to true loves melody:
Heart and soule do sing in me.

[The scourge of life, and deaths extreame disgrace]

[_]

These foure following Sonnets were made when his Ladie had paine in her face.

The scourge of life, and deaths extreame disgrace,
The smoke of hell, the monster called paine,
Long sham'd to be accurst in every place,
By them who of his rude resort complaine.
Lyke crafty wretch by time and travell tought,
His ugly evill in others good to hide,
Late harbers in her face whom nature wrought,
As treasure house where her best gifts do bide.
And so by priviledge of sacred seate,
A seate where beauty shines and vertue raignes,
He hopes for some small praise since she hath great,
Within her beames wrapping his cruell staines.
Ah saucy paine let not thy errour last,
More loving eyes she draws, more hate thou hast.

Wo, wo, to me, on me returne the smart:
My burning tongue hath bred my mistresse paine,
For oft in paine to paine my painefull heart
With her due praise did of my state complaine.
I praisde her eyes whom never chance doth move,
Her breath which makes a sower answer sweete,

306

Her milken breasts the nurse of child-like love,
Her legges (O legges) her ay well stepping feete.
Paine heard her praise, and full of inward fire,
(First sealing up my heart as pray of his)
He flies to her, and boldned with desire,
Her face (this ages praise) the thiefe doth kisse.
O paine I now recant the praise I gave,
And sweare she is not worthy thee to have.

Thou paine the onely guest of loath'd constraint,
The child of curse, mans weaknesse foster-child,
Brother to woe, and father of complaint:
Thou paine, thou hated paine, from heav'n exilde,
How holdst thou her, whose eyes constraint doth feare,
Whom curst do blesse, whose weakenesse vertues arme,
Who others woes and plaints can chastly beare:
In whose sweete heav'n Angels of high thoughts swarme.
What courage strange hath caught thy caitife hart,
Fear'st not a face that oft whole harts devowres,
Or art thou from above bid play this part,
And so no helpe gainst envy of those powers?
If thus alas: yet while those partes have wo,
So stay her toung, that she no more say no.

And have I heard her say? ô cruell paine!
And doth she know what mould her beautie beares?
Mournes she in truth, and thinks that others faine?
Feares she to feele, and feeles not others feares?
Or doth she thinke all paine the minde forbeares?
That heavie earth, not fierie sprites may plaine?
That eyes weepe worse then hart in bloodie teares?
That sense feeles more then what doth sense containe?
No, no, she is too wise, she knowes her face
Hath not such paine as it makes others have:
She knows the sicknesse of that perfect place
Hath yet such health, as it my life can save.
But this she thinks, our paine hye cause excuseth,
Where her who should rule paine, false paine abuseth.

307

[You better sure shall live, not evermore]

[_]

Translated out of Horace, which beginnes Rectius vives.

You better sure shall live, not evermore
Trying high seas, nor while seas rage you flee,
Pressing too much upon ill harbourd shore.

The golden meane who loves, lives safely free
From filth of foreworne house, and quiet lives,
Releast from Court, where envie needes must be.

The windes most oft the hugest Pine-tree greeves:
The stately towers come downe with greater fall:
The highest hills the bolt of thunder cleeves:

Evill happes do fill with hope, good happes appall
With feare of change, the courage well preparde:
Fowle Winters as they come, away they shall.

Though present times and past with evils be snarde,
They shall not last: with Citherne silent muse,
Apollo wakes, and bow hath sometime sparde.

In hard estate with stowt shew valor use,
The same man still in whom wise doome prevailes,
In too full winde draw in thy swelling sailes.

[Unto no body my woman saith she had rather a wife be]

Out of Catullus.

Unto no body my woman saith she had rather a wife be,
Then to my selfe, not though Jove grew a suter of hers.
These be her words, but a womans words to a love that is eager,
In wind or waters streame do require to be writ.

[Faire seeke not to be feard, most lovely beloved by thy servants]

Faire seeke not to be feard, most lovely beloved by thy servants,
For true it is, that they feare many whom many feare.

308

[Like as the Dove which seeled up doth flie]

Like as the Dove which seeled up doth flie,
Is neither freed, nor yet to service bound,
But hopes to gaine some helpe by mounting hie,
Till want of force do force her fall to ground.

Right so my minde caught by his guiding eye,
And thence cast off, where his sweete hurt he found,
Hath never leave to live, nor doome to dye,
Nor held in evill, nor suffered to be sound.

But with his wings of fancies up he goes,
To hie conceits whose fruits are oft but small,
Till wounded, blind, and wearied spirite, lose
Both force to flie and knowledge where to fall.
O happie Dove if she no bondage tried:
More happie I, might I in bondage bide.

E. D.

Prometheus when first from heaven hie,
He brought downe fire, ere then on earth not seene,
Fond of Delight, a Satyre standing by,
Gave it a kisse, as it like sweete had beene.

Feeling forthwith the other burning power,
Wood with the smart with showts and shryking shrill,
He sought his ease in river, field, and bower,
But for the time his griefe went with him still.

So silly I with that unwonted sight
In humane shape an Angell from above,
Feeding mine eyes, the impression there did light,
That since I runne and rest as pleaseth love,
The difference is, the Satires lippes, my hart,
He for a while I evermore have smart.

A Satyre once did runne away for dread,
With sound of horne, which he himselfe did blow,
Fearing and feared thus from himselfe he fled,
Deeming strange evill in that he did not know.

309

Such causelesse feares when coward minds do take,
It makes them flie that which they faine would have:
As this poore beast who did his rest forsake,
Thinking not why, but how himselfe to save.

Even thus might I for doubts which I conceave
Of mine owne wordes, my owne good hap betray,
And thus might I for feare of may be, leave
The sweete pursute of my desired pray.
Better like I thy Satyre deerest Dyer,
Who burnt his lips to kisse faire shining fire.

[My mistresse lowers and saith I do not love]

My mistresse lowers and saith I do not love:
I do protest and seeke with service due,
In humble mind a constant faith to prove,
But for all this I can not her remove
From deepe vaine thought that I may not be true.

If othes might serve, even by the Stygian lake,
Which Poets say, the gods them selves do feare,
I never did my vowed word forsake:
For why should I, whom free choise slave doth make?
Else what in face, then in my fancie beare.

My Muse therefore for onely thou canst tell,
Tell me the cause of this my causelesse woe,
Tell how ill thought disgrac'd my doing well:
Tell how my joyes and hopes thus fowly fell
To so lowe ebbe that wonted were to flowe.

O this it is, the knotted straw is found
In tender harts, small things engender hate:
A horses worth laid wast the Troyan ground:
A three foote stoole in Greece, made Trumpets sound,
An Asses shade ere now hath bred debate.

If Greekes themselves were mov'd with so small cause,
To twist those broyles, which hardly would untwine:
Should Ladies faire be tyed to such hard lawes,
As in their moodes to take a lingring pawse?
I would it not, their mettall is too fine.

310

My hand doth not beare witnesse with my hart,
She saith, because I make no wofull laies,
To paint my living death, and endlesse smart:
And so for one that felt god Cupids dart,
She thinks I leade and live too merrie daies.

Are Poets then the onely lovers true?
Whose hearts are set on measuring a verse:
Who thinke themselves well blest, if they renew
Some good old dumpe, that Chaucers mistresse knew,
And use but you for matters to rehearse.

Then good Apollo do away thy bowe:
Take harp and sing in this our versing time:
And in my braine some sacred humour flowe:
That all the earth my woes, sighes, teares may know,
And see you not that I fall now to ryme.

As for my mirth, how could I but be glad,
Whilst that me thought I justly made my bost
That onely I the onely Mistresse had:
But now, if ere my face with joy be clad:
Thinke Hanniball did laugh when Carthage lost.

Sweet Ladie, as for those whose sullen cheare,
Compar'd to me, made me in lightnesse found:
Who Stoick-like in clowdie hew appeare:
Who silence force to make their words more deare:
Whose eyes seeme chaste, because they looke on ground:
Beleeve them not for Phisicke true doth finde,
Choler adust is joyed in woman-kinde.

[In wonted walkes, since wonted fancies change]

In wonted walkes, since wonted fancies change,
Some cause there is, which of strange cause doth rise:
For in each thing wherto mine eye doth range,
Part of my paine me seemes engraved lyes.

The Rockes which were of constant mind, the marke
In clyming steepe, now hard refusall show:
The shading woods seeme now my Sunne to darke,
And stately hilles disdaine to looke so low.

311

The restfull Caves now restlesse visions give,
In Dales I see each way a hard assent:
Like late mowne meades, late cut from joy I live.
Alas sweete Brookes do in my teares augment:
Rockes, woods, hilles, caves, dales, meads, brookes, answere me,
Infected mindes infect each thing they see.

[If I could thinke how these my thoughts to leave]

If I could thinke how these my thoughts to leave,
Or thinking still my thoughts might have good end:
If rebell sence would reasons law receave;
Or reason foyld would not in vaine contend:
Then might I thinke what thoughts were best to thinke:
Then might I wisely swimme or gladly sinke.

If either you would change your cruell hart,
Or cruell (still) time did your beautie staine:
If from my soule this love would once depart,
Or for my love some love I might obtaine,
Then might I hope a change or ease of minde,
By your good helpe, or in my selfe to finde.

But since my thoughts in thinking still are spent,
With reasons strife, by senses overthrowne,
You fairer still, and still more cruell bent,
I loving still a love that loveth none.
I yeeld and strive, I kisse and curse the paine:
Thought, reason, sense, time, you, and I, maintaine.

A Farewell.

Oft have I musde, but now at length I finde,
Why those that die, men say they do depart:
Depart, a word so gentle to my minde,
Weakely did seeme to paint deaths ougly dart.

But now the starres with their strange course do binde
Me one to leave, with whome I leave my hart.
I heare a crye of spirits faint and blinde,
That parting thus my chiefest part I part.

312

Part of my life, the loathed part to me,
Lives to impart my wearie clay some breath.
But that good part, wherein all comforts be,
Now dead, doth shew departure is a death,
Yea worse then death, death parts both woe and joy,
From joy I part still living in annoy.

[Finding those beames, which I must ever love]

Finding those beames, which I must ever love,
To marre my minde, and with my hurt to please,
I deemd it best some absence for to prove,
If further place might further me to ease.

My eyes thence drawne, where lived all their light,
Blinded forthwith in darke dispaire did lye,
Like to the Molde with want of guiding sight,
Deepe plunged in earth, deprived of the skie.

In absence blind, and wearied with that woe,
To greater woes by presence I returne,
Even as the flye, which to the flame doth goe,
Pleased with the light, that his small corse doth burne:
Faire choice I have, either to live or dye
A blinded Molde, or else a burned flye.

The 7. Wonders of England.

Neere Wilton sweete, huge heapes of stones are found,
But so confusde, that neither any eye
Can count them just, nor reason reason trye,
What force brought them to so unlikely ground.

To stranger weights my mindes waste soile is bound,
Of passion hilles reaching to reasons skie,
From fancies earth passing all numbers bound,
Passing all ghesse, whence into me should fly
So mazde a masse, or if in me it growes,
A simple soule should breed so mixed woes.

The Bruertons have a Lake, which when the Sunne,
Approching warmes (not else) dead logges up sends,
From hideous depth, which tribute when it ends,
Sore signe it is, the Lords last thred is spun.

313

My lake is sense, whose still streames never runne,
But when my Sunne her shining twinnes there bends,
Then from his depth with force in her begunne,
Long drowned hopes to watrie eyes it lends:
But when that failes, my dead hopes up to take,
Their master is faire warn'd his will to make.

We have a fish, by strangers much admirde,
Which caught, to cruell search yeelds his chiefe part:
(With gall cut out) closde up againe by art,
Yet lives untill his life be new requirde.

A stranger fish, my selfe not yet expirde,
Though rapt with beauties hooke, I did impart
My selfe unto th'Anatomy desirde,
In steed of gall, leaving to her my hart:
Yet live with thoughts closde up, till that she will
By conquests right in steed of searching kill.

Peake hath a Cave, whose narrow entries finde,
Large roomes within, where droppes distill amaine:
Till knit with cold, though there unknowne remaine,
Decke that poore place with Alablaster linde.

Mine eyes the streight, the roomie cave, my minde,
Whose clowdie thoughts, let fall an inward raine
Of sorrowes droppes till colder reason binde
Their running fall into a constant vaine
Of trueth, farre more then Alablaster pure,
Which though despisde, yet still doth truth endure.

A field there is, where if a stake be prest,
Deepe in the earth, what hath in earth receipt,
Is chang'd to stone, in hardnesse, cold, and weight,
The wood, above doth soone consuming rest.

The earth, her eares: the stake is my request:
Of which, how much may pierce to that sweet seate,
To honor turnd, doth dwell in honors nest,
Keeping that forme, though void of wonted heate:
But all the rest, which feare durst not applie,
Failing themselves, with withered conscience dye.

314

Of ships, by shipwrack cast on Albion coast,
Which rotting on the rockes, their death do dye:
From wodden bones, and bloud of pitch doth flie
A bird which gets more life then ship had lost.

My ship, desire, with winde of lust long tost,
Brake on faire cleeves of constant chastitie:
Where plagu'd for rash attempt, gives up his ghost,
So deepe in seas of vertue beauties ly.
But of this death flies up a purest love,
Which seeming lesse, yet nobler life doth move.

These wonders England breedes, the last remaines,
A Ladie in despite of nature chaste.
On whome all love, in whom no love is plaste,
Where fairenesse yeelds to wisdomes shortest raines.

An humble pride, a skorne that favour staines:
A womans mould, but like an Angell graste,
An Angells mind, but in a woman caste:
A heaven on earth, or earth that heaven containes:
Now thus this wonder to myselfe I frame,
She is the cause that all the rest I am.

[Who hath his fancie pleased]

[_]

To the tune of Wilhemus van Nassaw, &c.

Who hath his fancie pleased,
With fruits of happie sight,
Let here his eyes be raised
On natures sweetest light.
A light which doth dissever,
And yet unite the eyes,
A light which dying never,
Is cause the looker dyes.

She never dies but lasteth
In life of lovers hart,
He ever dies that wasteth
In love, his chiefest part.
Thus is her life still guarded,
In never dying faith:
Thus is his death rewarded,
Since she lives in his death.

315

Looke then and dye, the pleasure
Doth answere well the paine:
Small losse of mortall treasure,
Who may immortall gaine.
Immortall be her graces,
Immortall is her minde:
They fit for heavenly places,
This heaven in it doth binde.

But eyes these beauties see not,
Nor sence that grace descryes:
Yet eyes deprived be not,
From sight of her faire eyes:
Which as of inward glorie
They are the outward seale:
So may they live still sorie
Which die not in that weale.

But who hath fancies pleased,
With fruits of happie sight,
Let here his eyes be raysed
On natures sweetest light.

The smokes of Melancholy.

Who hath ever felt the change of love,
And knowne those pangs that the loosers prove,
May paint my face without seeing mee,
And write the state how my fancies bee,
The lothsome buds growne on sorrowes tree.

But who by hearesay speakes, and hath not fully felt
What kind of fires they be in which those spirits melt,
Shall gesse, and faile, what doth displease,
Feeling my pulse, misse my disease.

O no, O no, tryall onely shewse
The bitter juice of forsaken woes,
Where former blisse present evils do staine,
Nay former blisse addes to present paine,
While remembrance doth both states containe.

316

Come learners then to me, the modell of mishappe,
Engulfed in despaire, slid downe from fortunes lappe:
And as you like my double lot,
Tread in my steppes, or follow not.

For me alas I am full resolv'd,
Those bands alas shall not be dissolv'd,
Nor breake my word though reward come late,
Nor faile my faith in my failing fate,
Nor change in change, though change change my state.

But alwayes one my selfe with eagle eyde trueth to flie,
Up to the sunne, although the sunne my wings do frie:
For if those flames burne my desire,
Yet shall I die in Phænix fire.

[When to my deadlie pleasure]

When to my deadlie pleasure,
When to my livelie torment,
Ladie mine eyes remained,
Joyned alas to your beames.

With violence of heav'nly
Beautie tied, to vertue,
Reason abasht retyred,
Gladly my senses yeelded.

Gladly my senses yeelding,
Thus to betray my harts fort,
Left me devoid of all life.

They to the beamie Sunnes went,
Where by the death of all deaths,
Finde to what harme they hastned.

Like to the silly Sylvan,
Burn'd by the light he best liked,
When with a fire he first met.

Yet, yet, a life to their death,
Lady you have reserved,
Lady the life of all love.

317

For though my sense be from me,
And I be dead who want sense,
Yet do we both live in you.

Turned anew by your meanes,
Unto the flowre that ay turnes,
As you, alas, my Sunne bends.

Thus do I fall to rise thus,
Thus do I dye to live thus,
Changed to a change, I change not.

Thus may I not be from you:
Thus be my senses on you:
Thus what I thinke is of you:
Thus what I seeke is in you:
All what I am, it is you.

[No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe]

[_]

To the tune of a Neapolitan song, which beginneth: No, no, no, no.

No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe,
Although with cruell fire,
First throwne on my desire,
She sackes my rendred sprite.
For so a faire, a flame embraces
All the places,
Where that heat of all heates springeth,
That it bringeth
To my dying heart some pleasure,
Since his treasure
Burneth bright in fairest light. No, no, no, no.

No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe,
Although, &c.
Since our lives be not immortall,
But to mortall
Fetters tyed, do waite the hower
Of deathes power.
They have no cause to be sorie,
Who with glorie
End the way, where all men stay. No, no, no, no.

318

No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe,
Although, &c.
No man doubts, whom beautie killeth,
Faire death feeleth,
And in whome faire death proceedeth,
Glorie breedeth:
So that I in her beames dying,
Glorie trying,
Though in paine, cannot complaine. No, no, no, no.

[Al my sense thy sweetnesse gained]

[_]

To the tune of a Neapolitan Villanell.

Al my sense thy sweetnesse gained,
Thy faire haire my heart enchained,
My poore reason thy words moved,
So that thee like heaven I loved.

Fa la la leridan, dan dan dan deridan:
Dan dan dan deridan deridan dei:
While to my minde the out side stood,
For messenger of inward good.

Now thy sweetnesse sowre is deemed,
Thy haire not worth a haire esteemed:
Reason hath thy words removed,
Finding that but words they proved.

Fa la la leridan dan dan dan deridan,
Dan dan dan deridan deridan dei,
For no faire signe can credit winne,
If that the substance faile within.

No more in thy sweetnesse glorie,
For thy knitting haire be sorie:
Use thy words but to bewaile thee,
That no more thy beames availe thee.
Dan, dan,
Dan, dan,
Lay not thy colours more to view,
Without the picture be found true.

319

Wo to me, alas she weepeth!
Foole in me, what follie creepeth,
Was I to blaspheme enraged,
Where my soule I have engaged.
Dan, dan,
Dan, dan,
And wretched I must yeeld to this,
The fault I blame her chastnesse is.

Sweetnesse sweetly pardon folly,
Ty me haire your captive holly,
Words, ô words of heavenlie knowledge,
Know my words their faults acknowledge.
Dan, dan,
Dan, dan.
And all my life I will confesse,
The lesse I love, I live the lesse.

[What changes here, ô haire]

[_]

Translated out of the Diana of Montemaior in Spanish. Where Sireno a shepheard pulling out a litle of his Mistresse Dianas haire, wrapt about with greene silke, who now had utterlie forsaken him: to the haire he thus bewaild himselfe.

What changes here, ô haire,
I see since I saw you:
How ill fits you this greene to weare,
For hope the colour due.
Indeed I well did hope,
Though hope were mixt with feare,
No other shepheard should have scope,
Once to approch this heare.

Ah haire, how many dayes,
My Diane made me shew,
With thousand prety childish plaies,
If I ware you or no,
Alas how oft with teares,
O teares of guilefull breast,
She seemed full of jealous feares,
Whereat I did but jeast.

320

Tell me ô haire of gold,
If I then faultie be,
That trust those killing eyes, I would,
Since they did warrant me.
Have you not seene her mood,
What streames of teares she spent,
Till that I sware my faith so stood,
As her words had it bent?

Who hath such beautie seene
In one that changeth so?
Or where ones love so constant bene?
Who ever saw such woe?
Ah haire are you not griev'd,
To come from whence you be,
Seeing how once you saw I liv'd,
To see me as you see?

On sandie banke of late,
I saw this woman sit,
Where sooner die then change my state,
She with her finger writ:
Thus my beleefe was staid,
Behold Loves mightie hand
On things, were by a woman said,
And written in the sand.

[Of this high grace with blisse conjoyn'd]

[_]

The same Sireno in Montemaior holding his mistresse glasse before her, looking upon her while she viewed her selfe, thus sang:

Of this high grace with blisse conjoyn'd
No further debt on me is laid,
Since that in selfe same mettall coin'd,
Sweet Ladie you remaine well paid.
For if my place give me great pleasure,
Having before me Natures treasure,
In face and eyes unmatched being,
You have the same in my hands seeing,
What in your face mine eyes do measure.

321

Nor thinke the match unev'nly made,
That of those beames in you do tarie:
The glasse to you but gives a shade,
To me mine eyes the true shape carie.
For such a thought most highlie prized,
Which ever hath Loves yoke despised:
Better then one captiv'd perceiveth,
Though he the lively forme receiveth:
The other sees it but disguised.

[Ring out your belles, let mourning shewes be spread]

Ring out your belles, let mourning shewes be spread,
For love is dead:
All Love is dead, infected
With plague of deepe disdaine:
Worth as nought worth rejected,
And Faith faire scorne doth gaine.
From so ungratefull fancie,
From such a femall franzie,
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord deliver us.

Weepe neighbours, weepe, do you not heare it said,
That Love is dead:
His death-bed peacocks follie,
His winding sheete is shame,
His will false-seeming holie,
His sole exectour blame.
From so ungratefull, &c.

Let Dirge be sung, and Trentals rightly read,
For Love is dead:
Sir wrong his tombe ordaineth:
My mistresse Marble-heart,
Which Epitaph containeth,
Her eyes were once his dart.
From so ungratefull, &c.

Alas, I lie: rage hath this errour bred,
Love is not dead.
Love is not dead, but sleepeth
In her unmatched mind:

322

Where she his counsell keepeth,
Till due desert she find.
Therefore from so vile fancie,
To call such wit a franzie,
Who love can temper thus,
Good Lord deliver us.

[Thou blind mans marke, thou fooles selfe chosen snare]

Thou blind mans marke, thou fooles selfe chosen snare,
Fond fancies scum, and dregs of scattred thought,
Band of all evils, cradle of causelesse care,
Thou web of will, whose end is never wrought.

Desire, desire I have too dearely bought,
With prise of mangled mind thy worthlesse ware,
Too long, too long asleepe thou hast me brought,
Who should my mind to higher things prepare.

But yet in vaine thou hast my ruine sought,
In vaine thou madest me to vaine things aspire,
In vaine thou kindlest all thy smokie fire.

For vertue hath this better lesson taught,
Within my selfe to seeke my onelie hire:
Desiring nought but how to kill desire.

[Leave me ô Love, which reachest but to dust]

Leave me ô Love, which reachest but to dust,
And thou my mind aspire to higher things:
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust:
What ever fades, but fading pleasure brings.

Draw in thy beames, and humble all thy might,
To that sweet yoke, where lasting freedomes be:
Which breakes the clowdes and opens forth the light.
That doth both shine and give us sight to see.

O take fast hold, let that light be thy guide,
In this small course which birth drawes out to death,
And thinke how evill becommeth him to slide,
Who seeketh heav'n, and comes of heav'nly breath.
Then farewell world, thy uttermost I see,
Eternall Love maintaine thy life in me.

Splendidis longum valedico nugis.

323

A DIALOGUE BETWEENE TWO SHEPHERDS, utterd in a pastorall shew, at Wilton.

[_]

[First published in the Folio of 1613.]

Will.
Dick , since we cannot dance, come let a chearefull voyce
Shew that we do not grudge at all when others do rejoyce.

Dick.
Ah Will, though I grudge not, I count it feeble glee
With sight made dymme with dayly teares anothers sport to see.
Who ever Lambkins saw (yet lambkins love to play)
To play when that their loved dammes, are stoln or gone astray?
If this in them be true, as true in men think I
A lustles song for sooth thinks hee that hath more lust to cry.

Will.
A tyme there is for all, my Mother often sayes,
When she with skirts tuckt very hy, with girles at stoolball playes.
When thou hast mynd to weepe, seeke out som smoky room:
Now let those lightsomme sights we see thy darknes overcome.

Dick.
What joy the joyfull sunne gives unto bleared eyes:
That comfort in these sports you like, my mynde his comfort tryes.

Will.
What? is thy Bagpipe broke, or are thy lambs miswent;
Thy wallet or thy Tarbox lost, or thy new rayment rent?

Dick.
I would it were but thus, for thus it were too well.

Will.
Thou seest my eares do itch at it: good Dick thy sorow tell.

Dick.
Here then and learne to sigh: a mistress I doo serve,
Whose wages makes me beg the more, who feeds me till I sterve,
Whose lyverie is such, as most I freeze apparelled most,
And lookes so neere unto my cure that I must needes be lost.

Will.
What? these are riddles sure, art thou then bound to her?

Dick.
Bound as I neither power have, nor would have power to stir.

324

W.
Who bound thee?

D.
Love my Lord.

W.
What witnesses therto?

Dick.
Faith in my self and worth in her, which no proofe can undoo.

W.
What seale?

D.
my hart deepe graven.

W.
who made the band so fast?

D.
Wonder that by two so black eyes the glittring stars be past.

Will.
What keepeth safe thy band?

D.
Remembrance is the Chest
Lockt fast with knowing that she is, of worldly things the best.

Will.
Thou late of wages playn'dst: what wages mayst thou have?

D.
Her heavenly looks, which more and more do give me cause to crave.

W.
If wages make you want, what food is that she gives?

D.
Teares drink, sorowes meat, wherewith, not I, but in me my death lives.

Will.
What living get you then?

D.
Disdayne; but just disdayne.
So have I cause my selfe to plaine, but no cause to complayne.

Will.
What care takes shee for thee?

D.
Hir care is to prevent
My freedom, with show of hir beames, with virtue my content.

Will.
God shield us from such Dames. If so our Downes be sped,
The shepheards will grow leane I trow, their sheep will ill be fed.
But Dick my counsell marke: run from the place of wo:
The Arrow being shot from far, doth give the smaller blowe.

Dick.
Good Will, I cannot take thy good advice, before
That Foxes leave to steale, because they finde they dy therefore.

Will.
Then Dick let us go hence lest wee great folkes annoy.
For nothing can more tedious bee, then plaint, in time of joy.

Dick.
Oh hence! o cruell word! which even doggs do hate:
But hence, even hence, I must needes goe; such is my dogged fate.