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The Poems and Sonnets of Henry Constable

Constable, Henry (1562-1613)

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THE SHEEPHEARD'S SONG OF VENUS & ADONIS
 
DAMELUS' SONG TO HIS DIAPHENIA.
 
A PASTORALL SONG BETWEENE PHILLIS AND AMARILLIS, TWO NIMPHES, EACH AUNSWERING OTHER LINE FOR LINE.
 
TO HIS FLOCKS.
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[dedication]
 
[Grace full of grace, though in these verses heere]
 
[Resolv'd to love, unworthy to obtaine]
 
[Fly low, deere Love, thy Sunne doost thou not see?]
 
[Thine eye, the glasse where I behold my hart]
 
[Delight in youre bright eyes my death did breede]
 
[When youre perfections to my thoughts appeare]
 
[It may be Love my death doth not pretend]
 
[Blame not my hart for flying up too hie]
 
[Eyes curiouse to behold what nature can create]
 
[Ladie! in beautie and in favour rare]
 
[Ladie of ladies, the delight alone]
 
[Not that thy hand is soft, is sweete, is white]
 
[Sweete Soveraigne! sith so many minds remaine]
 
[When beautie to the world vouchsafes this blisse]
 
[Falsly doth envie of your praises blame]
 
[My Lady's presence makes the Roses red]
 
[Sweet hand! the sweet but cruell bowe thou art]
 
[The Fouler hides, (as closely as he may)]
 
TO HIS MISTRISSE UPON THE OCCASION OF A PETRARCH HE GAVE HER.
 
[A friend of mine, pittying my hopelesse love]
 
[Faire Sunne! if you would have me praise your light]
 
[The sunne, his journey ending in the West]
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TO SEVERALL PERSONS UPON SUNDRYE OCCASIONS.
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COMPLAYNTS OF MISFORTUNES IN LOVE.
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OF THE END AND DEATH OF HIS LOVE.
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FOURE SONNETS TO SIR PHILLIP SIDNEY'S SOULE.
 
TO THE DIVINE PROTECTION OF THE LADIE ARBELLA, THE AUTHOR COMMENDETH BOTH HIS GRACE'S HONOURE AND HIS MVSE'S ÆTERNITIE.
 
OF THE DEATH OF MY LADIE RICH'S DAUGHTER. SHEWING THE REASON OF HER UNTIMELY DEATH HINDRED HER EFFECTING THOSE THINGS WHICH BY THE FORMER CALCULATION OF HER NATIVITYE HE FORETOLD.
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SPIRITUALL SONNETTES TO THE HONOUR OF GOD & HYS SAYNTES. BY H. C.

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xx

[When youre perfections to my thoughts appeare]

When youre perfections to my thoughts appeare,
They say among themselves: O happy wee
Which ever shall so rare an object see!
But happy hart, if thoughts lesse happy were.
For their delights have cost my hart full dere,
In whom of love a thousand causes be,
And each cause breeds a thousand loves in me,
And each love more then thousand harts can beare.
How can my hart so many loves then hold,
Which yet (by heapes) increase from day to day?
But, like a shyp that's overcharg'd with gold,
Must either sinke, or hurle the gold away.
But hurle out love; thou canst not, feeble hart!
In thine owne blood thou therefore drowned art.
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