 | The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney |  |
Lalus.
Muse hold your peace: but thou, my God Pan, glorifie
My Kalas giftes: who with all good gifts filled is.
Thy pipe, ô Pan, shall helpe, though I sing sorilie.
A heape of sweetes she is, where nothing spilled is;
Who though she be no Bee, yet full of honie is:
A Lillie field, with plowe of Rose which tilled is.
Milde as a Lambe, more daintie then a Conie is;
Her eyes my eyesight is, her conversation
More gladde to me, then to a miser monie is.
What coye account she makes of estimation?
How nice to touch, how all her speeches peized be?
A Nimph thus turnde, but mended in translation.
Dorus.
Such Kala is: but ah, my fancies raysed be
In one, whose name to name were high presumption,
Since vertues all, to make her title, pleased be.
O happie Gods, which by inward assumption
Enjoy her soule, in bodies faire possession,
And keep it joynde, fearing your seates consumption.
How oft with raine of teares skies make confession,
Their dwellers rapt with sight of her perfection
From heav'nly throne to her heav'n use digression?
Of best things then what world can yeeld confection
To liken her? Decke yours with your comparison:
She is her selfe, of best things the collection.
Lalus.
How oft my dolefull Sire cried to me, tarrie sonne
When first he spied my love? how oft he said to me,
Thou art no souldier fitte for Cupids garrison?
My sonne, keepe this, that my long toyle hath laide to me:
Love well thine owne: me thinkes, woolles whitenes passeth all:
I never found long love such wealth hath paide to me.
This winde he spent: but when my Kala glasseth all
My sight in her faire limmes, I then assure my selfe,
Not rotten sheepe, but high crownes she surpasseth all.
Can I be poore, that her golde haire procure my selfe?
Want I white wooll, whose eyes her white skinne garnished?
Till I get her, shall I to keepe enure my selfe?
Dorus
How oft, when reason saw, love of her harnised
With armour of my hart, he cried, O vanitie,
To set a pearle in steele so meanely varnished?
Looke to thy selfe; reach not beyond humanitie:
Her minde, beames, state farre from thy weake wings banished:
And Love, which lover hurts is inhumanitie.
Thus Reason said: but she came, Reason vanished;
Her eyes so maistering me, that such objection
Seemde but to spoyle the foode of thoughts long famished.
Her peereles height my minde to high erection
Drawes up; and if hope-fayling ende lives pleasure,
Of fayrer death how can I make election?
Lalus.
Once my well-waiting eyes espied my treasure,
With sleeves turnde up, loose haire, and brest enlarged,
Her fathers corne (moving her faire limmes) measure.
O cried I, of so meane worke be discharged:
Measure my case, how by thy beauties filling
With seede of woes my hart brimme-full is charged.
Thy father bids thee save, and chides for spilling.
Save then my soule, spill not my thoughts well heaped,
No lovely praise was ever got by killing.
These bolde words she did heare, this fruite I reaped,
That she, whose looke alone might make me blessed,
Did smile on me, and then away she leaped.
Dorus.
Once, ô sweete once, I saw with dread oppressed
Her whom I dread; so that with prostrate lying
Her length the earth in Loves chiefe clothing dressed.
I saw that riches fall, and fell a crying;
Let not dead earth enjoy so deare a cover,
But deck therewith my soule for your sake dying.
Lay all your feare upon your fearefull lover:
Shine eyes on me, that both our lives be guarded;
So I your sight, you shall your selves recover.
I cried, and was with open rayes rewarded:
But straight they fledde, summond by cruell honor,
Honor, the cause, desart is not regarded.
Muse hold your peace: but thou, my God Pan, glorifie
My Kalas giftes: who with all good gifts filled is.
Thy pipe, ô Pan, shall helpe, though I sing sorilie.
A heape of sweetes she is, where nothing spilled is;
Who though she be no Bee, yet full of honie is:
A Lillie field, with plowe of Rose which tilled is.
Milde as a Lambe, more daintie then a Conie is;
Her eyes my eyesight is, her conversation
More gladde to me, then to a miser monie is.
What coye account she makes of estimation?
How nice to touch, how all her speeches peized be?
A Nimph thus turnde, but mended in translation.
Dorus.
Such Kala is: but ah, my fancies raysed be
In one, whose name to name were high presumption,
Since vertues all, to make her title, pleased be.
O happie Gods, which by inward assumption
Enjoy her soule, in bodies faire possession,
And keep it joynde, fearing your seates consumption.
How oft with raine of teares skies make confession,
Their dwellers rapt with sight of her perfection
From heav'nly throne to her heav'n use digression?
Of best things then what world can yeeld confection
To liken her? Decke yours with your comparison:
She is her selfe, of best things the collection.
Lalus.
How oft my dolefull Sire cried to me, tarrie sonne
When first he spied my love? how oft he said to me,
Thou art no souldier fitte for Cupids garrison?
My sonne, keepe this, that my long toyle hath laide to me:
Love well thine owne: me thinkes, woolles whitenes passeth all:
I never found long love such wealth hath paide to me.
This winde he spent: but when my Kala glasseth all
My sight in her faire limmes, I then assure my selfe,
Not rotten sheepe, but high crownes she surpasseth all.
Can I be poore, that her golde haire procure my selfe?
Want I white wooll, whose eyes her white skinne garnished?
Till I get her, shall I to keepe enure my selfe?
129
How oft, when reason saw, love of her harnised
With armour of my hart, he cried, O vanitie,
To set a pearle in steele so meanely varnished?
Looke to thy selfe; reach not beyond humanitie:
Her minde, beames, state farre from thy weake wings banished:
And Love, which lover hurts is inhumanitie.
Thus Reason said: but she came, Reason vanished;
Her eyes so maistering me, that such objection
Seemde but to spoyle the foode of thoughts long famished.
Her peereles height my minde to high erection
Drawes up; and if hope-fayling ende lives pleasure,
Of fayrer death how can I make election?
Lalus.
Once my well-waiting eyes espied my treasure,
With sleeves turnde up, loose haire, and brest enlarged,
Her fathers corne (moving her faire limmes) measure.
O cried I, of so meane worke be discharged:
Measure my case, how by thy beauties filling
With seede of woes my hart brimme-full is charged.
Thy father bids thee save, and chides for spilling.
Save then my soule, spill not my thoughts well heaped,
No lovely praise was ever got by killing.
These bolde words she did heare, this fruite I reaped,
That she, whose looke alone might make me blessed,
Did smile on me, and then away she leaped.
Dorus.
Once, ô sweete once, I saw with dread oppressed
Her whom I dread; so that with prostrate lying
Her length the earth in Loves chiefe clothing dressed.
I saw that riches fall, and fell a crying;
Let not dead earth enjoy so deare a cover,
But deck therewith my soule for your sake dying.
Lay all your feare upon your fearefull lover:
Shine eyes on me, that both our lives be guarded;
So I your sight, you shall your selves recover.
I cried, and was with open rayes rewarded:
But straight they fledde, summond by cruell honor,
Honor, the cause, desart is not regarded.
| The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney | |