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

Dicus. Dorus.
Dicus.
Dorus tell mee, where ys thy wonted Motyon?
To make these woodes resound thy Lamentacyon:
Thy Sainte ys Deade, or Deade ys thy Devotyon,
For, who dothe holde his Love in estimatyon,
(To witnes that hee thinckes his thoughtes Delicious)
Seekes to make eche thing Badge of his sweet passyon.

Dorus.
But what dothe make thee Dicus, so suspicyous?
Of my due faythe whiche needes must bee Immutable,
Who others vertue doubtes, them selves are vicyous?
Not so, allthoughe my mettle were moste mutable,
Her Beames hathe wroughte therein moste sure impressyon.
To suche a force, soone Chaunge were nothing sutable.

Dicus.
The hart well sett, dothe never shonne Confessyon,
Yf Noble bee thy Bandes, make them Notoryous,
Sylence dothe seeme the Maske of base oppressyon.
Who gloryes in his Love dothe make Love gloryous,
But who dothe beare, or bydes mute willfully,
Shewes guylty hart dothe deeme his state opprobrious.
Then thow that framest bothe wordes and voyce moste skillfully
Yeelde to oure eares a sweete & sounde Relacyon,
Yf Love tooke thee by force, or caughte thee guylefully:

Dorus.
Yf Sunnye Beames shame Heavenly habitatyon,
Yf Three leaved grasse seeme to the Sheepe unsavery,
Then base and sowre ys Loves moste hye vocatyon,
Or yf sheepes Cryes can help the Sunnes owne bravery,
Then may I hope, my pype may have abillity,
To help her prayes, who deckes mee in her slavery.
No, No, No wordes enoble self Nobility.
As for youre Doubtes, her voyce was yt deceyved mee,
Her eyes the force beyonde my possibility.

Dicus.
Thy wordes, well voyste, well graste, had allmoste heaved mee,
Quite from my self to Love Loves Contemplacyon,
Till of these thoughtes thy soeden end bereved mee,
Go on therefore, and tell us by what fashyon,
In thy owne proof hee gettes so straunge possession,
And howe possest, hee strengthens the Invasyon?

132

Dorus.
Sighte ys his Roote, in thoughte ys his progressyon,
His Chyldehood wonder, Prentiship, attention,
His youthe Delighte, his Age the sowles oppressyon.
Doubt ys his sleepe, hee waketh in Inventyon,
Fancy ys his foode, his Cloathing all of Carefullnes,
Beuty his Booke, his play Lovers Discention,
His eyes are curyous searche, but wylde with warefullnes.
His wynges Desyer ofte Clipte with Desperatyon,
Largess his handes coulde never skill of sparefullnes,
But howe hee dothe by mighte, or by perswasyon,
To Conquer and his Conquest howe to ratify,
Experyence Doubtes, and Schooles holde Disputatyon.

Dicus.
But so thy Sheepe may thy good wisshes satisfy,
With large encrease, and woolle of fyne perfection,
So shee thy Love, her eyes, thy eyes may gratify,
As thow wilte give oure sowles a dere refection,
By telling how shee was, howe nowe shee framed ys,
To help oure hurte in thee her owne infection.

Dorus.

Blessed bee the Name, wherewith my Mistris named ys,
Whose woundes are salves, whose yokes please more then plesure dothe
Her staynes are beames vertue the faulte shee blamed ys,
The harte, eye, eare, here onely fynde his treasures dothe
All Nombring Artes her endles graces nomber not,
Tyme, Place, lyfe witt scarcely her rare giftes mesure dothe,
Ys shee in rage? So ys the Sunne is Somer hott,
Yet harvest bringes, Dothe shee (alas) absent her self?
The Sunn̄ ys hidd his kyndely shadowe Combers nott.

But when to give some grace shee dothe content her self,
O then yt shynes, then are the heavens distributed,
And Venus seemes to make up her, shee spent her self,
Thus then I say, my myscheefes have contributed,
A greater good by her devyne Reflection,
My harmes to mee my Bliss to her attributed,
Thus shee ys framed, her eyes are my direction,
Her Love my Lyfe, her Anger my Instruction,
Lastly what so shee bee ys my protection.

133

Dicus.
Thy saftye sure ys wrapped in Destruction,
For that Construction thy owne wordes do beare,
A Man to feare a Womans muddy eye,
Or Reason lye, a slave to servyle sence,
There seeke defence, where weykenes ys the force,
Ys Late Remorse, in folly dearely boughte,

Dorus.

If I had thoughte, to heare Blaspheymous wordes,
My Brest to swordes, My sowle to hell have soulde,
I sooner woulde, then thus my eares defyle,
With wordes too vyle, whiche vyler breath dothe brede.

O Hearde, take heede, for I a wolffe have founde,
Who hunting rounde the strongest for to kill,
His Chest dothe fill with earthe of others woe,
And Loden so, pulles downe, pulde downe destroyes.

O Shepeheardes boyes, eschewe these toungues of venym
Whiche doo envenym, bothe the Sowle and senses,
Oure best Defences, are to flee theyre adders,
O tungues, even Ladders, made to clyme Dishonour.
Who judge that Honor, whiche hathe scoape to slaunder?

Dicus.
Dorus, yow wander, farr in greate Reproches,
So Love encroaches, in youre charmed reason,
But yt ys season, for to ende oure singinge,
Suche Anger bringing, as for my fancy
In sicke mans franzy, rather takes Compassyon,
Then Rage for Rage, rather my wish I send to thee,
Thow soone may have some help, or chaunge of passyon,
Shee ofte her Lookes the starres theyre favoure bend to thee,
Fortune, store, Nature, healthe, Love graunte perswasyon,
A Quyet mynde, none but thy self can lend to thee,
Thus I commend all oure Former Love.

Dorus.
Well doo I prove, error lyes ofte in zeale,
Yet ys yt zeale, thoughe error of true harte,
Noughte coulde Imparte, suche heates to frendly mynde,
But for to fynde, thy wordes did her disgrace,
Whose onely face, the litle heaven ys,
Whiche whoo dothe myss his eyes are but Dilusyons,
Barred from his cheefest object of Delightfullnes,
Throwne on this earthe the Chaos of Confusyons,

134

As for thy wish, to my enraged spytefullnes,
The Lovely blowe with rare Rewarde my prayer ys,
Thow mayste Love her, that I may see thy spytefullnes,
The quyet mynde wherof my self ympairer ys,
As thow doest thincke, shoulde moste of all disquyet mee,
Withoute her Love, then any mynde who fayrer ys,
Her onely Care, from surfett woes can dyet mee,
Shee holdes the Ballance of my Contentacyon,
Her cleared lookes (nought ellse) in stormes can quyet mee
Nay, rather then my ease, Discontentatyon
Shoulde breede to her, Lett mee for aye dejected bee,
From my Joye whiche might her greef occasyon,
With so sweete plaigues my happy harmes infected bee,
Payne willes mee dye, yet payne of Deathe I mortify,
For thoughe lyfe yrckes, in lyfe my Loves protected bee,
Thus for eche Chaunge, my Chaungeles harte I fortify.