University of Virginia Library

LOVE POEMS

1 A NOCTURNAL LAMENT

Alas! so all thinges nowe doe holde their peace:
Heauen and earth disturbed in nothing;
The beastes, the ayer, the birdes their song doe cease;
The nightes chare the starres aboute dothe bring.
Calme is the sea, the waues worke lesse and lesse;
So am not I, whom loue, alas! doth wring,
Bringing before my face the great encrease
Of my desires, whereat I wepe and syng,
In ioye and wo, as in a doubtful ease:
For my swete thoughtes sometyme doe pleasure bring,
But, by and by, the cause of my disease
Geues me a pang that inwardly dothe sting,
When that I thinke what griefe it is againe
To liue and lacke the thing should ridde my paine.

2 A SPRING LAMENT

The soote season, that bud and blome furth bringes,
With grene hath clad the hill and eke the vale;
The nightingale with fethers new she singes;
The turtle to her make hath tolde her tale.
Somer is come, for euery spray nowe springes;
The hart hath hong his olde hed on the pale;
The buck in brake his winter cote he flings;
The fishes flote with newe repaired scale;
The adder all her sloughe awaye she slinges;
The swift swallow pursueth the flyes smale;
The busy bee her honye now she minges.
Winter is worne, that was the flowers bale.
And thus I see among these pleasant thinges
Eche care decayes, and yet my sorow springes.

3 THE CRUELTY OF HIDDEN CHARMS

I neuer saw youe, madam, laye aparte
Your cornet black, in colde nor yet in heate,
Sythe first ye knew of my desire so greate,
Which other fances chaced cleane from my harte.
Whiles to my self I did the thought reserve
That so vnware did wounde my wofull brest,
Pytie I saw within your hart dyd rest;
But since ye knew I did youe love and serve,
Your golden treese was clad alway in blacke,
Your smilyng lokes were hid thus euermore,
All that withdrawne that I did crave so sore.
So doth this cornet governe me, a lacke!
In sommere, sonne; in winter, breath of frost;
Of your faire eies whereby the light is lost.

4 A LOVERS LOYALTY TO LOVE

Love that doth raine and liue within my thought,
And buylt his seat within my captyve brest,
Clad in the armes wherein with me he fowght,
Oft in my face he doth his banner rest.
But she that tawght me love and suffre paine,
My doubtful hope & eke my hote desire
With shamfast looke to shadoo and refrayne,
Her smyling grace convertyth streight to yre.
And cowarde Love, then, to the hart apace
Taketh his flight, where he doth lurke and playne
His purpose lost, and dare not shew his face.
For my lordes gilt thus fawtles byde I payine;
Yet from my lorde shall not my foote remove:
Sweet is the death that taketh end by love.

5 LOVES EXTREMES

In Cipres springes—wheras dame Venus dwelt—
A welle so hote that who so tastes the same,
Were he of stone, as thawed yse shuld melt,
And kindled fynde his brest with secret flame;
Whose moist poison dissolved hath my hate.
This creping fier my cold lymmes so oprest
That, in the hart that harbred fredom late,
Endles dispaire long thraldom hath imprest.
One, eke so cold, in froson snow is found,
Whose chilling venume of repugnaunt kind
The fervent heat doth quenche of Cupides wound,
And with the spote of chaunge infectes the mynd;
Where of my deer hath tasted to my payne.
My service thus is growne into disdayne.

6 A LOVERS VOW

Set me wheras the sonne dothe perche the grene,
Or whear his beames may not dissolue the ise,
In temprat heat, wheare he is felt and sene;
With prowde people, in presence sad and wyse;
Set me in base, or yet in highe degree;
In the long night, or in the shortyst day;
In clere weather, or whear mysts thickest be;
In lofte yowthe, or when my heares be grey;
Set me in earthe, in heauen, or yet in hell;
In hill, in dale, or in the fowming floode;
Thrawle, or at large, aliue whersoo I dwell;
Sike, or in healthe; in yll fame, or in good;
Yours will I be, and with that onely thought
Comfort my self when that my hape is nowght.

7 THE FRAILTY OF BEAUTY

Brittle beautie, that nature made so fraile,
Wherof the gift is small, and short the season,
Flowring to-day, to morowe apt to faile,
Tickell treasure abhorred of reason,
Daungerous to dele with, vaine, of none auaile,
Costly in keping, past not worthe two peason,
Slipper in sliding as is an eles taile,
Harde to attaine, once gotten not geason,
Iewel of ieopardie that perill doth assaile,
False and vntrue, enticed oft to treason,
Enmy to youth: that most may I bewaile.
Ah, bitter swete! infecting as the poyson,
Thou farest as frute that with the frost is taken:
To-day redy ripe, to morowe all to shaken.

8 A PLEA FOR CONSTANCY

The golden gift that nature did thee geue,
To fasten frendes and fede them at thy wyll
With fourme and fauour, taught me to beleue
How thou art made to shew her greatest skill,
Whose hidden vertues are not so vnknown
But liuely domes might gather at the first:
Where beautye so her perfect seede hath sowen.
Of other graces folow nedes there must.
Now certesse, ladie, sins all this is true,
That from aboue thy gyfts are thus elect,
Do not deface them than with fansies newe,
Nor chaunge of mindes let not thy minde infect,
But mercy him thy frende that doth thee serue,
Who seekes alway thine honour to preserue.

9 IN ABSENTIA

The fansy which that I haue serued long,
That hath alway bene enmy to myne ease,
Seemed of late to rue vpon my wrong
And bad me flye the cause of my misease.
And I forthwith dyd prease out of the throng,
That thought by flight my painful hart to please
Som other way, tyll I saw faith more strong.
And to my self I sayd: “Alas! those dayes
In vayn were spent, to runne the race so long.”
And with that thought I met my guyde, that playn
Out of the way wherin I wandred wrong
Brought me amiddes the hylles in base Bullayn;
Where I am now, as restlesse to remayn,
Against my will, full pleased with my payn.

10 THE TWOFOLD POWER OF LOVE

Yf he that erst the fourme so livelye drewe
Of Venus faas, tryvmpht in paynteres arte,
Thy father then what glorye did ensew,
By whose pencell a goddesse made thow arte!
Touchid with flame, that figure made some rewe,
And with her love surprysed manye a hart;
There lackt yet that should cure their hoot desyer:
Thow canst enflame and quenche the kyndled fyre.

11 A PLEA FOR MERCY

The sonne hath twyse brought forthe the tender grene,
And cladd the yerthe in lively lustynes;
Ones have the wyndes the trees dispoyled clene,
And now agayne begynnes their cruelnes;
Sins I have hidd vnder my brest the harme
That never shall recover helthfulnes.
The wynters hurt recovers with the warme;
The perched grene restored is with shade;
What warmth, alas! may sarve for to disarme
The froosyn hart, that my inflame hath made?
What colde agayne is hable to restore
My freshe grene yeres, that wither thus & faade?
Alas! I see nothinge to hurt so sore
But tyme somtyme reduceth a retourne;
Yet tyme my harme increseth more & more,
And semes to have my cure allwayes in skorne.
Straunge kynd of death, in lief that I doo trye:
At hand to melt, farr of in flame to bourne,
And like as time list to my cure aply;
So doth eche place my comfort cleane refuse.
Eche thing alive that sees the heaven with eye,
With cloke of night maye cover and excuse
Him self from travaile of the dayes vnrest,
Save I, alas! against all others vse,
That then sturre vpp the torment of my brest,
To curse eche starr as cawser of my faat.
And when the sonne hath eke the darke represt
And brought the daie, yet doth nothing abaat
The travaile of my endles smart & payne;
Ffor then, as one that hath the light in haat,
I wishe for night, more covertlye to playne,
And me withdrawe from everie haunted place,
Lest in my chere my chaunce should pere to playne;
And with my mynd I measure, paas by paas,
To seke that place where I my self hadd lost,
That daye that I was tangled in that laase,
In seming slacke that knytteth ever most.
But never yet the trayvaile of my thought
Of better state could catche a cawse to bost,
For yf I fynde, somtyme that I have sought,
Those starres by whome I trusted of the port,
My sayles do fall, and I advaunce right nought;
As anchord fast, my sprites do all resort
To stand atgaas, and sinke in more & more:
The deadlye harme which she dooth take in sport.
Loo! yf I seke, how I do fynd my sore!
And yf I flye, I carrey with me still
The venymd shaft which dothe his force restore
By hast of flight. And I maye playne my fill
Vnto my self, oneles this carefull song
Prynt in your hert some percell of my will;
For I, alas! in sylence all to long,
Of myne old hurt yet fele the wound but grene.
Rue on me lief, or elles your crewell wrong
Shall well appeare, and by my deth be sene.

12 A GAME OF CHESS

13 A GOODLY ENSAMPLE

14 THE TRAMMELS OF LOVE

15 A LESSON IN LOVE

16 RUEFUL ASSOCIATIONS

17 AN UNCHANGING LOVER

18 A MISTRESS NONPAREIL

19 FROM A LOYAL LOVER OVERSEAS

20 A MODERN ULYSSES

21 A LADYS LAMENT FOR HER LOVER OVERSEAS

22 A SOPHISTICATED LOVER

Suche waywarde wais hath love, that moste parte in discorde.
Our willes do stand, wherby our hartes but seldom dooth accorde.
Disceyte is his delight, and to begyle and mocke
The symple hertes which he doth stryke with froward, dyvers stroke.
He cawseth hertes to rage with golden burninge darte,
And doth alaye with ledden cold agayne the tothers harte.
Hot gleames of burning fyre, & easye sparkes of flame,
In balaunce of vnegall weight he pondereth by ame.
Ffrom easye fourde, where I might wade & passe full well,
He me withdrawes, and doth me drive into the darke, diep well;
And me withholdes where I am cald and offerd place;
And wooll that still my mortall foo I do beseche of grace.
He lettes me to pursue a conquest well nere woon,
To follow where my paynes were spilt or that my sute begune.
Lo! by these rules I know how sone a hart can turne
From warr to peace, from trewce to stryf, and so again returne.
I knowe how to convert my will in others lust;
Of litle stuff vnto my self to weyve a webb of trust;
And how to hide my harme with soft dissembled chere,
When in my face the paynted thoughtes wolde owtwardlye appere.
I know how that the blood forsakes the faas for dredd,
And how by shame it staynes agayne the cheke with flaming redd.
I knowe vnder the grene, the serpent how he lurckes;
The hamer of the restles forge, I know eke how yt workes.
I know, and can be roote, the tale that I wold tell,
But ofte the wordes come forth a wrye of hym that loveth well.
I know in heat and cold the lover how he shakes,
In singinge how he can complayne, in sleaping how he wakes,
To languishe without ache, sickles for to consume,
A thousand thinges for to devyse resolving all hys fume.
And thoughe he lyke to see his ladies face full sore,
Suche pleasure as delightes his eye doth not his health restore.
I know to seke the tracke of my desyred foo,
And feare to fynd that I do seke; but chefelye this I know,
That lovers must transforme into the thing beloved,
And live—alas, who colde beleve!—with spryte from lief removed.
I know in hartye sighes and lawghters of the splene
At ones to chaunge my state, my will, & eke my colour clene.
I know how to disceyve myself withouten helpp;
And how the lyon chastysed is by beating of the whelpp.
In standing nere my fyer, I know how that I frese;
Ffarr of, to burn; in both to wast, & so my lief to lese.
I know how love doth rage vppon the yeldon mynd,
How small a nett may take & mashe a harte of gentle kynd;
Which seldome tasted swete, to seasoned heaps of gall,
Revyved with a glyns of grace olde sorowes to let fall.
The hidden traynes I know, & secret snares of love;
How sone a loke may prynt a thought that never will remoue.
That slipper state I know, those sodayne tournes from welthe,
That doubtfull hope, that certayne woo, & sure dispaire of helthe.

23 STRIVE NOT WITH LOVE

When sommer toke in hand the winter to assail
With force of might and vertue gret, his stormy blasts to quail,
And when he clothed faire the earth about with grene,
And euery tree new garmented, that pleasure was to sene,
Mine hart gan new reuiue, and changed blood dyd stur
Me to withdraw my winter woe, that kept within the dore.
Abrode, quod my desire, assay to set thy fote,
Where thou shalt finde the sauour sweete, for sprong is euery rote;
And to thy health, if thou were sick in any case,
Nothing more good than in the spring the aire to fele a space.
There shalt thou here and se all kindes of birdes ywrought,
Well tune their voice with warble smal, as nature hath them tought.
Thus pricked me my lust the sluggish house to leaue,
And for my health I thought it best suche counsail to receaue.
So on a morow furth, vnwist of any wight,
I went to proue how well it would my heauy burden light.
And when I felt the aire so pleasant round about,
Lorde, to my self how glad I was that I had gotten out.
There might I see how Ver had euery blossom hent,
And eke the new betrothed birdes ycoupled how they went.
And in their songes me thought they thanked nature much
That by her lycence all that yere to loue—their happe was such—
Right as they could deuise to chose them feres throughout;
With much reioysing to their Lord thus flew they all about.
Which when I gan resolue, and in my head conceaue,
What pleasant life, what heapes of ioy, these little birdes receue,
And sawe in what estate I, wery man, was brought
By want of that they had at will, and I reiect at nought,
Lorde, how I gan in wrath vnwisely me demeane.
I curssed loue, and him defied; I thought to turne the streame.
But whan I well behelde he had me vnder awe,
I asked mercie for my fault that so transgrest his law.
“Thou blinded god,” quoth I, “forgeue me this offense;
Vnwillingly I went about to malice thy pretense.”
Wherewith he gaue a beck, and thus me thought he swore:
“Thy sorow ought suffice to purge thy faulte, if it were more.”
The vertue of which sounde mine hart did so reuiue
That I, me thought, was made as hole as any man aliue.
But here ye may perceiue mine errour, all and some,
For that I thought that so it was, yet was it still vndone;
And all that was no more but mine empressed mynde,
That fayne woulde haue some good relese of Cupide wel assinde.
I turned home forthwith, and might perceiue it well,
That he agreued was right sore with me for my rebell.
My harmes haue euer since increased more and more,
And I remaine, without his help, vndone for euer more.
A miror let me be vnto ye louers all:
Striue not with loue, for if ye do, it will ye thus befall.

24 A STRICKEN SHEPHERD

In winters iust returne, when Boreas gan his raigne,
And euery tree vnclothed fast, as nature taught them plaine,
In misty morning darke, as sheepe are then in holde,
I hyed me fast, it sat me on, my sheepe for to vnfolde.
And as it is a thing that louers haue by fittes,
Vnder a palm I heard one crye as he had lost hys wittes.
Whose voice did ring so shrill, in vttering of his plaint,
That I amazed was to hear how loue could hym attaint.
“Ah wretched man,” quod he, “come death, and ridde thys wo;
A just reward, a happy end, if it may chaunce thee so.
Thy pleasures past haue wrought thy wo, withoute redresse;
If thou hadst neuer felt no ioy, thy smart had bene the lesse.”
And retchlesse of his life, he gan both sighe and grone;
A rufull thing me thought it was to hear him make such mone.
“Thou cursed pen,” sayd he, “wo worth the bird thee bare;
The man, the knife, and all that made thee, wo be to their share.
Wo worth the time, and place, where I so could endite,
And wo be it yet once agayne, the pen that so can write.
Vnhappy hand, it had ben happy time for me
If, when to write thou learned first, vnioynted hadst thou be.”
Thus cursed he himself, and euery other wight,
Saue her alone whom loue him bound to serue both day and night.
Which when I heard, and saw, how he himselfe fordid,
Against the ground, with bloudy strokes, himself euen there to rid,
Had ben my heart of flint, it must haue melted tho,
For in my life I neuer saw a man so full of wo.
With teares, for his redresse, I rashly to him ran
And in my arms I caught him fast, and thus I spake hym than:
“What wofull wight art thou, that in such heauy case
Tormentes thy selfe with such despite, here in this desert place?”
Wherewith, as all agast, fulfild wyth ire and dred,
He cast on me a staring loke, with colour pale and ded.
“Nay, what art thou,” quod he, “that in this heauy plight
Doest finde me here, most wofull wretch, that life hath in despight?”
“I am,” quoth I, “but pore, and simple in degre;
A shepardes charge I haue in hand, vnworthy though I be.”
With that he gaue a sighe, as though the skye should fall,
And lowd, alas! he shryked oft, and “Shepard,” gan he call,
“Come, hie the fast at ones, and print it in thy hart;
So thou shalt know, and I shall tell the, giltlesse how I smart.”
His backe against the tree, sore febled all with faint,
With weary sprite hee stretched him vp, and thus hee told his plaint.
“Ones in my hart,” quoth he, “it chanced me to loue
Such one, in whom hath nature wrought her cunning for to proue.
And sure I can not say, but many yeres were spent
With such good will so recompenst, as both we were content.
Whereto then I me bound, and she likewise also,
The sonne should runne his course awry, ere we this faith forgo.
Who ioied then, but I, who had this worldes blisse?
Who might compare a life to mine, that neuer thought on this?
But dwelling in thys truth, amid my greatest ioy,
Is me befallen a greater loss than Priam had of Troy:
She is reuersed clene, and beareth me in hand,
That my desertes haue giuen her cause to break thys faithful band.
And for my iust excuse auaileth no defense.
Now knowest thou all; I can no more. But, shepard hye the hense,
And giue him leaue to die that may no lenger liue.
Whose record, lo, I claime to haue, my death, I doe forgiue.
And eke, when I am gone, be bolde to speake it plain:
Thou hast seen dye the truest man that euer loue did pain.”
Wherewith he turned him round, and gasping oft for breath,
Into his armes a tree he raught, and sayd, “Welcome my death:
Welcome a thousand fold, now dearer vnto me
Than should, without her loue to liue, an emperour to be.”
Thus, in this wofull state, he yelded vp the ghost,
And little knoweth his lady, what a louer she hath lost.
Whose death when I beheld, no maruail was it, right
For pitie though my heart did blede, to see so piteous sight.
My blood from heat to colde oft changed wonders sore;
A thousand troubles there I found I neuer knew before.
Twene dread and dolour, so my sprites were brought in feare,
That long it was ere I could call to minde what I did there.
But, as eche thing hath end, so had these paynes of mine:
The furies past, and I my wits restored by length of time.
Then, as I could deuise, to seke I thought it best
Where I might finde some worthy place for such a corse to rest.
And in my mind it came, from thence not farre away,
Where Chreseids loue, king Priams sonne, ye worthy Troilus lay.
By him I made his tomb, in token he was trew,
And, as to him belonged well, I couered it with bleew.
Whose soule, by angles power, departed not so sone
But to the heauens, lo, it fled, for to receiue his dome.

25 A FRIENDLY WARNING

To dearly had I bought my grene and youthfull yeres,
If in mine age I could not finde when craft for loue apperes;
And seldom though I come in court among the rest,
Yet can I iudge in colours dim as depe as can the best.
Where grefe tormentes the man that suffreth secret smart,
To breke it forth vnto som frend it easeth well the hart.
So standes it now with me for my beloued frend.
This case is thine for whom I fele such torment of my minde,
And for thy sake I burne so in my secret brest
That till thou know my hole disseyse my hart can haue no rest.
I se how thine abuse hath wrested so thy wittes
That all it yeldes to thy desire, and folowes the by fittes.
Where thou hast loued so long with hart and all thy power,
I se thee fed with fayned wordes, thy freedom to deuour.
I know—though she say nay, and would it well withstand—
When in her grace thou held the most, she bare the but in hand.
I see her pleasant chere in chiefest of thy suite;
Whan thou art gone, I se him come that gathers vp the fruite.
And eke in thy respect I se the base degre
Of him to whom she gaue the hart that promised was to the.
I se—what would you more—stode neuer man so sure
On womans word, but wisedome would mistrust it to endure.

26 THE FICKLENESS OF WOMAN

Wrapt in my carelesse cloke, as I walke to and fro,
I se how loue can shew what force there reigneth in his bow;
And how he shoteth eke, a hardy hart to wound;
And where he glanceth by agayne, that litle hurt is found.
For seldom is it sene he woundeth hartes alike:
The tone may rage, when tothers loue is often farre to seke.
All this I se, with more, and wonder thinketh me
Howe he can strike the one so sore, and leaue the other fre.
I se that wounded wight, that suffreth all this wrong,
How he is fed with yeas and nayes, and liueth all to long.
In silence though I kepe such secretes to my self,
Yet do I se how she sometime doth yeld a loke by stelth,
As though it seemed, ywys, I will not lose the so,—
When in her hart so swete a thought did neuer truely grow.
Then say I thus: alas, that man is farre from blisse
That doth receiue for his relief none other gayn but this.
And she, that fedes him so,—I fele, and finde it plain—
Is but to glory in her power, that ouer such can reign.
Nor are such graces spent but when she thinkes that he,
A weried man, is fully bent such fansies to let flie;
Then to retain him stil she wrasteth new her grace,
And smileth, lo, as though she would forthwith the man embrace.
But when the proofe is made to try such lokes withall,
He findeth then the place all voyde, and fraighted full of gall.
Lord, what abuse is this! who can such women praise,
That for their glory do deuise to vse such crafty wayes!
I, that among the rest do sit, and mark the row,
Fynde that in her is greater craft then is in twenty mo.
When tender yeres, alas! with wyles so well are spedde,
What will she do when hory heares are powdred in her hedde!

27 MODERN SAWS AND ANCIENT INSTANCE

Gyrtt in my giltlesse gowne, as I sytt heare and sowe,
I see that thinges are not in dead as to the owtward showe.
And who so lyst to looke and note thinges somewhat neare,
Shal fynde, wheare playnnesse seemes to haunte, nothing but craft appeare.
For with indifferent eyes my self can well discearne
How som, to guyd a shyppe in stormes, stycke not to take the stearne;
Whose skill and conninge tryed in calme to steare a bardge,
They wolde sone shaw, yow shold sone see, it weare to great a chardge.
And some I see agayne sytt still and say but small
That can do ten tymes more than they that say they can do all.
Whose goodlye gyftes are suche, the more they vnderstand,
The more they seeke to learne and know and take lesse chardge in hand.
And, to declare more playne, the tyme flyttes not so fast
But I can beare right well in mynd the song now sung and past.
The auctour whearof cam, wrapt in a craftye cloke,
In will to force a flamyng fyre wheare he could rayse no smoke.
If powre and will had mett, as it appeareth playne,
The truth nor right had tane no place, their vertues had bene vayne.
So that you may perceave and I may saflye see,
The innocent that giltlesse is, condempned sholde have be.
Muche lyke untruth to this the story doth declare,
Wheare the elders layd to Susans chardge meete matter to compare.
They did her both accuse and eke condempne her to,
And yet no reason, right, nor truthe, did lead them so to do.
And she thus judged to dye, toward her death went forthe
Ffraughted with faith, a pacient pace, taking her wrong in worthe.
But he, that dothe defend all those that in hym trust,
Did raise a childe for her defence, to shyeld her from the unjust.
And Danyell chosen was then of this wrong to weete
How, in what place, and eke with whome, she did this cryme commytt.
He cawsed the elders part the one from the others sight,
And did examyne one by one and chardged them bothe say right.
Vndra molberye trye it was, fyrst sayd the one;
The next namede a pomegranate trye; whereby the truth was knowne.
Than Susan was discharged and they condempned to dye,
As right requeares and they deserve that framede so fowll a lye.
And he, that her preserved and lett them of their lust,
Hath me defendyd hetherto, and will do still I trust.

28 CALM AFTER STORM

If care do cause men cry, why do not I complaine?
If eche man do bewaile his wo, why shew I not my paine?
Since that amongest them all, I dare well say, is none
So farre from weale, so full of wo, or hath more cause to mone.
For all thyngs hauing live sometime haue quiet rest,
The bering asse, the drawing oxe, and euery other beast.
The peasant and the post, that serue at al assayes,
The shyp boy and the galley slaue, haue time to take their ease,
Saue I, alas! whom care of force doth so constraine
To waile the day and wake the night continually in paine
From pensiuenes to plaint, from plaint to bitter teares,
From teares to painful plaint againe; and thus my life it wears.
No thing vnder the sunne that I can here or se,
But moueth me for to bewaile my cruell destenie.
For wher men do reioyce, since that I can not so,
I take no pleasure in that place, it doubleth but my woe.
And when I heare the sound of song or instrument,
Me thinke eche tune there dolefull is and helpes me to lament.
And if I se some haue their most desired sight,
Alas! think I, eche man hath weal saue I, most wofull wight.
Then, as the striken dere withdrawes him selfe alone,
So do I seke some secrete place where I may make my mone.
There do my flowing eyes shew forth my melting hart,
So yat the stremes of those two welles right wel declare my smart.
And in those cares so colde I force my selfe a heate,
As sick men in their shaking fittes procure them self to sweate;
With thoughtes that for the time do much appease my paine.
But yet they cause a ferther fere and brede my woe agayne:
Me thinke within my thought I se right plaine appere,
My hartes delight, my sorowes leche, mine earthly goddesse here,
With euery sondry grace that I haue sene her haue;
Thus I within my wofull brest her picture paint and graue.
And in my thought I roll her bewties to and fro,
Her laughing chere, her louely looke, my hart that perced so;
Her strangenes when I sued her seruant for to be;
And what she sayd, and how she smiled, when that she pitied me.
Then comes a sodaine feare that riueth all my rest
Lest absence cause forgetfulness to sink within her brest.
For when I thinke how far this earth doth vs deuide,
Alas! me semes loue throwes me downe; I fele how that I slide.
But then, I thinke againe, why should I thus mistrust
So swete a wight, so sad and wise, that is so true and iust;
For loth she was to loue, and wauering is she not.
The farther of, the more desirde; thus louers tie their knot.
So in dispaire and hope plonged am I both vp an doune,
As is the ship with wind and waue when Neptune list to froune.
But as the watry showers delaye the raging winde,
So doth good hope clene put away dispayre out of my minde,
And biddes me for to serue and suffer pacientlie,
For what, wot I, the after weale that fortune willes to me.
For those that care do knowe and tasted haue of trouble,
When passed is their woful paine, eche ioy shall seme them double;
And bitter sendes she now, to make me tast the better
The plesant swete, when that it comes, to make it seme the sweter.
And so determine I to serue vntill my brethe;
Ye, rather dye a thousand times then once to false my feithe.
And if my feble corps through weight of wofull smart
Do fayle or faint, my will it is that still she kepe my hart.
And when thys carcas here to earth shalbe refarde,
I do bequeth my weried ghost to serue her afterwarde.