University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

ii. To the honorable Author, S[ir] J[ohn] Sk[ene].

All lawes but cob-webes are, but none such right
Had to this title as these lawes of ours,
Ere that they were from their cimerian Bowres
By thy ingenious labours brought to light.
Our statutes senslesse statues did remaine,
Till thou (a new Prometheus) gaue them breath,
Or like ag'd Æsons bodye courb'd to death,
When thou young bloud infus'd in eurye veine.
Thrice-happye Ghosts! which after-worlds shall wow,
That first tam'd barbarisme by your swords,
Then knew to keepe it fast in nets of words,
Hindring what men not suffer would to doe;
To Joue the making of the World is due,
But that it turnes not chaos, is to you.

iii.

[O Tymes, o Heauen that still in motion art]

O Tymes, o Heauen that still in motion art,
And by your course confound vs mortall wights!
O flying Dayes! o euer-gliding Nights,
Which passe more nimble than wind or archers dart!
Now I my selfe accuse, excuse your part,
For hee who fixd your farr-off shining lights,
You motion gaue, and did to mee impart
A Mind to marke and to preuent your slights.
Lifes web yee still weaue out, still (foole) I stay,
Malgrè my iust Resolues, on mortall things.
Ah! as the Bird surprisd in subtile springs,
That beates with wing but cannot flye away,
So struggle I, and faine would change my case,
But this is not of Nature, but of grace.

iv.

[Rise to my soule, bright Sunne of Grace, o rise!]

Rise to my soule, bright Sunne of Grace, o rise!
Make mee the vigour of thy Beames to proue,
Dissolue this chilling frost which on mee lies,
That makes mee lesse than looke-warme in thy loue:
Grant mee a beamling of thy light aboue
To know my foot-steps, in these Tymes, too wise;
O! guyde my course & let mee no mor moue
On wings of sense, where wandring pleasure flyes.
I haue gone wrong & erred, but ah, alas!
What can I else doe in this dungeon darke?
My foes strong are, & I a fragil glasse,
Houres charged with cares consume my lifes small sparke;
Yet, of thy goodnesse, if I grace obtaine,
My life shall be no lose, my death great gaine.

v.

[First in the orient raign'd th' assyrian kings]

First in the orient raign'd th' assyrian kings,
To those the sacred persian prince succeeds,
Then he by whom the world sore-wounded bleeds,
Earths crowne to Greece with bloodie blade he brings;
Then Grece to Rome the Raines of state resignes:
Thus from the mightie Monarche of the Meeds
To the west world successiuelie proceeds
That great and fatall period of all things;
Whilst wearied now with broyles and long alarmes,
Earths maiestie her diademe layes downe
Before the feet of the vnconquered crowne,
And throws her selfe (great Monarch) in thy armes.
Here shall she staye, fates haue ordained so,
Nor has she where nor further for to goe.

vi. Sonnet before a poëme of Irene.

Mourne not (faire Grece) the ruine of thy kings,
Thy temples raz'd, thy forts with flames deuour'd,
Thy championes slaine, thy virgines pure deflowred,
Nor all those greifes which sterne Bellona brings:
But murne (faire Grece) mourne that that sacred band
Which made thee once so famous by their songs,
Forct by outrageous fate, haue left thy land,
And left thee scarce a voice to plaine thy wrongs;
Murne that those climates which to thee appeare
Beyond both Pho̧bus and his sisteres wayes,
To saue thy deedes from death must lend thee layes,
And such as from Museus thou didst heare;
For now Irene hath attaind such fame,
That Heros Ghost doth weep to heare her name.

vii.

[I feare to me such fortune be assignd]

I feare to me such fortune be assignd
As was to thee, who did so well deserue,
Braue Hakerstowne, euen suffred here to sterue
Amidst basse minded freinds, nor true, nor kind.
Why were the fates and furies thus combind,
Such worths for such disasters to reserue?
Yet all those euills neuer made the suerue
From what became a well resolued mind;
For swelling Greatnesse neuer made the smyle,
Dispising Greatnesse in extreames of want;
O happy thrice whom no distresse could dant!
Yet thou exclaimed, ô Time! ô Age! ô Isle!
Where flatterers, fooles, baudes, fidlers, are rewarded,
Whilst Vertue sterues vnpittied, vnregarded.

viii, ix Sonnet qu'un poet[e] Italien fit pour vn bracelet de cheveux qui lui auoit estè donnè par sa maistresse.

In the same sort of rime.

O haire, sueet haire, part of the tresse of gold
Of vich loue makes his nets vher vretchet I
Like simple bird vas taine, and vhile I die
Hopelesse I hope your faire knots sal me hold;
Yow to embrasse, kisse, and adore I'm bold,
Because ye schadow did that sacred face,
Staine to al mortals, vich from starrie place
Hath jalous made these vho in spheares ar rold:
To yow I'l tel my thochts & invard paines
Since sche by cruel Heauens now absent is,
And cursed Fortune me from her detaines.
Alas! bear vitnesse how my reason is
Made blind be loue, vhile as his nets and chaines
I beare about vhen I should seeke my blisse.

x. Sonnet qu'un poet[e] Italien fit pour vn bracelet de cheveux qui lui auoit estè donnè par sa maistresse.

In frier sort of rime.

O haire, faire haire, some of the goldin threeds
Of vich loue veues the nets that passion breeds,
Vher me like sillie bird he doth retaine,
And onlie death can make me free againe;
Ah I yow loue, embrasse, kisse, and adore,
For that ye schadow did that face before;
That face so ful of beautie, grace, and loue,
That it hath jalous made Heauens quier aboue:
To yow I'l tel my secret thochts and grief
Since sche, deare sche, can graunt me no reliefe.
Vhile me from her, foul traitour, absence binds,
Vitnesse, sueet haire, vith me, how loue me blinds;
For vhen I should seeke vhat his force restraines,
I foolish beare about his nets and chaines.

xi. Sonnet qu'un poet[e] Italien fit pour vn bracelet de cheveux qui lui auoit estè donnè par sa maistresse.

Paraphrasticalie translated.

Haire, suet haire, tuitchet by Midas hand
In curling knots, of vich loue makes his nets,
Vho vhen ye loosest hang me fastest band
To her, vorlds lilie among violets;
Deare fatall present, kissing I adore yow,
Because of late ye shade gaue to these roses
That this earths beautie in ther red encloses;
I saw vhile ye them hid thay did decore yow:
I'l plaine my voes to yow, I'l tel my thocht,
Alas! since I am absent from my juel,
By vayvard fortune and the heauens more cruel.
Vitnesse be ye vhat loue in me hath vrocht,
In steed to seeke th' end of my mortall paines,
I take delyt to veare his goldin chaines.

xii, xiii. Bembo in his Rime. 2 Son.

In the same sort of Rime.

As the yong faune, vhen vinters gone avay
Vnto a sueter saison granting place,
More vanton growne by smyles of heuens faire face,
Leauith the silent voods at breake of day,
And now on hils, and now by brookes doth pray
On tender flowres, secure and solitar,
Far from all cabans, and vher shephards are;
Vher his desir him guides his foote doth stray,
He fearith not the dart nor other armes
Til he be schoot in to the noblest part
By cuning archer, vho in dark bush lyes:
So innocent, not fearing comming harmes,
Vandering vas I that day vhen your faire eies,
Vorld-killing schafts, gaue deaths vounds to my hart.

xiv. Bembo in his Rime. 2 Son.

In rime more frie.

As the yong stag, vhen vinter hids his face
Giuing vnto a better season place,
At breake of day comes furth vanton and faire,
Leauing the quiet voods, his suet repaire,
Now on the hils, now by the riuers sides,
He leaps, he runs, and vher his foote him guides,
Both sure and solitaire, prayes on suet flowrs,
Far fra al shephards and their helmish bours;
He doth not feare the net nor murthering dart,
Til that, pour beast, a schaft be in his hart,
Of on quho pitilesse in embush laye:
So innocent vandring that fatall daye
Vas I, alas! vhen vith a heauenlie eie,
Ye gaue the blowe vher of I needs must die.

xv. Bembo in his Rime. 2 Son.

Paraphrasticalie translated.

As the yong hart, when sunne with goldin beames
Progressith in the first post of the skie,
Turning old vinters snowie haire in streames,
Leauith the voods vher he vas vont to lie,
Vher his desir him leads the hills among,
He runes, he feades, the cruking brookes along,
Emprison'd onlie with heauens canopie;
Vanton he cares not ocht that dolour brings,
Hungry he spares not flowres vith names of kings;
He thinkes al far, vho can him fol espie,
Til bloudie bullet part his chefest part:
In my yong spring, alas! so vandred I,
Vhen cruel sche sent out from iettie eie
The deadlie schaft of vich I bleding smart.