Phillis :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh pleasing thoughts, apprentises of loue,
Fore-runners of desire, sweet Methridates
The poison of my sorrowes to remoue,
With whom my hopes and fearefull oft debates.
Inritch your selues and me by your selfe riches,
(Which are the thoughts you spēd on heauē bred beauty,)
Rowse you my muse beyond our Poets pitches,
And working wonders yet say all is duty.
Vse you no Eglets eyes, nor Phenix feathers,
To tower the heauē from whence heauens wonder sallies:
For why your sonne singes sweetly to hir wethers:
Making a springe of winter in the vallies.
Show to the world tho poore and scant my skill is,
How sweet thoughts bee, that are but thought on Phillis.

Sonnet II.

You sacred Sea-nimphes pleasantly disporting,
Amidst this watrie world, where now I saile:
IF euerloue, or louers sad reporting,
Had power sweet teares from your faire eyes to hayle:
And you more gentle-hearted then the rest,
Vnder the Northren Noon-stede sweetly streaming:
Lend those moyst riches of your christall crest,
To quench the flames from my hearts AEtna steaming.
And thou kinde Briton in thy trompet relish,
The ruthfull accents of my discontent:
That midst this treauell desolate and hellish,
Some gentle winde that listens my lament.
May prattle in the north in Phillis eares
Where Phillis wants Damon consumes in teares.

Sonnet III.

In fancies world an Atlas haue I beene,
Where yet the Chaos of my ceaslesse care:
Is by hir eies vnpitied and vnseene,
In whom all giftes but pity planted are.
For mercie tho still cries my moane-clad muse,
And euery paper that she sendes to beautie:
In tract of sable teares bringes wofull newes,
Of my true heartkinde thoughts and loyall duetie.
But ah the stringes of hir hard heart are strained;
Beyond the harmonie of my desires:
And tho the happie heauens themselues haue pained,
To tame hir heart whose will so farre aspires,
Yet she who claimes the title of worldes wonder,
Thinkes all desartes to bace to bring hir vnder.

Sonnet IIII.

Long hath my sufferance labored to inforce,
One pearle of pittie from hir prettie eyes,
Whilest I with restlesse riuers of remorse,
Haue bathde the bankes where my faire Phillis lies.
The moning lines which weeping I haue written,
And writing red vnto my ruthfull sheepe,
And reading sent with teares that neuer fitten,
To my loues Queene, that hath my heart in keepe:
Haue made my Lambkins, lay them downe and sigh:
But Phillis sittes, and reades, and cals them trifles:
Oh heauens why clime not happie lines so high,
To rent that ruthlesse heart, that all hearts rifles?
None wrightes with truer faith, or greater loue,
Yet out alas I haue no power to moue.

Sonnet V.

Ah pale and dying infant of the springe,
How rightly now do I resemble thee:
That selfesame hand that thee from stalke did wringe,
Hath rent my breast and robd my heart from mee.
Yet shalt thou liue, for why thy natiue vigor,
Shall thriue by wofull dew-droppes of my dollour:
And from the woundes I beare through fancies rigor,
My streaming blood shall yeeld thee crimson colour.
The rauisht sighes (that ceaslesse take their issue,
From out the furnesse of my heart inflamed:)
To yeeld you lasting springs shall neuer misse you,
So by my plaints, and paines, you shall be famed
Let my hearts heat, and colde, thy crimson norish,
And by my sorrowes let thy beautie florish.

Sonnet VI.

It is not death which wretched men call dying,
But that is very death which I endure:
When my coy looking Nimph (hir grace enuying,)
By fatall frownes my domage doth procure.
It is not life which we for life approue,
But that is life when on hir woul-soft pappes,
I seale sweet kisses, which do batten loue:
And doubling them do treble my good happes.
Tis neither loue the sonne, nor loue the mother,
Which louers praise and pray to; but that loue is:
Which she in eye and I in heart do smother,
Then muse not tho I glory in my misse.
Since she who holdes my heart, and me in durance,
Hath life, death, loue and all in hir procureance.

Sonnet VII.

How languisheth the Primrose of loues garden?
How trill hir teares th' Elixar of my sences:
Ambitious sicknes, what doth thee so harden,
Oh spare and plague thou me for hir offences.
Ah Roses, loues faire Roses do not languish,
Blush through the milk-white vaile that holdes you couered:
If heate or colde may mitigate your anguish,
Ile burne, Ile frize, but you shall be recouered.
Good God would beautie marke now she is crased,
How but one shower of sicknesse makes hir tender:
Hir Iudgmentes then to marke my woes amazed,
To mercy should opinions fort surrender:
And I (oh would, I might, or would she ment it,)
Should herrie loue, who now in hart lament it.

Sonnet VIII

No starres hir eyes to cleere the wandering night,
But shining sunnes of true diuinitye:
That make the soule conceiue hir perfect light:
No wanton beauties of humanitie
Hir prettie browes, but beames that cleare the sight
Of him that seekes the true Philosophie:
No Corrall is hir lippe, no rose hir faire,
But euen that crimson that adornes the Sunne
No Nimph is she, but mistresse of the ayre,
By whom my glories are but newe begunne,
But when I touch and tast as others do,
I then shall wright and you shall wonder to.

Sonnet IX.

The dewie-Roseate morne had with hir haires,
In sundrie sorts the Indian Clime adornd:
And now hir eies apparrailed in teares,
The losse of louely Memnon long had moornd.
When as she spide the Nimph whom I admire.
Kembinge hir locks, of which the yelow golde,
Made blush the beauties of hir curled wire,
Which heauen it selfe with wonder might beholde.
Then redd with shame, hir reuerend locks she rent,
And weeping hid the beauty of hir face,
The flower of fancie wrought such discontent:
The sighes which midst the aire she breathd a space,
A three daies stormie tempest did maintaine,
Hir shame a fire, hir eies a swelling raine.

Sonnet X.

The rumor runnes that heere in I sis swimme,
Such stately Swannes so confident in dying;
That when they feele them selues neere Lethes brimme,
They sing their fatall dirge when death is nighing.
And I like these that, feele my woundes are mortall,
Contented dye for hir whom I adore:
And in my ioyfull himnes do still exhort all,
To die for such a Saint or loue no more.
Not that my torments, or hir tiranie.
Inforce me to enioyne so hard a taske,
But for I know, and yeeld no reason why,
But will them trie that haue desire to aske.
As loue hath wreathes his pretty eies to seele,
So louers must keepe secret what they feele

Sonnet XI.

My fraile and earthly barke, by reasons guide,
(Which holdes the helme, whilst wil doth weilde the saile:)
By my desires (the windes of bad betide,)
Hath saild these worldly Seaes with small auaile.
Vaine obiectes serue, for dreadfull Rockes to quaile,
My brittle boate from hauen of life that flies
To haunt the Sea of mundane miseries:
My sowle that drawes Impressions from aboue,
And viewes my course, and sees the windes aspire,
Bids reason watch to scape the shoales of loue:
But lawles will enflamd with endlesse ire
Doth steerem poope whilest reason doth retire.
The streames increase loues waues my barcke do fill,
Thus are they wrackt that guide their course by will.

Sonnet XII.

Ah trees why fall your leaues so fast?
Ah Rocks where are your robes of mosse?
Ah flockes, why stand you all agast?
Trees, rocks, and flocks, what are you pensiue for my losse?
The birdes me thinkes, tune nought but moane,
The windes breath nought but bitter plaint,
The beasts forsake their dennes to groane,
Birdes, windes, and beastes, what doth my losse your powers attaint?
Floodes weepe their springes aboue their boundes,
And Eccho wailes to see my woe,
The roabe of ruth doth cloath the groundes:
Floodes, Eccho, groūdes, why do you al these teares bestow?
The trees, the rockes, and flockes replie,
The birdes, the windes, the beastes report,
Floodes, Eccho, groundes, for sorrow crie,
VVe grieue since Phillis nill kinde Damons loue consort.

Sonnet XIII.

Loue guides the roses of thy lippes,
And flies about them like a bee:
If I approch he forward skippes,
And if I kisse he stingeth me.
Loue in thine eyes doth build his bower,
And sleepes within their prettie shine:
And if I looke the boy will lower,
And from their orbes shootes shaftes deuine.
Loue workes thy heart within his fire,
And in my teares doth firme the same:
And if I tempt it will retire,
And of my plaintes doth make a game.
Loue let me cull hir choycest flowers,
And pittie me, and calme hir eye,
Make soft hir heart, dissolue hir lowers,
Then will I praise thy dietie.
But if thou do not loue, Ile trulye serue hir,
In spight of thee, and by firme faith deserue hir.

Sonnet XIIII.

I wroat in Mirrhaes barcke, and as I wroate,
Poore Mirrha wept because I wroat forsaken:
T'was of thy pride I soong in weeping noate,
When as hir leaues great moane for pittie maken.
The falling fountaines from the mountaines falling,
Cride out ah-las, so faire and bee so cruel;
And Babling Echo neuer ceased callinge,
Phillis disdaine is fitte for none but truthlesse.
The rising pines wherein I had engraued,
Thy memorie consulting with the winde:
Are trucemen to thy heart, and thoughts depraued,
And say thy kind should not bee so vnkinde.
But (out ah-las) so fell is Phillis pheerlesse,
That she hath made hir Damon welnie tearlesse.

Sonnet XV.

My Phillis hath the morning sunne,
At first to looke vppon hir.
And Phillis hath morne-waking birdes,
Hir risinges for to honour.
My Phillis hath prime-feathered flowers,
That smile when she treades on them,
And Phillis hath a gallant flocke,
That leapes since she doth owne them.
But Phillis hath so hard a heart
Ah-las, that she should haue it.
As yeeldes no mercie to desart,
Nor grace to those that craue it:
Sweet sunne when thou lookest on,
Pray hir regarde my moane.
Sweet birdes when you sing to hir,
To yeeld some pittie wooe hir.
Sweet flowers when as she treades on,
Tell hir, hir beautie deades one:
And if in life hir loue, she nill agree me,
Pray hir before I die, she will come see me.

Sonnet XVI.

I part but how? from ioy, from hope, from life,
I leaue but whom? loues pride, wits pompe, harts blisse,
I pine for what? for griefe, for thought, for strife:
I faint and why? because I see my misse,
Oh ceaslesse paines that neuer may be toulde,
You make me weepe as I to water would.
Ah wearie hopes in deepe obliuious streames,
Goe seeke your graues, since you haue lost your groundes,
Ah pensiue heart seeke out hir radiant gleames,
For why thy blisse is shut within those boundes?
Ah traiterous eies to feeble in for sight,
Growe dimme with woe, that now must want your light.
I part from blisse to dwell with ceaslesse moane,
I part from life, since I from beauty part,
I part from peace, to pine in care alone,
I part from ease to dye with dreadfull smart.
I part (oh death;) for why this world containes,
More care, and woe then with dispaire remaines,
Oh loath depart wherein such sorrowes dwell,
As all conceites are scant the same to tell.

Sonnet XVII.

Ah fleeting weale, ah slie deluding sleepe,
That in one moment giuest me ioye and paine:
How doe my hopes dissolue to teares in vaine?
As wount the Snowes, fore angrie sunne to weepe?
Ah noysome life that hath no weale in keepe
My forward griefe hath forme and working might
My pleasures like the shaddowes take their flight:
My pathe to blisse is tedious long and steepe.
Twise happie thou Endemion that embracest,
The liue-long night thy loue within thine armes:
Where thou fond dreame my longed weale defacest
Whitest fleeting and vncertaine shaddes thou placest
Before my eies with false deluding charmes.
Ah instant sweetes which do my heart reuiue,
How should I ioy if you were true aliue;

Sonnet XVIII.

As where two raging venomes are vnited,
(Which of themselues disseuered life would seuer;)
The sickly wretch of sicknesse is acquited,
Which else should die, or pine in torments euer.
So fire, and frost, that holde my heart in seasure,
Restore those ruines which themselues haue wrought,
Where if a part they both had had their pleasure,
The earth long since, hir fatall claime had cought.
Thus two vnited deathes, keepe me from dying,
I burne in Ice, and quake amidst the fire:
No hope midest these exteames or fauour spyinge,
Thus loue makes me a Martir in his yre.
So that both colde and heate do rather feed,
My ceaslesse paines, then any comfort breede.

Sonnet XIX.

Thou tiranizing Monarcke that dost tire,
My loue-sicke heart through those assaulting eyes,
That are the lampes which lighten my desire,
If nought but death furie may suffise:
Not for my peace, but for thy pleasure bee it,
That Phillis, wrathfull Phillis that repines me,
All grace but death, may daine to come and see it,
And seeing greeue, at that which shee assignes me.
This onely boone for all my mortall bane,
I craue and crie for, at thy mercye seate;
That when hir wrath a faithfull heart hath slaine,
And soule is fled, and body reft of heate:
She might perceiue how much she might command,
That had my life, and death, within hir hand.

Sonnet XX.

Some praise the lookes, and others praise the lockes,
Of their faire Queenes, in loue with curious wordes:
Some laud the breast where loue his treasure locks,
All like the eie that life and loue affordes.
But none of these fraile beauties and vnstable
Shall make my pen ryot in pompous stile:
More greater giftes shall my graue muse enable,
Whereat seuerer browes shall neuer smile.
I praise hir honny-sweeter eloquence,
Which from the fountaine of true wisdome floweth:
Hir modest meane that matcheth exelence,
Hir matchlesse faith which from hir vertue groweth:
And could my stile hir happie vertues equale,
Time had no power hir glories to enthrale.

Egloga Prima Demades Damon.

Demades

Now sourge of winters wracke is welnie spent,
And sunne ginnes looke more longer on our clime,
And earth no more to sorrow doth consent,
VVhy beene thy lookes forlorne that viewe the prime?
Vnneth thy slockes may feed to see thee faint,
Thou lost, they leane, and both with woe attaint.

For shame cast off these discontented lookes,
For griefe doth waight one life, tho neuer sought,
(So Thenot wrote admir'd for Pipe and bookes:)
Then to the springe attemper thou thy thought,
And let aduice reare vp thy drooping minde:
And leaue to weepe thy woes vnto the winde.

Damon.

Ah Demades no wounder tho I waile,
For euen the spring is winter vnto me,
Looke as the sunne the earth doth then auaile,
VVhen by his beames, hir bowels warmed bee:
Euen so a Saint more sunne-bright in hir shining.
First wrought my weale, now hasts my winters pining.

VVhich louely lampe withdrawne from my poore eyes,
Both partes of earth, and fire drownd vp in woe:
In winter dwell: my ioy my courage dies,
My lambes with me that doe my winter knowe?
For pitty scorne the spring that nyeth neere,
And pine to see, their Masters pining cheere.

The roote which yeeldeth sappe vnto the tree,
Drawes from the earth the meanes that makes it spring:
And by the sap the siens fostered bee,
All from the sunne haue comfort and increasing:
And that faire eie that lightes this earthly ball,
Killes by depart, and neeting cheereth all.

As roote to tree such is my tender heart,
VVhose sappe is thought, whose braunches are content:
And from my soule they drawe their sweet or smarte,
And from hir eie, my soules best life is lent.
VVhich heauenly eye that lightes both earth and aire,
Quels by depart and quickens by repaire.

Damades.

Giue periode to the processe of thy plaint,
Vnhappie Damon witty in selfe-greeuing:
Tend thou thy flockes, let tyrant loue attaint,
Those tender heartes that make their loue their liuing.
And as kinde time keepes Phillis from thy sight,
So let preuention banish fancie quite.

Cast hence this Idle fuel of desire,
That feedes that flame wherein thy heart consumeth:
Let reason schoole thy will which doth aspire,
And counsell coole impatience that presumeth:
Driue hence vaine thoughtes which are fond loues abetters,
For he that seekes his thraldoome merits fetters.

The vaine Idea of this dietie
nust at the teare of thine Imagination:
VVas bred brought, vp by thine owne vanitie,
VVhose beeing thou mayest curse from the creation:
And so thou list, thou maiest as soone forget loue,
As thou at first didst fashion and beget loue.

Damon.

Peace Demades peace sheep-heard do not tempt me,
The sage-taught wise may speake thus, but not practise:
Rather from life, then from my loue exempt me,
My happie loue wherein my weale and wracke lies:
VVhere chillie age first left loue, and first lost hir,
There youth sound loue, likt loue, and loue did foster.

Not as Ambitious of their owne decay,
But curious to equall your fore-deedes:
So tread we now within your woonted way,
We find your fruites of iudgementes and their seedes:
VVe know you lou'd, and louing learne that lore,
You scorne kind loue, because you can no more:

Tho from this pure refiner of the thought,
The gleanings of your lerninges haue you gathred
Your liues had beene abortiue bace and nought,
Except by happie loue they had beene fathered,
Then still the swaine, for I will still avowe it:
They haue no witte nor worth that dis-alow it.

Then to renewe the ruines of my teares,
Be thou no hinderer Demades I pray thee.
If my loue sighes, grow tedious in thine eares,
Flye me, that flye from ioy, I list not stay thee,
Morne sheepe, morne lambes, & Damon wil weep by you,
And when I sigh come home sweete Phillis cry you.

Come home sweete Phillis, for thine absence causeth
A flowerlesse prime-tide in these drooping medowes,
To push his beauties foorth each primrose pauseth,
Our Lillies and our Roses like coy widowes
Shut in their buddes their beauties, & bemoane them,
Because my Phillis doth not smile vpon them.

The trees by my redoubled sighes long blasted,
Call for thy balme-sweete breath and sunnie eyes,
To whom all natures comforts are hand-fasted,
Breath, looke on them, and they to life arise:
They haue new liueries with each smile thou lendest,
And droope with me, when thy faire brow thou bendest.

I wooe thee Phillis with more earnest weeping,
Then Niobe for hir dead issue spent,
I pray thee Nimph who hast our spring in keeping:
Thou mistresse of our flowers and my content,
Come home and glad our Meades of winter wearie,
And make thy wofull Damon blith and merrie,

Else will I captiue all my hopes againe,
And shut them vp in prisons of dispaire:
And weepe such teares as shal destroy this plaine.
And sigh such sighes as shall Eclipse the aire.
And cry such cries as loue that heares my crying,
Shall faint and weepe for griefe, and fall a dying.

My little world hath vow'd no sunne shall glad it,
Except thy little world her light discouer,
Of which heauens would growe proud if so they had it,
Oh how I feare least absent Ioue shoulde loue her,
I feare it Phillis, for he neuer sawe one,
That had more heauen-sweet lookes to lure & awe one.

I sweare to thee all-seeing soueraine,
Rowling heauens circles round about our center:
Except my Phillis safe returne againe,
No ioy to heart, no meate to mouth shall enter.
All hope (but future hope to be renouned,
For weeping Phillis) shall in teares be drowned.

Demades.

How large a scope lendes Damon to his moane,
VVasting those treasures of his happy-witte:
In regestring his wofull woe-begone?
Ah bende thy Muse to matters farre more fitte:
For time shall come when Phillis is interd,
That Damon shall confesse that he hath erd.

VVhen natures riches shal (by time dissolued)
Call thee to see with more iudiciall eye:
How Phillis beauties are to dust resolued,
Thou then shalt aske thy selfe the reason why
Thou wert so fond, since Phillis was so fraile,
To praise her giftes that should so quickly faile?

Haue mercie on thy selfe cease being idle,
Let reason claime and gaine of will his homage:
Raine in these brain-sicke thoughts with iudgements bridle,
A short preuention helpes a mighty domage.
If Phillis loue, loue hir, yet loue hir so:
That if she flye, thou maiest loues fire forgo.

Play with the fire, yet die not in the flame,
Show passions in thy wordes, but not in heart:
Least when thou think'st to bring thy thoughtes in frame,
Thou proue thy selfe a prisoner by thine Arte.
Play with these babes of loue, as Apes with Glasses,
And put no trust in feathers, winde, or lasses.

Da.

Did not thine age yeeld warrantise (olde man)
Impatience would inforce me to offend thee,
Me list not now thy froward skill to scanne,
Yet will I pray that loue may mend or end thee.
Spring flowers, sea-tides, earth grasse, skie stars shal banish,
Before the thoughtes of loue or Phillis vanish.

So get the gone and fold thy tender sheepe,
For lo the greate Autumedon of day:
In Isis streame his golden lockes doth steepe,
Sad Euen her duskie mantle doth display?
Light-flying foules the posts of night disport them,
And cheerfull looking Vesper doth consort them.

Come you my carefull flocke fore goe your maister,
Ile folde you vp and after fall a sighing,
VVordes haue no worth my secret woundes to plaister,
Nought may refresh my ioyes but Phillis nighing.
Farewell olde Demades, DE. Damon farewell.
How gainst aduise doth headlong youth rebell.

An Elegie.

Ah cruel windes why call you hence away:
VVhy make you breach betwixt my soule and mee?
Ye trayterous floodes why nill your floates delaie,
Vntill my latest moanes discoursed bee?
For tho yee salte sea-Gods with hold the raigne:
Of all your floates. And gentle windes be fall;
VVhile I haue wept such teares, as might restraine
The rage of tides and windes against their will.
Ah shall I lose your sight bright shining eyes?
And must my soule his life and glory leaue?
Must I forsake the bower where solace liues,
To trust to tickle fates that still deceiue?
‘Ah-las so willes the wanton Queene of chaunge,
‘That each man tract this laborinth of life,
‘VVith slippery steps, now wrongd by fortune strange,
‘Now drawne by counsell from the maze of strife?
‘Ah ioy no ioy because so so soone thou fleetest,
Houres, dayes, and times inconstant in your beeing.
Oh life, no life since with such chaunce thou meetest,
Oh eies, no eies, since you must loose your seeing:
Soule bee thou sad, dissolue thy liuing powers.
To christall teares, and by their pores expresse,
The griefe, that my destressed soule deuoures:
Cloath thou my body all in heauinesse,
My sonnes appeard faire smiling full of pleasure,
But now the vale of absence ouer cloudes them:
They fed my heart with ioyes exceeding measure
VVhich now shaldy, since absence needs must shroud them
Yea die, oh death, sweet death, vouchsafe that blessing,
That I may die the death whilest she regardeth,
For sweet were death, and sweete, were deathes oppressing,
If she looke on who all my life awardeth.

Oh thou that art the portion of my ioy,
Yet not the portion, for thou art the prime:
Suppose my griefes, conceiue the deepe anoy,
That wounds my soule vpon this sorrye time:
Pale is my face, and in my pale confesses,
The paine I suffer, since I needes must leaue thee,
Redde are mine eyes through teares that them oppresses,
Dul'd are my sprits since fates do now bereue thee.
And now, ah now, my plaintes are quite preuented,
The windes are faire the sailes are hoysed hie,
The Anckers waid, and now quite discontented,
Griefe so subdewes my hart as it should dye.
A faint farewell, with trembling hand I tender,
And with my teares my papers are distained,
Which closed vp, my heart in them I render,
To tell thee how at parting I complained.
Vouchsafe his message that doth bring farewell,
And for my sake let him with beautie dwell.

Thirsis Ægloga Secunda.

Muses helpe me, sorrow swarmeth,
Eyes are fraught with seas of languish:
Heauie hope my sollace harmeth,
Mindes repast is bitter anguish.

Eye of day regarded neuer,
Certaine trust, in world vntrusty,
Flattering hope beguileth euer:
VVeary olde, and wanton lustie.

Dawne of day beholdes inthroned,
Fortunes darling, proude and dreadlesse:
Darkesome night doth heare him moaned,
VVho before was rich and needlesse.

Robb the sphre of lines vnited,
Make a sodaine voide in nature:
Force the day to bee benighted,
Reaue the cause of time and creature.

Ere the world will cease to varie,
This I weepe for this I sorrow,
Muses if you please to tarry,
Further helpes I meane to borrow.

Courted once by fortunes fauour,
Compast now with enuies curses:
All my thoughts of sorrow sauer,
Hopes runne fleeting like the sourses.

(Ay me) wanton scorne hath maimed,
Al the ioy my heart enioyed:
Thoughtes their thinking haue disclaimed,
Hate my hopes hath quite anoyed.

Scant regard my weale hath scanted,
Looking coy hath forst my lowering:
Nothing likt where nothing wanted,
VVeddes mine eyes to ceaselesse showering.

Former loue was once admired,
Present fauour is estranged,
Loath the pleasure long desired,
Thus both men and thoughtes are changed.

Louely swaine with luckie guiding,
Once (ebut now no more so friended)
Thou my flockes hast had in mindinge,
From the morne till day was ended

Drinke and fodder foode and soulding,
Had my lambes and ewes together
I with them was still beholding,
Both in warmth and winter weather.

Now they languish since refused,
Ewes and lambes are paind with pining
I with ewes and lambes confused,
All vnto our deathes declyning.

Silence leaue thy caue obscured,
Daine a dolfull swaine to tender,
Though disdaines I haue endured.
Ye I am no deene offender.

Phillips sonne canne with his finger,
Hide his scarre it is so little:
Little sinne a day to linger,
VVise men wander in a Tittle.

Thriftles yet my swaine haue turned,
Though my sunne he neuer showeth:
Though I weepe I am not mourned,
Though I want no pittie groweth.

Yet for pittie loue my muses,
Gentle silence be their couer:
They must leaue their wonted vses,
Since I leaue to bee a louer.

They shall liue with thee inclosed,
I will loath my pen and paper:
Arte shall neuer be supposed,
Sloath shall quench the watching taper.

Kisse them silence, kisse them kindly
Though I leaue them, yet I loue them:
Though my wit haue led them blindly,
Yet my swaine did once approue them.

I will trauell soyles remoued,
Night and morrowe neuer merie:
Thou shalt harbor that I loued,
I will loue that makes me werye.

If perchaunce the sheepe strayeth,
In thy walkes and shades vnhaunted:
Tell the teene my heart betrayeth,
How neglect my ioyes hath daunted.

Sonnet XXI.

Ye heraultes of my heart, mine ardent groanes,
O teares which gladly would burst out to brookes,
Oh spent on fruitlesse sande my surging moanes,
Oh thoughtes enthrald vnto care-boading lookes.
Ah iust laments of my vniust distresse,
Ah fond desires whom reason could not guide,
Oh hopes of loue that intimate redresse,
Yet proue the load-stars vnto bad betide.
When will you cease? or shall paine neuer ceasing,
Seaze on my heart? oh molifie your rage,
Least your assaultes with ouer switf increasing,
Procure my death, or call on timelesse age.
What if they do? they shall but feede the fire,
Which I haue kindled by my fond desire.

Sonnet XXII.

Faire art thou Phillis, I so faire (sweet mayd)
As nor the sunne, nor I haue seene more faire,
For in thy cheekes sweet roses are embayde,
And golde more pure then gold doth guilde thy haire.
Sweet Bees haue hiu'd their hony on thy tongue,
And Hebe spic't hir Necter with thy breath:
About thy necke do all the graces thronge,
And lay such baites as might entangle death.
In such a breast what heart would not be thrall?
From such sweet armes who would not wish embraces?
At thy faire handes who wonders not at all,
Wounder it selfe through ignorance embases?
Yet naithelesse tho wonderous giftes you call these,
My faith is farre more wonderfull then all these.

Sonnet XXIII.

Burst burst poore heart thou hast no longer hope,
Captiue mine eyes vnto eternall sleepe,
Let all my sences haue no further scope,
Let death be lord of me and all my sheepe.
For Phillis hath betrothed fierce disdaine:
That makes his mortall mantion in hir heart,
And though my tonge haue long time taken paine,
To sue deuorse and wed hir to desart.
She will not yeeld, my wordes can haue no power,
She scornes my faith, she laughes at my sad layes,
She filles my soule with neuer ceasing sower,
Who filt the world with volumes of hir praise:
In such extreames what wretch can cease to craue.
His peace from death, who can no mercy haue.

Sonnet XXIIII.

No glory makes me glorious or glad,
Nor pleasure may to pleasure me dispose,
Ne comfort can reuiue my sences sad,
Nor hope enfranchise me with one repose.
Nor in hir absence tast I one delight,
Nor in hir presence am I well content,
Was neuer time gaue tearme to my dispight,
Nor ioy that dried the teares of my lament:
Nor holde I hope of weale in memorie,
Nor haue I thought to change my restlesse griefe,
Nor doth my conquest yeelde me souerainetie,
Nor hope repose, nor confidence, reliefe.
For why she sortes hir frownes and fauoures so,
As when I gaine or loose I cannot know:

Sonnet XXV.

I wage the combat with two mightie foes,
Which are more strong then I ten thousand folde,
The one is when thy pleasure I do lose,
The other, when thy person I be holde:
In seeing thee a swarme of loues confound me,
And cause my death in spight of my resist,
And if I see thee not thy want doth wound me,
For in thy sight my comfort doth consist.
The one in me continuall care createth,
The other doth occasion my desire,:
The one the edge of all my ioy rebateth,
The other makes me a Phenix in loues fire
So that I grieue when I enioy your presence,
And dye for griefe by reason of your absence.

Sonnet XXVI

Ile teach thee louely Phillis, what loue is,
It is a vision seeming such as thou
That flies as fast as it assaultes mine eies:
It is affection that doth reason misse:
It is a shape of pleasure like to you,
Which meetes the eie, and seene on sodaine dies,
It is a doubled griefe a sparke of pleasure,
Begot by vaine desire, and this is loue,
Whom in our youth we count our chiefest treasure
In age for want of power we do reproue:
Yea such a power is loue, whose losse is paine,
And hauing got him we repent our gaine.

Sonnet XXVII.

Faire eyes whilest fearefull I your faire admire,
By vnexpressed sweetnes that I gaine,
My memory of sorrow doth expire,
And faulcon like I tower ioyes heauens amaine.
But when your sonnes in Oceans of their glory,
Shut vppe their day-bright shine, I dye for thought:
So passe my ioyes as doth a new plaid storie,
And one poore sigh breaths all delight to nought.
So to my selfe I liue not, but for you,
For you I liue, and you I loue, but none else:
Oh then faire eyes whose light I liue to viewe,
Or poore forlorne despis'd to liue alone els,
Looke sweete since from the pith of contemplation,
Loue gathereth life, and liuing, breedeth passion.

Sonnet XXVIII.

Not causlesse were you christned (gentle flowers)
The one of faith, the other fancies pride,
For she who guides both faith and fancies power,
In your faire coloures wrapes hir Iuory side:
As one of you hath whitenes without staine,
So spotlesse is my loue and neuer tainted:
And as the other shadoweth faith againe,
Such is my lasse, with no fond chaunge acquainted:
And as nor tirant sonne nor winter weather,
May eeuer chaunge sweet Amaranthus hew:
So she tho loue and fortune ioyne together,
Will neuer leaue to bee both faire and true:
And should I leaue thee then thou prettie elfe?
Nay first let Damon quite forget himselfe.

Sonnet XXIX.

I feele my selfe endaungered beyond reason,
My death alreadie twixt the cup and lippe,
Because my proud desire through cursed treason,
Would make my hopes mount heauen, which cannot skip:
My fancie still requireth at my handes,
Such thinges as are not, cannot, may not bee
And my desire altho my power with standes,
Will giue me winges, who neuer yet could flee:
What then remaines except my maimed soule,
Extort compassion from loue-flying age,
Or if nought els their furye may controwle,
To call on death that quels affections rage.
Which death shall dwell with me and neuer flie,
Since vaine desire seekes that hope doth denie.

Sonnet XXX.

I doe compare vnto thy youthly cleare,
(Which alwaies bydes within thy flowring prime,)
The month of Aprill, that bedewes our clime
With pleasant flowers, when as his showers appeare,
Before thy face, shall flie false crueltie,
Before his face, the doaly season fleetes,
Milde beene his lookes, thine eyes are full of sweetes:
Firme is his course, firme is thy loialtie.
He paints the fieldes through liquid christall showers,
Thou paint'st my verse with Pallas learned flowers:
With Zephirus sweet breath he fils the plaines,
And thou my hart with weeping sighes doost wring,
His browes are dewd with mornings christall spring,
Thou mak'st my eyes with teares bemoane my paines.

Sonnet XXXI.

Deuoide of reason, thrale to foolish ire,
I walke and chase a sauage fairie still,
Now neere the flood, straight on the mounting hill,
Now midst the woodes of youth, and vaine desire:
For leash I beare a cord of carefull griefe,
For brach I lead an ouer forward minde,
My houndes are thoughtes, and rage dispairing blind,
Paine, crueltie, and care without reliefe:
But they perceiuing that my swift pursute,
My flying fairie cannot ouertake,
With open mouthes their pray on me do make,
Like hungrie houndes that lately lost their suite.
And full of furie on their maister feede,
To hasten on my haplesse death with speede.

Sonnet XXXII

A thousand times to thinke and thinke the same,
To two faire eies to show a naked heart,
Great thirst with bitter licor to restraine,
To take repast of care and crooked smart:
To sigh full oft without relent of yre,
To dye for griefe and yet conceale the tale,
To others will to fashion my desire,
To pine in lookes disguisd through penciue-pale;
A short dispight, a faith vnfained true,
To loue my foe, and set my life at nought,
With heedlesse eies mine endlesse harmes to viewe,
A will to speake, a feare to tell the thought,
To hope for all, yet for dispaire to die,
Is of my life the certaine destenie.

Sonnet XXXIII.

When first sweet Phillis (whom I must adore)
Gan with her beauties blesse our wondring skie,
The sonne of Rhea, from their fatall store
Made all the Gods to grace her Maiestie.
Apollo first his golden rayes among,
Did forme the beauty of her bounteous eyes:
He grac't her with his sweet melodious song,
And made her subiect of his poesies.
The warriour Mars, bequeath'd her fierce disdaine,
Venus her smile, and Phœbe all her fayre,
Python his voyce, and Ceres all her graine,
The morne her lockes and fingers did repayre.
Young Loue, his bowe, and Thetis gaue her feete:
Clio her praise, Pallas her science sweete.

Sonnet XXXIIII.

I would in rich and golden coloured raine,
With tempting showers in pleasant sort discend,
Into faire Phillis lappe (my louely friend)
When sleepe hir sence with slomber doth restraine.
I would be chaunged to a milk-white Bull,
When midst the gladsome fieldes she should appeare,
By pleasant finenes to surprise my deere,
Whilest from their stalkes, she pleasant flowers did pull:
I were content to wearie out my paine,
To bee Narsissus so she were a spring
To drowne in hir those woes my heart do wring:
And more I wish transformed to remaine:
That whilest I thus in pleasures lappe did lye,
I might refresh desire, which else would die.

Sonnet XXXV.

I hope and feare, I pray and hould my peace,
Now freeze my thoughtes and straight they frie againe,
I now admire and straight my wounders cease,
I loose my bondes and yet my selfe restraine:
This likes me most that leaues me discontent,
My courage serues and yet my heart doth faile,
My will doth clime whereas my hopes are spent,
I laugh at loue, yet when he comes I quaile.
The more I striue, the duller bide I still,
I would bee thrald, and yet I freedome loue,
I would redresse, yet hourly feede myne ill,
I would repine, and dare not once reproue,
And for my loue I am bereft of power,
And strengthlesse striue my weaknes to deuoure.

Sonnet xxxvj.

If so I seeke the shades, I presently, doe see
The God of Loue forsakes his bow and sitte me by:
If that I think to write, his Muses plyant be,
If so I plaine my griefe, the wanton boy will cry.
If I lament his pride, he doth increase my paine,
If teares my cheeks attaint, his cheeks are moist with mone,
If I disclose the woundes the which my hart hath slaine,
He takes his Fascia off, and wipes them dry anone.
If so I walke the woodes, the woodes are his delight,
If I my selfe torment, he bathes hym in my blood:
He will my souldiour be if once I wend to fight,
If seas delight, he stears my Barke amidst the flood:
In breefe, the cruell God doth neuer from me goe,
But makes my lasting loue eternall with my woe.

Sonnet xxxvij.

These fierce incessant waues that streame along my face,
Which show the certaine proofe of my nere-ceasing pains,
Fayre Phillis are no teares that trickle from my brains:
For why such streames of ruth, within me find no place.
These floods that wet my cheeks, are gathered frō thy grace
And thy perfections, & from hundreth thousand flowers
Which from thy beauties spring: wherto I medly showers
Of Rose and Lillyes to, the collours of thy face.
My loue doth serue for fire, my hart the fornace is,
The aperries of my sighes augment the burning flame,
The Limbique is myne eye that doth distill the same:
And by how much my fire is violent and slye,
By so much doth it cause the waters mount on hie,
That showre from out mine eyes, for to asswage my misse.

Sonnet xxxviij.

VVho lyues inthrald to Cupid and his flame,
From day to day is chang'd in sundry sort:
The proofe whereof my selfe may well report,
Who oft transformd by him may teach the same.
I first was turnd into a wounded Hart,
That bare the bloodie arrow in my side:
Then to a Swanne that midst the waters glide,
With pittious voyce presagd my deadlie smart.
Eft-soones I waxt a faint and fading flower,
Then was I made a fountaine suddaine dry,
Distilling all my teares from troubled eye:
Novv am I Salamander by his power,
Liuing in flames, but hope ere long to be
A voice, to talke my Mistresse maiestie.

Sonnet xxxix.

My matchlesse Mistresse, whose delicious eyes
Haue power to perfect natures priuie wants,
Euen when the Sunne in greatest pompe did ryse,
With pretty tread, dyd presse the tender plants.
Each stalk whilst forth she stalkes, to kysse her feete
Is proud with pompe, and prodigall of sweete.

Her fingers faire in fauouring euery flower
That wooed theyr Iuory for a wished touch:
By chaunce (sweet chaunce) vpon a blessed hower,
Did pluck the flower where Loue himselfe did couch.
Where Loue did couch, by summer toyle supprest,
And sought his sleepes within so sweete a nest.

The Virgins hand that held the wanton thrall,
Imprisoned him within the Rose-ate leaues:
And twixt her teates, vvith fauour did enstall
The louely Rose, where Loue his rest receaues.
The lad that felt the soft and svveet so nye,
Drownd in delights, disdaines his liberty.

And sayd, let Venus seeke another sonne,
For heare my onely matchlesse Mother is:
From vvhose fayre orient Orbes the drinke doth ronne,
That deifies my state with greater blis:
Thys sayd, he suckt, my Mistresse blushing smyld,
Since Loue vvas both her prisoner and her child.

Sonnet xl.

Resembling none, and none so poore as I,
Poore to the vvorld, and poore in each esteeme,
Whose first borne loues, at first obscurd did die,
And bred no fame but flame of bace misdeeme.
Vnder the Ensigne of vvhose tyred pen,
Loues legions forth haue maskt, by others masked:
Thinke hovv I lyue wronged by ill tonged men,
Not Maister of my selfe, to all vvrongs tasked.
Oh thou that canst, and she that may doe all things,
Support these languishing conceits that perrish,
Looke on theyr growth: perhaps these sillie small things
May winne this worldly palme, so you doe cherrish.
Homer hath vowd, and I with him doe vowe thys,
He vvill and shall reuiue, if you alowe thys.