xii.
Galateas Sonnets.
[A.]
Joas in vaine thou brings thy rimes and songs
Of th' old Thebaine deck't with the withered flowres;
In vaine thou tells the faire Europas wrongs,
And Hers whom Joue deceau'd with golden showres.
I thinke not loue ore thee his wings hath spred,
Or if that passion hath thy soule opprest,
Its onlie for some Grecian Mistresse dead,
Of such old sighs thou doth discharge thy brest.
How can true loue with fables hold a place?
Thou who thy loue with fables hath enamll'd,
Thy loues a fable and thy part dissembled,
Thou doth but court my grace more to disgrace:
I can not thinke thou art tane with my lookes;
Thou did but learne thy loue in louers books.
[B.]
No more with sugred speach infect my eares,
Tell me no more how that yee pine in Anguish,
And when yee sleepe no more saye that yee languish,
And in delight no more tell yee spend teares.
Haue I such owlie eies that they not see
How such are made braine-sicke be Appollo,
Who foolish boaste the Muses doe them follow?
Though in loues lyuery yet no louers be.
If wee poore soules a fauor but them show,
That straight with wondring pens abroad is blazed,
They raise their Name our fame to ouerthrow,
Our vice is noted whilst their wits are praised:
In silent thoughts who can not secrets couer,
He may well saye, but not well be a louer.
[C.]
Yee who with curious words and Dedals art,
Frame laberinthes our Beautie to surprise,
Telling strange cassills forged in the skies,
And tails of Cupids bow, and Cupids dart;
Well, how so ere yee acte your faigned smart,
Molesting quiet eares with tragicke cries,
When yee accuse our chastities best part,
Called Crueltie, yee seeme not halfe too wise.
Euen yee your selues estime it worthie praise,
Beauties best guard, that Dragon which doth keepe
Th' Hesperian fruit, and which in you doth raise
That Delian wit which other wayes should sleepe:
To cruell Nymphes your lines doe fame afford,
Of many pitifull scarce halfe a word.
[D.]
If it be loue to wish that all the Night
Wee spend in sad regreats with waking eies,
And when the sunne enpurples all the skies
To liue in languish, spoiled of all delight?
If it be loue to wish that Reasons light
In our wake Minds by passion darkened be,
Till Heauen and Earth do scorne our miserie,
Whilst blindfold led wee nere doe ought aright?
If it be loue to wish our chastetie
May subiect be vnto a basse desire,
And that our harts heale a more cruell fire
Then that Athenian in his Bull did frie?
Then sure yee loue; but causers of such woes
No louers be to loue, but hatefull foes.
[E.]
And would yee then shake off loues golden chaine,
With which yee saye 'tis freedome to be bound,
And cruell heale of loue the noble wound,
That yee so soone Hopes blysse seeke to obtaine?
All things beneath pale Cynthias changing Round
Ore which our Grande dame Nature here doth raigne,
What they desire, when they in end haue found,
Into decadence fall and slacke remaine:
The herbes behold which in the meades doe grow,
Till to hight they come but then decaye,
The ocean waues tumultuoslie which flow
Till they embrace the banks, then rune awaye:
So is't with loue: that thou may loue me still,
O no! thinke not, I'll yeld vnto thy will.
