Complete works (1925-27) :: :: University of Virginia Library

When I behold the summer's glory paint
The winter-wrinkled cheek of earth with pride,
And overcome with sweet the bitter taint
That angry seasons laid by spring's fair side:
And all the sullen-working clouds supprest
That sat upon the green head of the year,
The tender May with humorous flaws opprest
Lift up again her sweet enamour'd cheer;
Their sight would pour a balm about my pain,
And hush the cry that rends my parted soul,
But that in all things fair I see too plain
Some lurking treason doth bewitch the whole,
And thought doth tell me that thy absence takes
The golden gloss from all the Summer wakes.

II

[Deep passions rock my weariness asleep]

Deep passions rock my weariness asleep,
Forgetting that my rest doth rest with thee:
And from the abysm of old delirious deep
The hideous face of grief glares out on me:
And I am wearier of my false rest
Than of true labour working all my life:
But wouldst thou lend the harbourage of thy breast
To my woe-wearied thought, this sleepy strife
Should have a waking and a fineless end;
For thine it is love, to dispose of me;
Show thou to me true traitor or false friend,
I can but put the show of praise on thee;
I can but swear thy seeming sanctity,
Thy feigning truth, pure love thy cruelty.

III

[How canst thou tax my faith of windy change]

How canst thou tax my faith of windy change,
Whose heart is knitted to thy tyrant breast?
Thou in whose broad unmeasur'd scope of range
The thought is lost that reckons its unrest!
O false and fair, dishonour'd in thy pride,
What glory is it that will crown thee now?
Speake of a trustless hope, a fancy wide
And wandering as the air, whose noble brow
Is written on and markt with lines of shame,
Is it not thine? And when the saddest tune
Doth soothe the winds with music, and her flame
Pales in the wan cheeke of the weary man,
And night's weake fires are quencht, who then but I
Can plaine of truth, when by thy sin I die?

IV

[To you, false witnesses of time beguil'd]

To you, false witnesses of time beguil'd
And periur'd brokers of my follies past,
When expectation's discontented child,
Despair, did mocke the carefull season's wast,
I do bequeath this last and perfect truth;
Your wandering lines are forged and lying tales;
Her whom ye prais'd for love and glorious youth,
To mocke with idle flattery naught avails;
She is not fair nor true nor lov'd nor worth
The emptie cost of this expended wrath;
A falser never rob'd the dullard earth
In glory, nor did light her darkling path;
Nor fair nor true nor lov'd nor clear ye prove her,
And I believe your warrant; but I love her.

V

[I love thee; though my verse revolt and swear]

I love thee; though my verse revolt and swear
Thou art not worthy, I must love thee still;
Some cruell planet full of wrath and feare
Lowr'd on my birth, grim herald to this ill;
I hate thy falsehood that is part of thee,
I love the beauty that doth overpaint it;
I love the brightness there, and will not see
For its rich sweetness what a curse doth taint it.
Yet shall thy name live ripen'd in my song,
And when thy limbs are dust, thy fault forgotten,
My constant faith shall pale thee from the throng,
Thy praise shall bloom, when envy's blame is rotten
The one shall live in glory, and to thee
Lend of its praise; the other die with me.

VI

[O thou, fair honour of all gentle vowes]

O thou, fair honour of all gentle vowes,
Dear queen to whom all love brings sacrifice,
Why dost thou cloude the glory of those eies,
And furrow the clear ivory of thy brows?
Dost thou not see, or art thou slow to feel,
How much more worthy is a perfect name
Than beauty touch'd with show of cankering shame?
How Time's unmerciful hand doth gently steal
The glory of thy memories away,
Leaving thy deeds bare to the naked day?
Ere it be late, let thy true beautie veil
The borrow'd falsehood of those envious tongues;
Ere thy rich eie be dim, thy full cheeke pale,
Redeem thy beauty from enduring wrongs.

VII

[Ah, wherefore does my pity counsel thee]

Ah, wherefore does my pity counsel thee,
But to approve her blindness? Dost not shame,
O false and beautiful, to build thy fame
Upon the ruines of dead misery?
Thy sin hath slain my soul; yet not alone
Its rank transgression in so base a choice
As bares thy honour to the public voice
Doth wound me, as that thy fault is mine own.
Was there no way to kill thy lover's soul,
Than dainty poison hidden in a kiss?
Thou didst with honey touch the murderous bowl,
To speed me hence in a false slaughterous bliss.
Was there no way, O flatterer, to destroy,
But by the new-strewn flower of seeming joy?