Her brest that table was so richly spredd,
my thoughts the guests, which would thereon haue fedd.
SONNET. LXXVIII.
Lackyng my loue I go from place to place,
lyke a young fawne that late hath lost the hynd:
and seeke each where, where last I sawe her face,
whose ymage yet I carry fresh in mynd.
5
I seeke the fields with her late footing synd,
I seeke her bowre with her late presence deckt,
yet nor in field nor bowre I her can fynd:
yet field and bowre are full of her aspect,
But when myne eyes I thereunto direct,
10
they ydly back returne to me agayne,
and when I hope to see theyr trew obiect,
I fynd my selfe but fed with fancies vayne.
Ceasse then myne eyes, to seeke her selfe to see,
and let my thoughts behold her selfe in mee.
SONNET. LXXIX.
Men call you fayre, and you doe credit it,
For that your selfe ye dayly such doe see:
but the trew fayre, that is the gentle wit,
and vertuous mind is much more praysd of me.
5
For all the rest, how euer fayre it be,
shall turne to nought and loose that glorious hew:
but onely that is permanent and free
from frayle corruption, that doth flesh ensew.
That is true beautie: that doth argue you
10
to be diuine and borne of heauenly seed:
deriu’d from that fayre Spirit, from whom al true
and perfect beauty did at first proceed.
He onely fayre, and what he fayre hath made,
all other fayre lyke flowres vntymely fade.
SONNET. LXXX.
After so long a race as I haue run
Through Faery land, which those six books compile,
giue leaue to rest me being halfe fordonne,
and gather to my selfe new breath awhile.
5
Then as a steed refreshed after toyle,
out of my prison I will breake anew:
and stoutly will that second worke assoyle,
with strong endeuour and attention dew.
Till then giue leaue to me in pleasant mew,
10
to sport my muse and sing my loues sweet praise:
the contemplation of whose heauenly hew,
my spirit to an higher pitch will rayse.
But let her prayses yet be low and meane,
fit for the handmayd of the Faery Queene.
SONNET. LXXXI.
Fayre is my loue, when her fayre golden heares,
with the loose wynd ye wauing chance to marke:
fayre when the rose in her red cheekes appeares,
or in her eyes the fyre of loue does sparke.
5
Fayre when her brest lyke a rich laden barke,
with pretious merchandize she forth doth lay:
fayre when that cloud of pryde, which oft doth dark
her goodly light with smiles she driues away.
But fayrest she, when so she doth display
10
the gate with pearles and rubyes richly dight:
throgh which her words so wise do make their way
to beare the message of her gentle spright:
The rest be works of natures wonderment,
but this the worke of harts astonishment.
SONNET. LXXXII.
Ioy of my life, full oft for louing you
I blesse my lot, that was so lucky placed:
but then the more your owne mishap I rew,
that are so much by so meane loue embased.
5
For had the equall heuens so much you graced
in this as in the rest, ye mote inuent
som heuenly wit, whose verse could haue enchased
your glorious name in golden moniment.
But since ye deignd so goodly to relent
10
to me your thrall, in whom is little worth,
that little that I am, shall all be spent,
in setting your immortall prayses forth.
Whose lofty argument vplifting me
shall lift you vp vnto an high degree.
SONNET. LXXXIII.
My hungry eyes, through greedy couetize,
Still to behold the obiect of theyr payne:
with no contentment can themselues suffize,
but hauing pine, and hauing not complayne.
5
For lacking it, they cannot lyfe sustayne,
and seeing it, they gaze on it the more:
in theyr amazement lyke Narcissus vayne
whose eyes him staru’d: so plenty makes me pore.
Yet are myne eyes so filled with the store
10
of that fayre sight, that nothing else they brooke:
but loath the things which they did like before,
, and can no more endure on them to looke.
All this worlds glory seemeth vayne to me,
and all theyr shewes but shadowes sauing she.
SONNET. LXXXIIII.
Let not one sparke of filthy lustfull fyre
breake out, that may her sacred peace molest:
ne one light glance of sensuall desyre
Attempt to work her gentle mindes vnrest.
5
But pure affections bred in spotlesse brest,
and modest thoughts breathd from wel tempred sprites,
goe visit her in her chast bowre of rest,
accompanyde with angelick delightes.
There fill your selfe with those most ioyous sights,
10
the which my selfe could neuer yet attayne:
but speake no word to her of these sad plights,
which her too constant stiffenesse doth constrayn.
Onely behold her rare perfection,
and blesse your fortunes fayre election.
SONNET. LXXXV.
The world that cannot deeme of worthy things,
when I doe praise her, say I doe but flatter:
so does the Cuckow, when the Mauis sings,
begin his witlesse note apace to clatter.
5
But they that skill not of so heauenly matter,
all that they know not, enuy or admyre,
rather then enuy let them wonder at her,
but not to deeme of her desert aspyre.
Deepe in the closet of my parts entyre,
10
her worth is written with a golden quill:
that me with heauenly fury doth inspire,
and my glad mouth with her sweet prayses fill.
Which when as fame in her shrill trump shal thunder,
let the world chose to enuy or to wonder.
SONNET. LXXXVI.
Venemous toung tipt with vile adders sting,
Of that selfe kynd with which the Furies fell
theyr snaky heads doe combe, from which a spring
of poysoned words and spitefull speeches well;
5
Let all the plagues and horrid paines of hell,
vpon thee fall for thine accursed hyre:
that with false forged lyes, which thou didst tel,
in my true loue did stirre vp coles of yre,
The sparkes whereof let kindle thine own fyre,
10
and catching hold on thine owne wicked hed
consume thee quite, that didst with guile conspire
in my sweet peace such breaches to haue bred.
Shame be thy meed, and mischiefe thy reward,
dew to thy selfe that it for me prepard.
SONNET. LXXXVII.
Since I did leaue the presence of my loue,
Many long weary dayes I haue outworne:
and many nights, that slowly seemd to moue
> theyr sad protract from euening vntill morne.
5
For when as day the heauen doth adorne,
I wish that night the noyous day would end:
and when as night hath vs of light forlorne,
I wish that day would shortly reascend.
Thus I the time with expectation spend,
10
and faine my griefe with chaunges to beguile,
that further seemes his terme still to extend,
and maketh euery minute seeme a myle.
So sorrow still doth seeme too long to last,
but ioyous houres doo fly away too fast.
SONNET. LXXXVIII.
Since I haue lackt the comfort of that light,
The which was wont to lead my thoughts astray:
I wander as in darkenesse of the night,
affrayd of euery dangers least dismay.
5
Ne ought I see, though in the clearest day,
when others gaze vpon theyr shadowes vayne:
but th’onely image of that heauenly ray,
whereof some glance doth in mine eie remayne.
Of which beholding th’Idæa playne,
10
through contemplation of my purest part:
with light thereof I doe my selfe sustayne,
and thereon feed my loue-affamisht hart.
But with such brightnesse whylest I fill my mind,
I starue my body and mine eyes doe blynd.
SONNET. LXXXIX.
Lyke as the Culuer on the bared bough,
Sits mourning for the absence of her mate:
and in her songs sends many a wishfull vow,
for his returne that seemes to linger late;
5
So I alone now left disconsolate,
mourne to my selfe the absence of my loue:
and wandring here and there all desolate,
seek with my playnts to match that mournful doue:
Ne ioy of ought that vnder heauen doth houe,
10
can comfort me, but her owne ioyous sight:
whose sweet aspect both God and man can moue,
in her vnspotted pleasauns to delight.
Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis,
and dead my life that wants such liuely blis.
[‘Anacreontics’]
[1]
In youth before I waxed old,
The blynd boy Venus baby,
For want of cunning made me bold,
In bitter hyue to grope for honny.
5
But when he saw me stung and cry,
He tooke his wings and away did fly.
[2]
As Diane hunted on a day,
She chaunst to come where Cupid lay,
his quiuer by his head:
10
One of his shafts she stole away,
And one of hers did close conuay,
into the others stead:
With that loue wounded my loues hart,
but Diane beasts with Cupids dart.
[3]
15
I saw in secret to my Dame,
How little Cupid humbly came:
and sayd to her All hayle my mother.
But when he saw me laugh, for shame
His face with bashfull blood did flame,
20
not knowing Venus from the other.
Then neuer blush Cupid (quoth I)
for many haue err’d in this beauty.
[4]
Vpon a day as loue lay sweetly slumbring,
all in his mothers lap:
25
A gentle Bee with his loud trumpet murm’ring,
about him flew by hap.
Whereof when he was wakened with the noyse,
and saw the beast so small:
Whats this (quoth he) that giues so great a voyce,
30
that wakens men withall?
In angry wize he flyes about,
and threatens all with corage stout.
To whom his mother closely smiling sayd,
twixt earnest and twixt game:
35
See thou thy selfe likewise art lyttle made,
if thou regard the same.
And yet thou suffrest neyther gods in sky,
nor men in earth to rest:
But when thou art disposed cruelly,
40
theyr sleepe thou doost molest.
Then eyther change thy cruelty,
or giue lyke leaue vnto the fly.
Nathlesse the cruell boy not so content,
would needs the fly pursue:
45
And in his hand with heedlesse hardiment,
him caught for to subdue.
But when on it he hasty hand did lay,
the Bee him stung therefore:
Now out alasse (he cryde) and welaway,
50
I wounded am full sore:
The fly that I so much did scorne,
hath hurt me with his little home.
Vnto his mother straight he weeping came,
and of his griefe complayned:
55
Who could not chose but laugh at his fond game,
though sad to see him pained.
Think now (quod she) my sonne how great the smart
of those whom thou dost wound:
Full many thou hast pricked to the hart,
60
that pitty neuer found:
Therefore henceforth some pitty take,
when thou doest spoyle of louers make.
She tooke him streight full pitiously lamenting,
and wrapt him in her smock:
65
She wrapt him softly, all the while repenting,
that he the fly did mock.
She drest his wound and it embaulmed wel
with salue of soueraigne might:
And then she bath’d him in a dainty well,
70
the well of deare delight.
Who would not oft be stung as this,
to be so bath’d in Venus blis?
The wanton boy was shortly wel recured
of that his malady:
75
But he soone after fresh againe enured
his former cruelty.
And since that time he wounded hath my selfe
with his sharpe dart of loue:
And now forgets the cruell carelesse elfe,
80
his mothers heast to proue.
So now I languish till he please
my pining anguish to appease.
FINIS.
[1]
Ye learned sisters which haue oftentimes
Beene to me ayding, others to adorne:
Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes,
That euen the greatest did not greatly scorne
5
To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes,
But ioyed in theyr prayse;
And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne,