Chapter II: Part 2

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Those lookes, whose beames be joy, whose motion is delight,
That face whose lecture shewes what perfect Beautie is:
That presence which doth give darke hearts a living light,
That grace, which _Venus_ weepes that shee her selfe doth misse.
That hand, which without touch, holdes more than _Atlas_ might,
Those lips, which makes deathes pay a meane prise for a kisse:
That skin, whose past-praise hue scornes this poore tearme of whit,
Those words which doe sublime the quintessence of blisse.
That voice which makes the soule plant himselfe in the eares,
That conversation sweet, where such high comforts be:
As constru’d in true speech; the name of heaven it beares:
Makes me in my best thoughts and quiet judgements see,
That in no more but these I might be fully blest:
Yet ah, my maiden Muse doth blush to tell the best.

Oh how the pleasant ayres of true love bee
Inflicted by those vapours, which arise
From out that noysome gulfe: which gaping lies
Betweene the jawes of hellish Jelousey.
A Monster, others harmes, selfe misery.
Beauties plague, Vertues scurge, succour of lyes:
Who his owne joy to his owne heart applyes,
And onely cherish doth with injuries:
Who since he hath by natures speciall grace,
So pearsing pawes as spoyle when they embrace,
So nimble feete as stirre though still on thornes,
So manie eyes aye seeking their owne woe.
So ample eares, that never good newes knowe,
Is it not ill that such a divell wants hornes?

Sweete kisse, thy sweetes I faine would sweetely indite,
Which even of sweetnes, sweetest sweeter art;
Pleasing’st consort, where each sense holds a part,
With coopling Doves guides _Venus_ chariot right,
Best charge and brav’st retraite in _Cupids_ sight.
A double key which openeth to the hart,
Most ritch when most his ritches it imparte.
Nest of yong joyes, Scholemaster of delight,
Teaching the meanes at once to take and give,
The friendly fray where blowes do wound and heale,
The prettie death while each in other live,
Poore hopes first wealth a stage of promised weale.
Breakefast of love, but loe, loe where shee is
Cease we to praise, now praie wee for a kisse.

Sweet swelling lip well maiest thou swell in pride
Since best wittes thinke it witt thee to admire,
Natures praise, vertues stall, _Cupids_ colde fire,
Whence words, not words but heavenly graces slide,
The newe _Pernassus_ where the _Muses_ byde:
Sweeteness of Musicke, Wisomes beautifier,
Breather of life, and fastner of desire,
Where Beauties blush in Honors graine is dyde.
Thus much my hart compeld my mouth to say:
But now, spite of my heart my tongue will stay,
Loathing al lyes, doubting this flatterieis,
And no spurre can this restie race renewe;
Without how farre this praise is short of you,
Sweete lipp you teach my mouth with one sweete kisse.

O Kisse which doth those ruddie gemmes impart,
Or Gemmes or fruits of new found Parradise,
Breathing all blisse and sweetnes to the hart,
Teaching dumbe lips a nobler exercise.
O kisse which soules even soules together ties
By links of Love, and onely natures Art,
How faine would I paint thee to all mens eies,
Or of thy gifts at least shade out some part?
But shee forbids, with blushing words shee saies,
Shee builds her fame on higher seated praise:
But my heart burnes, I cannot silent be,
Then since deare life, you faine would have me peace.
And I (mad with delight) want wit to cease,
Stop you my mouth with still still kissing me.

Nymph of the garden where all beauties be,
Beauties which do in excellencie passe,
His who till death lockt in a watry glasse,
Or hirs whom nak’d the Trojan boy did see.
Sweete garden Nymph that keepes the Cherrie tree,
Whose fruit doth far the Hesperian tast surpasse,
Most sweete faire, most faire sweete, do not alasse
From comming neere these Cherries banish mee,
For though full of desire, emptie of wit,
Admitted late by your best graced grace,
I caught at one of them an hungry bit,
Pardon that fault, once more graunt me the place,
And so I sweare even by the same delite,
I will but kisse, I never more will bite.

Good brother _Philip_ I have forborne you long,
I was content you should in favour creepe,
While craftely you seemed your Cut to keepe,
As though that faire soft hand did you great wrong:
I beare with envy, yet I heare your song,
When in hir necke you did love ditties peepe,
Nay, (more foole I) oft suffred you to sleepe,
In lillies nest where Loves selfe lies a long,
What? doth high place ambitious thoughts augment?
Is saucines reward of curtesie?
Cannot such grace your silly selfe content,
But you must needes with those lips billing be?
And through those lips drinke Nectar from that tung,
Leave that _Syr Phipp_ lest off your necke be wrung.

High way since you my chiefe _Pernassus_ be,
And that my Muse to some eares not unmeete,
Tempers her words to trampling horses feete,
More often than to a Chamber melodie,
Now blessed you beare onwards blessed me,
To her where I my heart safeliest shall meete,
My Muse and I must you of duetie greete,
With thanks and wishes wishing thankfully;
Be you still carefull kept by publike heede,
By no encrochment wrongd, nor time forgot,
Nor blam’d for bloud, nor sham’d for sinfull deede,
And that you know I envie you no lot,
Of highest wish, I wish you so much blisse,
Hundreds of yeares you _Stellas_ feete may kisse.

I see the house my harte thy selfe containe,
Beware full Sailes drown not thy tottering Barge,
Least joy by nature apt, (spirites to enlarge)
Thee to thy wracke beyond thy limits straine,
Nor doe like Lords whose weake confused braine,
Not pointing to fit folks each undercharge,
While every office themselves will discharge,
With doing all leave nothing done but paine,
But give apt servants their due place; let eye
See beauties totall summe summ’d in their face,
Let eares heare speach which will to wonder tye,
Let breath suck up those sweetes, let armes imbrace
The Globe of weale, lipps Lov’s Indentures make.
Thou but of all the kingly tribute take.

Alas whence comes this change of lookes? If I
have chang’d desert, let mine owne conscience be
A still felt plague to selfe condemning mee:
Let woe grype on my heart, shame load mine eye:
But if all faith like spotles _Ermine_ lye
Safe in my soule (which onely doth to thee
As his sole object of felicitie
With wings of Love in aire of wonder flie.)
O case your hand, treat not so hard your slave,
In Justice, paines come not till faults do call:
Or if I needs (sweet Judge) must torments have,
Use something else to chasten mee withall,
Than those blest eyes where all my hopes do dwell,
No doome shall make ones Heaven become his Hell.

When I was forst from _Stella_ ever deare,
_Stella_, foode of my thoughts, hart of my hart:
_Stella_, whose eyes make all my temples cleare,
By Yron lawes, of duetie to depart,
Alas I found that shee with mee did smart:
I sawe that teares did in her eyes appeare:
I sawe that sighes her sweetest lips did part:
And her sad words my sadded sense did heare.
For mee, I weepe to see Pearles scattered so:
I sighd her sighes, and wailed for her woe:
Yet swamme in joy such love in her was seene.
Thus while the effect most bitter was to mee,
And nothing than that cause more sweet could be,
I had beene vext, if vext I had not beene.

Out Traytour absence dar’st thou counsell mee
From my deare Captainnesse to runne away,
Because in brave arraye here marcheth shee
That to winne mee oft showes a present paye.
Is Faith so weake, or is such force in thee?
When Sunne is hid, can Starres such beames displaie?
Cannot Heavens foode once felt keepe stomacks free
From base desire on earthly cares to praie?
Tush absence, while thy mistes eclypse that light,
My Orphan sense flyes to the inward sight:
Where memorie settes foorth the beames of Love,
That where before heart lov’d and eyes did see,
In heart my sight and Love now coupled be,
United powres make eche the stronger prove.

Now that of absence the most yrksome night,
With darkest shade doth overcome the daie:
Since _Stella’s_ eyes wont to give mee my daie,
Leaving my _Hemisphere_ leaves mee in night,
Each day seemes long, and longs for long staied night:
The night as tedious, wooes th’approch of day:
Tyr’d with the dustie toyles of busie day,
Languisht with horrors of the silent night,
Suffering the evils both of daie and night,
While no night is more darke than is my day,
Nor no day hath lesse quiet then my night:
With such bad mixture of my night and daie,
That living thus in blackest Winter night,
I feele the flames of hottest Sommers daie.

_Stella_, thinke not that I by verse seeke fame,
Who seeke, who hope, who love, who like, but thee:
Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my historie,
If thou praise not, all other praise is shame.
Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame
A nest for my yong praise in Lawrell tree,
In trueth I sweare, I wish not there should be
graved in my Epitaph a Poets name.
Nor if I would could I just title make
That anie laud thereof to me should growe
Without my Plumes from others wings I take;
For nothing from my wit or will doth flowe:
Since all my words thy beautie doth indite,
And Love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.

_Stella_, while now by honours cruell might,
I am from you (light of my light) misled,
And that faire you, my Sunne thus overspred
With absence vale I live in sorrowes night.
If this darke place yet shewe by candle light
Some Beauties peece, as amber collourd hed,
Milke hands, rose cheekes, or lips more sweet more red,
Or seeming jett black, but in blacknes bright
They please I doe confesse, they please mine eyes,
But whie? because of you they moddels be;
Moddels such be wood globes of glistering skyes.
Deare therefore be not jealous over me,
If you heare that they seeme my heart to move,
Not them, no no, but you in them I love.

Be your words made (good sir) of _Indean_ ware,
That you allowe them mee by so small rate,
Or do you cutted _Spartanes_ imitate,
Or do you meane my tender eares to spare?
That to my questions you so totall are?
When I demaund of Phœnix _Stellas_ state,
You say (forsooth) you left her well of late
O God, thinke you that satisfies my care?
I would know whether shee did sit or walke.
How cloathd: how waited on: sighd shee or smilde:
Whereof: with whome: how often did shee talke:
With what pastimes, times jorneys shee beguild?
If her lips daine to sweeten my poore name?
Saie all: and all well said: still say the same.

O Fate, ô fault, O curst child of my blisse,
What sobs can give words grace my griefe to show?
What inke is black enough to paint my woe?
Through mee, wretch mee, even _Stella_ vexed is:
Yet Trueth, if Caitives brath might call thee this,
Witnes with mee, that my fowle stumbling so,
From carelesnes did in no manner growe,
But wit confusd with too much care did misse.
And do I then my selfe this vaine scuse give:
I do sweete Love, and know this harmed thee.
The world quit mee, shall I my self forgive?
Onely with paines my paines thus eased be:
That all thy hurtes in my hearts wracke I reed
I crye thy sighs (my deare) thy teares I bleed.

Greefe find the words, for thou hast made my braine
So darke with mistie vapours which arise
From out thy heavie mould, that inbent eyes
Can scarce discerne the shape of mine owne paine:
Do thou then (for thou canst) do thou complaine
For my poore soule which now that sicknes tries,
Which even to sense, sense of it selfe denies.
Though harbengers of death lodge there his traine,
Or if the love of plaint yet mind forbeares,
As of a Caitife worthie so to dye;
Yet waye thy selfe and wayle in causefull teares:
That though in wretchednes thy life doth lie,
Yet growest more wretched than thy nature beares:
By being plast in such a wretch as I.

Yet sighes, deare sighes, in deede true friends you are,
That do not leave your least friend at the wurst:
But as you with my brest I oft have nurst:
So gratefull now you wait upon my care.
Faint coward Joy, no longer tarrie dare,
Seeing hope yeeld when this woe strake him first,
Delight exclaims he is for my fault curst,
Although my mate in Armes himselfe he sware,
Nay Sorrow comes with such mayne rage as hee,
Kills his owne children, Teares, finding that they
By Love were made apt to comfort with mee,
Onely true sighes, you do not go away:
Thank may you have for such thankfull part:
Thank worthiest yet, when you shall breake my heart.

Though with good cause thou lik’st so well the night.
Since kind or chaunce gives both one libertie,
Both sadly blacke, both blackly darkned be:
Night bard from Sunne, thou from thine own Sunnes light
Silence in both displaies his sullen might:
Slowe Heavens in both do hold the one degree,
That full of doubts, thou of perplexitie:
Thy teares expresse nights native moysture right,
In both a wofull solitarines:
In night of Spirites the gastly power sturr,
And in our sprites are Spirits gastlines:
But but (alas) nights sights the ods hath fure,
For that at length invites us to some rest,
Thou though still tyr’d, yet still dost it detest.

_Dian_ that faine would cheare her friend the Night,
Doth shewe her oft at full her fairest face,
Bringing with her those starrie Nymphs, whose chace
From heavenly standing hurts eche mortall wight.
But ah poore Night in love with _Phœbus_ light,
And endlesly dispairing of his grace,
Herselfe to shewe no other joy hath place,
Sylent and sad in moorning weeds doth dight:
Even so (alas) and Ladie _Dians_ peere,
With choise delight and rarest company,
Would faine drive clouds from out my heavie cheere:
But woe is me, though joy her selfe were shee,
Shee could not shewe my blind braine waies of joy
While I dispaire my Sunnes light to enjoy.

Ah bed the feeld where joyes peace some do see:
The feeld where al my thoughts to war be traind,
How is thy grace by my strange fortune staind?
How thy low shrowdes by my sighs stormed be?
With sweet soft shades thou oft invitest mee
To steale some rest, but wretch I am constrained.
Spurd with Loves spurr, this held and shortly rained
With Cares hard hand, to runne and tosse in thee,
While the black horrors of the silent night,
Paint Woes black face so lively in my sight,
That tedious leasure markes eache wrinckled line:
But when _Aurora_ leades out _Phœbus_ daunce
Mine eyes then only winke for spite perchaunce,
That wormes shou’d have their Sunne and I want mine.

When farre spent night perswades each mortall eie
To whome nor Art nor Nature granted light:
To lay his then marke wanting shaftes of sight;
Clos’d whith their quivers in Sleeps armorie;
With windowes ope then most my heart doth lye
Viewing the shape of darknes and delight,
And takes that sad hue, with which inward might
Of his mazde powres he keeps just harmony:
But when birds chirpe aire, and sweet aire which is
Mornes messenger with rose enameld skyes
Calls each wight to salute the heaven of blisse;
Intombd of lids then buried are mine eyes,
Forst by their Lord who is ashamd to find
Such light in sence with such a darkned mind.

Oh teares, no teares, but shoures from beauties skyes,
Making those Lilies and those Roses growe,
Which aie most faire now fairer needs must show,
While grateful pitty Beauty beautifies,
Oh minded sighs that from that brest doe rise,
Whose pants doe make unspilling Creame to flow,
Winged with woes breath so doth _Zephire_ blow
As might refresh the hel where my soule fries,
Oh plaints conserv’d in such a surgred phrase,
That eloquence envies, and yet doth prayse,
While sightd out words a perfect musicke gives
Such teares, sighs, plaints, no sorrow is, but joy:
Or if such heavenly sighs must prove annoy,
All mirth farewel, let me in sorrow live.

_Stella_ is sicke, and in that sick-bed lyes
Sweetenes, that breathes and pants as oft as shee:
And Grace sicke too, such fine conclusions tries,
That sicknes brings it selfe best grac’d to bee.
Beautie is sicke, but sicke in such faire guise,
That in that palenes Beauties white we see,
And Joy which is unsever’d from those eyes.
_Stella_ now learnes, (strange case) to weepe with me,
Love moves thy paine and like a faithful page,
As thy looks sturre, runs up and downe to make
All folkes prest at thy wil thy paine to swage,
Nature with care seeks for his darlings sake,
Knowing worlds passe, ere she enough can finde
Of such heaven stuffe to cloath so heavenly minde.

Where be those Roses, which so sweetned earst our eyes?
Where be those red cheekes, which fair increase did frame
No hight of honor in the kindly badge of shame,
Who hath the crimson weeds stoln from the morning skies?
How doth the coullor fade of those vermillion eyes,
Which Nature selfe did make and selfe engrave the same?
I would know by what right this palenes overcame
That hue, whose force my heart in so great thraldom ties?
_Gallens_ adopted sonnes, who by a beaten way
Their judgements hackney on, the fault of sicknes lay:
But feeling proofe makes me say, they mistake it sure,
It is but love that makes this paper perfect white,
To write therein more fresh the storie of _Delight_,
Whiles Beauties reddest incke _Venus_ for him doth stir.

O happie _Thames_ that didst my _Stella_ beare,
I saw thee with full many a smiling line
Upon thy cheereful face loves Livery weare:
While those faire Plannets on thy streames did shine,
The boat for joy could not to dance forbeare,
While wanton winds with beautie so divine
Ravisht, staid not, til in her golden haire
They did themselves (ô sweetest prison) twine.
But faine those friendly winds there would their stay
Have made, but forst by Nature still to flie,
First did with puffing kisse those Lockes display:
She so discovered, blusht. From window I
With sight thereof cride out; Ah faire disgrace,
Let honours selfe to thee graunt highest place.

Envious wits what hath beene mine offence,
That with such poisoned eare my wits you marke,
That to each word, nay sigh of mine you harke,
As grudging me my sorrows eloquence?
Ah, is it not enough, that I am thence:
Thence, so farre thence, that scantly anie sparke
Of comfort dare come to this dungeon darke
Where rigorous exile lockes up al my sense:
But if I by a happie window passe,
If I but Starres uppon mine Armour beare,
Sicke, thirstie, glad (though but of empty glasse)
Your morals note straight my hid meaning there,
From out my ribs a whirlewind proves that I
Doe _Stella_ love. Fooles, who doth it denie?

Unhappie sight and hath shee vanisht by,
So neere, in so good time so free a place,
Dead glasse dost thou thine object so imbrase,
As what my hart still sees thou canst not spie,
I sweare by hir Love and my lacke, that I
Was not in fault that bent my dazling race
Onely unto the heaven of _Stella’s_ face,
Counting but dust that in her way did lie:
But cease mine eyes, your teares doe witnes well,
That you guiltles therefore your necklace mist,
Curst be the Page from whome the bad torch fell,
Curst be the night which did your will resist,
Curst be the Cochman that did drive so fast,
With no lesse curse then absence makes me tast.

O absent presence _Stella_ is not here,
False flattering hope that with so faire a face,
Bare me in hand that in this Orphane place,
_Stella_ I saw, my _Stella_ should appeare,
What saist thou now, where is that dainty cleare
Thou wouldst mine eyes should helpe their famisht case:
But how art thou? now that selfe felt disgrace
Doth make me most to wish thy comfort neere,
But heere I doe shore of faire Ladies meete,
Who may with charme of conversation sweete
Make in my heavie mould new thoughts to grow:
Sure they prevaile as much with me, as he
That bad his frind but then new maimde to be
Merrie with him, and so forget his woe.

_Stella_ since thou so right a Princesse art
Of all the Powers which life bestowe on me,
That ere by them ought undertaken be,
They first resort unto that soveraigne part;
Sweete for a time give respite to my heart,
Which pants as though it still should leape to thee:
And on my thought give the Lieuetenancie
To this great cause, which needes both wit and Art,
And as a Queene who from her presence sends
Whom shee emploies, dismisse from thee my wit,
Still to have wrought that thy owne will attends,
For servants shame of Maisters blame doth fit.
O let not Fooles in me thy works approve,
And scorning say, see what it is to love.

When sorrow (using my owne Siers might)
Melts downe his lead into my boyling brest,
Through that darke Furnace of my heart opprest,
There shines a joy from thee my onely light:
But soone as thought of thee breeds my delight,
And my young soule once flutters to her nest,
Most dead dispaire my daily unbidden guest
Clips strait my wings, strait wraps me in his night,
And makes me then bow downe my head and say,
Ah what doth _Phœbus_ gold that wretch availe,
Whom Iron darts doth keepe from use of daie,
So strangely (alas) thy workes on me prevaile,
That in my woes for thee, thou art my joy;
And in my joyes for thee, my onel’ anoy.

_Other Sonnets of variable verse._

_First Sonnet._

Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,
Which now my brest surchargd with musick lendeth?
To _you_, to _you_ all song of praise is due,
Onely in _you_ my song begins and endeth.

_2_ Who hath the eyes which marrie state with pleasure,
Who keepes the key of Natures chiefest treasure:
To _you_, to _you_, all song of praise be due,
Onely for _you_ the heavens forget all measure.

_3_ Who hath the lips where wit with fairenes raigneth,
Who womenkinde at once both decks and staineth:
To _you_, to _you_ all song of praise is due,
Onely by _you_ _Cupid_ his crowne maintaineth.

_4_ Who hath the feet whose steps all sweetnes planteth,
Who els for whom Fame worthie trumpets wanteth:
To _you_, to _you_ all song of praise be due,
Onely to _you_ her scepter _Venus_ granteth.

_5_ Who hath the brest whose milk doth patience nourish,
Whose grace is such, that when it chides doth cherish:
To _you_, to _you_ all song of praise be due,
Onely through _you_ the tree of life doth floorish.

_6_ Who hath the hand which without stroke subdueth
Who long hid beautie with encrease renueth:
To _you_, to _you_ all song of praise is due,
Only at _you_ all envie hopelesse endeth.

_7_ Who hath the haire which most loose most fast tieth,
Who makes a man live then glad when he dieth:
To _you_, to _you_ all song of praise be due,
Onely of _you_ the flatterer never lieth.

_8_ Who hath the voyce which soule from senses sunders,
Whose force but yours the bolt of beautie thunders?
To _you_, to _you_ all song of praise is due,
Onely with _you_ no miracles are wonders.

_9_ Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,
Which now my breast orechargd with Musick lendeth?
To _you_, to _you_ all song of praise is due,
Onely in _you_ my song begins and endeth.

_Second Sonnet._

Have I caught my heavenly Juel
Teaching Sleepe most faire to be:
Now will I teach her, that she
When shee wakes is too too cruell.

_2_ Since sweete Sleepe her eyes hath charmed,
The two onely darts of Love:
Now will I with that Boy prove
Some play while he is disarmed.

_3_ Her tongue waking still refuseth,
Giving franklie niggard no:
Now will I attempt to knowe,
What no her tongue sleeping useth.

_4_ See the hand that waking gardeth,
Sleeping grants a free resort:
Now I will invade the fort.
Cowards Love with losse rewardeth.

_5_ But (O foole) thinke of the danger
Of her just and high disdaine.
Now will I (alas) refraine
Love feares nothing else but anger.

_6_ Yet those lippes so sweetly swelling,
Do invite a stealing kisse;
Now but venture will I this,
Who will read must first learne spelling.

_7_ Oh sweete kisse, but ah shee is waking.
Lowring beautie chastens mee.
Now will I for feare hence flee,
Foole, more Foole for no more taking.

_The third Sonnet._

If _Orpheus_ voyce had force to breathe such musicks Love
Through pores of senseles trees, as it could make them move:
If stones good measure daunst the _Thebane_ walls to builde,
To cadens of the tunes which _Amphions_ Lyre did yeeld,
More cause a like effect at least wise bringeth.
O stones, ô trees, learne hearing, _Stella_ singeth.

_2_ If Love might sweeten so a boy of Shepheards brood,
To make a Lyzard dull to taste Loves food:
If Eagle fierce could so in _Grecian_ maide delight,
As her eyes were his light, her death his endlesse night:
Earth gave that Love, heaven (I trow) Love refineth.
O Beasts, ô Birds, looke Love; for _Stella_ shineth.

_3_ The beasts, birds, stones & trees feele this, and feeling love:
And if the trees, nor stones stirre not the same to prove.
Nor beasts, nor birds doo come unto this blessed gaze:
Know that small Love is quick, and great Love doth amaze:
They are amaz’d, but you with reason armed.
O eyes, O eares of men, how are you charmed?

_The fourth Sonnet._

Onely _Joy_, now here you are,
Fit to heare and ease my care:
Let my whispering voyce obtaine
Sweete rewards for sharpest paine:
Take me to thee, and thee to mee.