The Second Decade

If true love might true love's reward obtain,Dumb wonder only might speak of my joy;But too much worth hath made thee too much coy,And told me long ago I sighed in vain.Not then vain hope of undeserved gainHath made me paint in verses mine annoy,But for thy pleasure, that thou might'st enjoyThy beauty's praise, in glasses of my pain.See then, thyself, though me thou wilt not hear,By looking on my verse. For pain in verse,Love doth in pain, beauty in love appear.So if thou would'st my verses' meaning see,Expound them thus, when I my love rehearse:"None loves like he!" that is, "None fair like me!"

It may be, love my death doth not pretend,Although he shoots at me, but thinks it fitThus to bewitch thee for thy benefit,Causing thy will to my wish to condescend.For witches which some murder do intend,Do make a picture and do shoot at it;And in that part where they the picture hit,The party's self doth languish to his end.So love, too weak by force thy heart to taint,Within my heart thy heavenly shape doth paint;Suffering therein his arrows to abide,Only to th'end he might by witches' art,Within my heart pierce through thy picture's side,And through thy picture's side might wound my heart.

The sun, his journey ending in the west,Taketh his lodging up in Thetis' bed;Though from our eyes his beams be banished,Yet with his light th' antipodes be blest.Now when the sun-time brings my sun to rest,Which me too oft of rest hath hindered,And whiter skin with white sheet covered,And softer cheek doth on soft pillow rest,Then I, O sun of suns! and light of lights!Wish me with those antipodes to be,Which see and feel thy beams and heat by nights.Well, though the night both cold and darksome is,Yet half the day's delight the night grants me,I feel my sun's heat, though his light I miss.

Lady, in beauty and in favour rare,Of favour, not of due, I favour crave.Nature to thee beauty and favour gave;Fair then thou art, and favour thou may'st spare.Nor when on me bestowed your favours are,Less favour in your face you shall not have;If favour then a wounded soul may save,Of murder's guilt, dear Lady, then beware.My loss of life a million fold were lessThan the least loss should unto you befall;Yet grant this gift; which gift when I possess,Both I have life and you no loss at all.For by your favour only I do live,And favour you may well both keep and give.

My reason absent did mine eyes requireTo watch and ward and such foes to descryAs they should ne'er my heart approaching spy;But traitor eyes my heart's death did conspire,Corrupted with hope's gifts; let in desireTo burn my heart; and sought no remedy,Though store of water were in either eye,Which well employed, might well have quenched the fire.Reason returned; love and fortune madeJudges, to judge mine eyes to punishment.Fortune, sith they by sight my heart betrayedFrom wished sight, adjudged them banishment;Love, sith by fire murdered my heart was found,Adjudged them in tears for to be drowned.

Wonder it is and pity is't that sheIn whom all beauty's treasure we may find,That may unrich the body and the mind,Towards the poor should use no charity.My love has gone a begging unto thee.And if that beauty had not been more kindThat pity, long ere this he had been pined;But beauty is content his food to be.O pity have when such poor orphans beg!Love, naked boy, hath nothing on his back;And though he wanteth neither arm nor leg,Yet maimed he is sith he his sight doth lack.And yet though blind he beauty can behold,And yet though naked he feels more heat than cold.

Pity refusing my poor love to feed,A beggar starved for want of help he lies;And at your mouth, the door of beauty, cries,That thence some alms of sweet grants might proceed.But as he waiteth for some almes deed,A cherry tree before the door he spies."O dear," quoth he, "two cherries may suffice.Two only may save life in this my need."But beggars, can they nought but cherries eat?Pardon my love, he is a goddess' son,And never feedeth but on dainty meat,Else need he not to pine, as he hath done;For only the sweet fruit of this sweet treeCan give food to my love and life to me.

The fowler hides as closely as he mayThe net, where caught the silly bird should be,Lest he the threatening poison should but see,And so for fear be forced to fly away.My lady so, the while she doth assayIn curled knots fast to entangle me,Put on her veil, to th' end I should not fleeThe golden net wherein I am a prey.Alas, most sweet! what need is of a netTo catch a bird that is already ta'en?Sith with your hand alone you may it get,For it desires to fly into the same.What needs such art my thoughts then to entrap,When of themselves they fly into your lap?

Sweet hand, the sweet but cruel bow thou art,From whence at me five ivory arrows fly;So with five wounds at once I wounded lie,Bearing my breast the print of every dart.Saint Francis had the like, yet felt no smart,Where I in living torments never die.His wounds were in his hands and feet; where IAll these five helpless wounds feel in my heart.Now, as Saint Francis, if a saint am I,The bow that shot these shafts a relic is;I mean the hand, which is the reason whySo many for devotion thee would kiss:And some thy glove kiss as a thing divine,This arrows' quiver, and this relic's shrine.

Fair sun, if you would have me praise your light,When night approacheth wherefore do you fly?Time is so short, beauties so many be,As I have need to see them day and night,That by continual view my verses mightTell all the beams of your divinity;Which praise to you and joy should be to me,You living by my verse, I by your sight;I by your sight, and not you by my verse,Need mortal skill immortal praise rehearse?No, no, though eyes were blind, and verse were dumb,Your beauty should be seen and your fame known;For by the wind which from my sighs do come,Your praises round about the world are blown.