Amour 51

Goe you, my lynes, Embassadours of loue,With my harts tribute to her conquering eyes,From whence, if you one tear of pitty moueFor all my woes, that onely shall suffise.When you Minerua in the sunne behold,At her perfections stand you then and gaze,Where in the compasse of a Marygold,Meridianis sits within a maze.And let Inuention of her beauty vauntWhen Dorus sings his sweet Pamelas loue,And tell the Gods, Mars is predominant,Seated with Sol, and weares Mineruas gloue:And tell the world, that in the world there isA heauen on earth, on earth no heauen but this.

The worlds faire Rose, and Henries frosty fire,Iohns tyrannie; and chast Matilda's wrong,Th'inraged Queene, and furious Mortimer,The scourge of Fraunce, and his chast loue I song;Deposed Richard, Isabell exil'd,The gallant Tudor, and fayre Katherine,Duke Humfrey, and old Cobhams haplesse child,Couragious Pole, and that braue spiritfull Queene;Edward, and that delicious London Dame,Brandon, and that rich dowager of Fraunce,Surrey, with his fayre paragon of fame,Dudleys mishap, and vertuous Grays mischance;Their seuerall loues since I before haue showne,Now giue me leaue at last to sing mine owne.

Into these loues who but for passion lookes,At this first sight, here let him lay them by,And seeke elsewhere in turning other bookes,Which better may his labour satisfie.No far-fetch'd sigh shall euer wound my brest,Loue from mine eye, a teare shall neuer wring,Nor in ah-mees my whyning Sonets drest,(A Libertine) fantasticklie I sing;My verse is the true image of my mind,Euer in motion, still desiring change,To choyce of all varietie inclin'd,And in all humors sportiuely I range;My actiue Muse is of the worlds right straine,That cannot long one fashion entertaine.

Many there be excelling in this kind,Whose well trick'd rimes with all inuention swell,Let each commend as best shall like his minde,Some Sidney, Constable, some Daniell.That thus theyr names familiarly I sing,Let none think them disparaged to be,Poore men with reuerence may speake of a King,And so may these be spoken of by mee;My wanton verse nere keepes one certaine stay,But now, at hand; then, seekes inuention far,And with each little motion runnes astray,Wilde, madding, iocond, and irreguler;Like me that lust, my honest merry rimes,Nor care for Criticke, nor regard the times.

My hart was slaine, and none but you and I,Who should I thinke the murder should commit?Since but your selfe, there was no creature byBut onely I, guiltlesse of murth'ring it.It slew it selfe; the verdict on the viewDoe quit the dead and me not accessarie;Well, well, I feare it will be prou'd by you,The euidence so great a proofe doth carry.But O, see, see, we need enquire no further,Vpon your lips the scarlet drops are found,And in your eye, the boy that did the murther,Your cheekes yet pale since first they gaue the wound.By this, I see, how euer things be past,Yet heauen will still haue murther out at last.

Nothing but no and I, and I and no,How falls it out so strangely you reply?I tell yee (Faire) Ile not be aunswered so,With this affirming no, denying I,I say I loue, you slightly aunswer I?I say you loue, you pule me out a no;I say I die, you eccho me with I,Saue me I cry, you sigh me out a no:Must woe and I, haue naught but no and I?No, I am I, If I no more can haue,Aunswer no more, with silence make reply,And let me take my selfe what I doe craue;Let no and I, with I and you be so,Then aunswer no, and I, and I, and no.

Loue once would daunce within my Mistres eye,And wanting musique fitting for the place,Swore that I should the Instrument supply,And sodainly presents me with her face:Straightwayes my pulse playes liuely in my vaines,My panting breath doth keepe a meaner time,My quau'ring artiers be the Tenours Straynes,My trembling sinewes serue the Counterchime,My hollow sighs the deepest base doe beare,True diapazon in distincted sound:My panting hart the treble makes the ayre,And descants finely on the musiques ground;Thus like a Lute or Violl did I lye,Whilst the proud slaue daunc'd galliards in her eye.

Loue in an humor played the prodigall,And bids my sences to a solemne feast,Yet more to grace the company withall,Inuites my heart to be the chiefest guest;No other drinke would serue this gluttons turne,But precious teares distilling from mine eyne,Which with my sighs this Epicure doth burne,Quaffing carouses in this costly wine,Where, in his cups or'come with foule excesse,Begins to play a swaggering Ruffins part,And at the banquet, in his drunkennes,Slew my deare friend, his kind and truest hart;A gentle warning, friends, thus may you seeWhat 'tis to keepe a drunkard company.