Sonnets

To the deere Chyld of the Muses, andhis euer kind Mecænas, Ma. AnthonyCooke, Esquire

Vovchsafe to grace these rude vnpolish'd rymes,Which long (dear friend) haue slept in sable night,And, come abroad now in these glorious tymes,Can hardly brook the purenes of the light.But still you see their desteny is such,That in the world theyr fortune they must try,Perhaps they better shall abide the tuch,Wearing your name, theyr gracious liuery.Yet these mine owne: I wrong not other men,Nor trafique further then thys happy Clyme,Nor filch from Portes, nor from Petrarchs pen,A fault too common in this latter time.Diuine Syr Phillip, I auouch thy writ,I am no Pickpurse of anothers wit.Yours deuoted,

Reade heere (sweet Mayd) the story of my wo,The drery abstracts of my endles cares,With my liues sorow enterlyned so;Smok'd with my sighes, and blotted with my teares:The sad memorials of my miseries,Pend in the griefe of myne afflicted ghost;My liues complaint in doleful Elegies,With so pure loue as tyme could neuer boast.Receaue the incense which I offer heere,By my strong fayth ascending to thy fame,My zeale, my hope, my vowes, my praise, my prayer,My soules oblation to thy sacred name:Which name my Muse to highest heauen shal raiseBy chast desire, true loue, and vertues praise.

My fayre, if thou wilt register my loue,More then worlds volumes shall thereof arise;Preserue my teares, and thou thy selfe shall proueA second flood downe rayning from mine eyes.Note but my sighes, and thine eyes shal beholdThe Sun-beames smothered with immortall smoke;And if by thee, my prayers may be enrold,They heauen and earth to pitty shall prouoke.Looke thou into my breast, and thou shall seeChaste holy vowes for my soules sacrifice:That soule (sweet Maide) which so hath honoured thee,Erecting Trophies to thy sacred eyes;Those eyes to my heart shining euer bright,When darknes hath obscur'd each other light.

My thoughts bred vp with Eagle-birds of loue,And, for their vertues I desiered to know,Vpon the nest I set them forth, to proueIf they were of the Eagles kinde or no:But they no sooner saw my Sunne appeare,But on her rayes with gazing eyes they stood;Which proou'd my birds delighted in the ayre,And that they came of this rare kinglie brood.But now their plumes, full sumd with sweet desire,To shew their kinde began to clime the skies:Doe what I could my Eaglets would aspire,Straight mounting vp to thy celestiall eyes.And thus (my faire) my thoughts away be flowne,And from my breast into thine eyes be gone.

My faire, had I not erst adorned my LuteWith those sweet strings stolne from thy golden hayre,Vnto the world had all my ioyes been mute,Nor had I learn'd to descant on my faire.Had not mine eye seene thy Celestiall eye,Nor my hart knowne the power of thy name,My soule had ne'er felt thy Diuinitie,Nor my Muse been the trumpet of thy fame.But thy diuine perfections, by their skill,This miracle on my poore Muse haue tried,And, by inspiring, glorifide my quill,And in my verse thy selfe art deified:Thus from thy selfe the cause is thus deriued,That by thy fame all fame shall be suruiued.

Since holy Vestall lawes haue been neglected,The Gods pure fire hath been extinguisht quite;No Virgin once attending on that light,Nor yet those heauenly secrets once respected;Till thou alone, to pay the heauens their dutieWithin the Temple of thy sacred name,With thine eyes kindling that Celestiall flame,By those reflecting Sun-beames of thy beautie.Here Chastity that Vestall most diuine,Attends that Lampe with eye which neuer sleepeth;The volumes of Religions lawes shee keepeth,Making thy breast that sacred reliques shryne,Where blessed Angels, singing day and night,Praise him which made that fire, which lends that light.

In one whole world is but one Phoenix found,A Phoenix thou, this Phoenix then alone:By thy rare plume thy kind is easly knowne,With heauenly colours dide, with natures wonder cround.Heape thine own vertues, seasoned by their sunne,On heauenly top of thy diuine desire;Then with thy beautie set the same on fire,So by thy death thy life shall be begunne.Thy selfe, thus burned in this sacred flame,With thine owne sweetnes al the heauens perfuming,And stil increasing as thou art consuming,Shalt spring againe from th' ashes of thy fame;And mounting vp shall to the heauens ascend:So maist thou liue, past world, past fame, past end.

Stay, stay, sweet Time; behold, or ere thou passeFrom world to world, thou long hast sought to see,That wonder now wherein all wonders be,Where heauen beholds her in a mortall glasse.Nay, looke thee, Time, in this Celesteall glasse,And thy youth past in this faire mirror see:Behold worlds Beautie in her infancie,What shee was then, and thou, or ere shee was.Now passe on, Time: to after-worlds tell this,Tell truelie, Time, what in thy time hath beene,That they may tel more worlds what Time hath seene,And heauen may ioy to think on past worlds blisse.Heere make a Period, Time, and saie for mee,She was the like that neuer was, nor neuer more shalbe.

Vnto the World, to Learning, and to Heauen,Three nines there are, to euerie one a nine;One number of the earth, the other both diuine,One wonder woman now makes three od numbers euen.Nine orders, first, of Angels be in heauen;Nine Muses doe with learning still frequent:These with the Gods are euer resident.Nine worthy men vnto the world were giuen.My Worthie one to these nine Worthies addeth,And my faire Muse one Muse vnto the nine;And my good Angell, in my soule diuine,With one more order these nine orders gladdeth.My Muse, my Worthy, and my Angell, then,Makes euery one of these three nines a ten.

Beauty sometime, in all her glory crowned,Passing by that cleere fountain of thine eye,Her sun-shine face there chaunsing to espy,Forgot herselfe, and thought she had been drowned.And thus, whilst Beautie on her beauty gazed,Who then, yet liuing, deemd she had been dying,And yet in death some hope of life espying,At her owne rare perfections so amazed;Twixt ioy and griefe, yet with a smyling frowning,The glorious sun-beames of her eyes bright shining,And shee, in her owne destiny diuining,Threw in herselfe, to saue herselfe by drowning;The Well of Nectar, pau'd with pearle and gold,Where shee remaines for all eyes to behold.

Oft taking pen in hand, with words to cast my woes,Beginning to account the sum of all my cares,I well perceiue my griefe innumerable growes,And still in reckonings rise more millions of dispayres.And thus, deuiding of my fatall howres,The payments of my loue I read, and reading crosse,And in substracting set my sweets vnto my sowres;Th' average of my ioyes directs me to my losse.And thus mine eyes, a debtor to thine eye,Who by extortion gaineth all theyr lookes,My hart hath payd such grieuous vsury,That all her wealth lyes in thy Beauties bookes;And all is thine which hath been due to mee,And I a Banckrupt, quite vndone by thee.

Thine eyes taught mee the Alphabet of loue,To con my Cros-rowe ere I learn'd to spell;For I was apt, a scholler like to proue,Gaue mee sweet lookes when as I learned well.Vowes were my vowels, when I then begunAt my first Lesson in thy sacred name:My consonants the next when I had done,Words consonant, and sounding to thy fame.My liquids then were liquid christall teares,My cares my mutes, so mute to craue reliefe;My dolefull Dypthongs were my liues dispaires,Redoubling sighes the accents of my griefe:My loues Schoole-mistris now hath taught me so,That I can read a story of my woe.

Some Atheist or vile Infidell in loue,When I doe speake of thy diuinitie,May blaspheme thus, and say I flatter thee,And onely write my skill in verse to proue.See myracles, ye vnbeleeuing! seeA dumbe-born Muse made to expresse the mind,A cripple hand to write, yet lame by kind,One by thy name, the other touching thee.Blind were mine eyes, till they were seene of thine,And mine eares deafe by thy fame healed be;My vices cur'd by vertues sprung from thee,My hopes reuiu'd, which long in graue had lyne:All vncleane thoughts, foule spirits, cast out in meeBy thy great power, and by strong fayth in thee.

Cleere Ankor, on whose siluer-sanded shoreMy soule-shrinde Saint, my faire Idea, lyes;O blessed Brooke! whose milk-white Swans adoreThe christall streame refined by her eyes:Where sweet Myrh-breathing Zephyre in the springGently distils his Nectar-dropping showers;Where Nightingales in Arden sit and singAmongst those dainty dew-empearled flowers.Say thus, fayre Brooke, when thou shall see thy Queene:Loe! heere thy Shepheard spent his wandring yeeres,And in these shades (deer Nimphe) he oft hath been,And heere to thee he sacrifiz'd his teares.Fayre Arden, thou my Tempe art alone,And thou, sweet Ankor, art my Helicon.

Looking into the glasse of my youths miseries,I see the ugly face of my deformed cares,With withered browes, all wrinckled with dispaires,That for my mis-spent youth the tears fel from my eyes.Then, in these teares, the mirror of these eyes,Thy fayrest youth and Beautie doe I seeImprinted in my teares by looking still on thee:Thus midst a thousand woes ten thousand joyes arise.Yet in those joyes, the shadowes of my good,In this fayre limned ground as white as snow,Paynted the blackest Image of my woe,With murthering hands imbru'd in mine own blood:And in this Image his darke clowdy eyes,My life, my youth, my loue, I heere Anotamize.

Subdue thys Tyrant euer martyring mee;And but appoint me for her Tormentor,Then for a Monarch will I honour thee.My hart shall be the prison for my fayre;Ile fetter her in chaines of purest loue,My sighs shall stop the passage of the ayre:This punishment the pittilesse may moue.With teares out of the Channels of mine eyesShe'st quench her thirst as duly as they fall:Kinde words vnkindest meate I can deuise,My sweet, my faire, my good, my best of all.Ile binde her then with my torne-tressed haire,And racke her with a thousand holy wishes;Then, on a place prepared for her there,Ile execute her with a thousand kisses.Thus will I crucifie, my cruell shee;Thus Ile plague her which hath so plagued mee.

Vertues Idea in virginitie,By inspiration, came conceau'd with thought:The time is come deliuered she must be,Where first my loue into the world was brought.Vnhappy borne, of all vnhappy day!So luckles was my Babes nativity,Saturne chiefe Lord of the Ascendant lay,The wandring Moone in earths triplicitie.Now, or by chaunce or heauens hie prouidence,His Mother died, and by her Legacie(Fearing the stars presaging influence)Bequeath'd his wardship to my soueraignes eye;Where hunger-staruen, wanting lookes to liue,Still empty gorg'd, with cares consumption pynde,Salt luke-warm teares shee for his drink did giue,And euer-more with sighes he supt and dynde:And thus (poore Orphan) lying in distresseCryes in his pangs, God helpe the motherlesse.

If euer wonder could report a wonder,Or tongue of wonder worth could tell a wonder thought,Or euer ioy expresse what perfect ioy hath taught,Then wonder, tongue, then ioy, might wel report a wonder.Could all conceite conclude, which past conceit admireth,Or could mine eye but ayme her obiects past perfection,My words might imitate my deerest thoughts direction,And my soule then obtaine which so my soule desireth.Were not Inuention stauld, treading Inuentions maze,Or my swift-winged Muse tyred by too hie flying;Did not perfection still on her perfection gaze,Whilst Loue (my Phoenix bird) in her owne flame is dying,Inuention and my Muse, perfection and her loue,Should teach the world to know the wonder that I proue.

Some, when in ryme they of their Loues doe tell,With flames and lightning their exordiums paynt:Some inuocate the Gods, some spirits of Hell,And heauen, and earth doe with their woes acquaint.Elizia is too hie a seate for mee:I wyll not come in Stixe or Phlegiton;The Muses nice, the Furies cruell be,I lyke not Limbo, nor blacke Acheron,Spightful Erinnis frights mee with her lookes,My manhood dares not with foule Ate mell:I quake to looke on Hecats charming bookes,I styll feare bugbeares in Apollos cell.I passe not for Minerua nor Astræa.But euer call vpon diuine Idea.

If those ten Regions, registred by Fame,By theyr ten Sibils haue the world controld,Who prophecied of Christ or ere he came,And of his blessed birth before fore-told;That man-god now, of whom they did diuine,This earth of those sweet Prophets hath bereft,And since the world to iudgement doth declyne,Instead of ten, one Sibil to vs left.Thys pure Idea, vertues right Idea,Shee of whom Merlin long tyme did fore-tell,Excelling her of Delphos or Cumæa,Whose lyfe doth saue a thousand soules from hell:That life (I meane) which doth Religion teach,And by example true repentance preach.

Reading sometyme, my sorrowes to beguile,I find old Poets hylls and floods admire:One, he doth wonder monster-breeding Nyle,Another meruailes Sulphure Aetnas fire.Now broad-brymd Indus, then of Pindus height,Pelion and Ossa, frosty Caucase old,The Delian Cynthus, then Olympus weight,Slow Arrer, franticke Gallus, Cydnus cold.Some Ganges, Ister, and of Tagus tell,Some whir-poole Po, and slyding Hypasis;Some old Pernassus where the Muses dwell,Some Helycon, and some faire Simois:A, fooles! thinke I, had you Idea seene,Poore Brookes and Banks had no such wonders beene.

Letters and lynes, we see, are soone defaced,Mettles doe waste and fret with cankers rust;The Diamond shall once consume to dust,And freshest colours with foule staines disgraced.Paper and yncke can paynt but naked words,To write with blood of force offends the sight,And if with teares, I find them all too light;And sighes and signes a silly hope affoords.O, sweetest shadow! how thou seru'st my turne,Which still shalt be as long as there is Sunne,Nor whilst the world is neuer shall be done,Whilst Moone shall shyne by night, or any fire shall burne:That euery thing whence shadow doth proceede,May in his shadow my Loues story reade.

My hart, imprisoned in a hopeless Ile,Peopled with Armies of pale iealous eyes,The shores beset with thousand secret spyes,Must passe by ayre, or else dye in exile.He framd him wings with feathers of his thought,Which by theyr nature learn'd to mount the skye;And with the same he practised to flye,Till he himself thys Eagles art had taught.Thus soring still, not looking once below,So neere thyne eyes celesteall sunne aspyred,That with the rayes his wafting pyneons fired:Thus was the wanton cause of his owne woe.Downe fell he, in thy Beauties Ocean drenched,Yet there he burnes in fire thats neuer quenched.

Wonder of Heauen, glasse of diuinitie,Rare beautie, Natures joy, perfections Mother,The worke of that vnited Trinitie,Wherein each fayrest part excelleth other!Loues Mithridate, the purest of perfection,Celestiall Image, Load-stone of desire,The soules delight, the sences true direction,Sunne of the world, thou hart reuyuing fire!Why should'st thou place thy Trophies in those eyes,Which scorne the honor that is done to thee,Or make my pen her name immortalize,Who in her pride sdaynes once to look on me?It is thy heauen within her face to dwell,And in thy heauen, there onely, is my hell.

Our floods-Queene, Thames, for shyps and Swans is crowned,And stately Seuerne for her shores is praised,The christall Trent for Foords and fishe renowned,And Auons fame to Albyons Cliues is raysed.Carlegion Chester vaunts her holy Dee,Yorke many wonders of her Ouse can tell,The Peake her Doue, whose bancks so fertill bee,And Kent will say her Medway doth excell.Cotswoold commends her Isis and her Tame,Our Northern borders boast of Tweeds faire flood;Our Westerne parts extoll theyr Wilys fame,And old Legea brags of Danish blood:Ardens sweet Ankor, let thy glory beThat fayre Idea shee doth liue by thee.

The glorious sunne went blushing to his bed,When my soules sunne, from her fayre Cabynet,Her golden beames had now discouered,Lightning the world, eclipsed by his set.Some muz'd to see the earth enuy the ayre,Which from her lyps exhald refined sweet,A world to see, yet how he ioyd to heareThe dainty grasse make musicke with her feete.But my most meruaile was when from the skyes,So Comet-like, each starre aduanc'd her lyght,As though the heauen had now awak'd her eyes,And summond Angels to this blessed sight.No clowde was seene, but christalline the ayre,Laughing for ioy upon my louely fayre.

Cupid, dumbe-Idoll, peeuish Saint of loue,No more shalt thou nor Saint nor Idoll be;No God art thou, a Goddesse shee doth proue,Of all thine honour shee hath robbed thee.Thy Bowe, halfe broke, is peec'd with old desire;Her Bowe is beauty with ten thousand stringsOf purest gold, tempred with vertues fire,The least able to kyll an hoste of Kings.Thy shafts be spent, and shee (to warre appointed)Hydes in those christall quiuers of her eyesMore Arrowes, with hart-piercing mettel poynted,Then there be starres at midnight in the skyes.With these she steales mens harts for her reliefe,Yet happy he thats robd of such a thiefe!

My Loue makes hote the fire whose heat is spent,The water moisture from my teares deriueth,And my strong sighes the ayres weake force reuiueth:Thus loue, tears, sighes, maintaine each one his element.The fire, vnto my loue, compare a painted fire,The water, to my teares as drops to Oceans be,The ayre, vnto my sighes as Eagle to the flie,The passions of dispaire but ioyes to my desire.Onely my loue is in the fire ingraued,Onely my teares by Oceans may be gessed,Onely my sighes are by the ayre expressed;Yet fire, water, ayre, of nature not depriued.Whilst fire, water, ayre, twixt heauen and earth shal be,My loue, my teares, my sighes, extinguisht cannot be.

Some wits there be which lyke my method well,And say my verse runnes in a lofty vayne;Some say, I haue a passing pleasing straine,Some say that in my humour I excell.Some who reach not the height of my conceite,They say, (as Poets doe) I vse to fayne,And in bare words paynt out my passions payne:Thus sundry men their sundry minds repeate.I passe not I how men affected be,Nor who commend, or discommend my verse;It pleaseth me if I my plaints rehearse,And in my lynes if shee my loue may see.I proue my verse autentique still in thys,Who writes my Mistres praise can neuer write amisse.

O eyes! behold your happy Hesperus,That luckie Load-starre of eternall light,Left as that sunne alone to comfort vs,When our worlds sunne is vanisht out of sight.O starre of starres! fayre Planet mildly moouing,O Lampe of vertue! sun-bright, euer shyning,O mine eyes Comet! so admyr'd by louing,O cleerest day-starre! neuer more declyning.O our worlds wonder! crowne of heauen aboue,Thrice happy be those eyes which may behold thee!Lou'd more then life, yet onely art his loueWhose glorious hand immortal hath enrold thee!O blessed fayre! now vaile those heauenly eyes,That I may blesse mee at thy sweet arise.

Three sorts of serpents doe resemble thee;That daungerous eye-killing Cockatrice,Th' inchaunting Syren, which doth so entice,The weeping Crocodile; these vile pernicious three.The Basiliske his nature takes from thee,Who for my life in secret wait do'st lye,And to my heart send'st poyson from thine eye:Thus do I feele the paine, the cause yet cannot see.Faire-mayd no more, but Mayr-maid be thy name,Who with thy sweet aluring harmonyHast playd the thiefe, and stolne my hart from me,And, like a Tyrant, mak'st my griefe thy game.The Crocodile, who, when thou hast me slaine,Lament'st my death with teares of thy disdaine.

Sitting alone, loue bids me goe and write;Reason plucks backe, commaunding me to stay,Boasting that shee doth still direct the way,Els senceles loue could neuer once indite.Loue, growing angry, vexed at the spleene,And scorning Reasons maymed Argument,Straight taxeth Reason, wanting to inventWhere shee with Loue conuersing hath not beene.Reason, reproched with this coy disdaine,Dispighteth Loue, and laugheth at her folly,And Loue, contemning Reasons reason wholy,Thought her in weight too light by many a graine.Reason, put back, doth out of sight remoue,And Loue alone finds reason in my loue.

Those teares, which quench my hope, still kindle my desire,Those sighes, which coole my hart, are coles vnto my loue,Disdayne, Ice to my life, is to my soule a fire:With teares, sighes, and disdaine, this contrary I proue.Quenchles desire makes hope burne, dryes my teares,Loue heats my hart, my hart-heat my sighes warmeth;With my soules fire my life disdaine out-weares,Desire, my loue, my soule, my hope, hart, and life charmeth.My hope becomes a friend to my desire,My hart imbraceth Loue, Loue doth imbrace my hart;My life a Phoenix is in my soules fire,From thence (they vow) they neuer will depart.Desire, my loue, my soule, my hope, my hart, my life,With teares, sighes, and disdaine, shall haue immortal strife.

Whilst thus mine eyes doe surfet with delight,My wofull hart, imprisond in my breast,Wishing to be trans-formd into my sight,To looke on her by whom mine eyes are blest;But whilst mine eyes thus greedily doe gaze,Behold! their obiects ouer-soone depart,And treading in this neuer-ending maze,Wish now to be trans-formd into my hart:My hart, surcharg'd with thoughts, sighes in abundance raise,My eyes, made dim with lookes, poure down a flood of tears;And whilst my hart and eye enuy each others praise,My dying lookes and thoughts are peiz'd in equall feares:And thus, whilst sighes and teares together doe contende,Each one of these doth ayde vnto the other lende.

My fayre, looke from those turrets of thine eyes,Into the Ocean of a troubled minde,Where my poor soule, the Barke of sorrow, lyes,Left to the mercy of the waues and winde.See where she flotes, laden with purest loue,Which those fayre Ilands of thy lookes affoord,Desiring yet a thousand deaths to proue,Then so to cast her Ballase ouerboard.See how her sayles be rent, her tacklings worne,Her Cable broke, her surest Anchor lost:Her Marryners doe leaue her all forlorne,Yet how shee bends towards that blessed Coast!Loe! where she drownes in stormes of thy displeasure,Whose worthy prize should haue enricht thy treasure.

See, chaste Diana, where my harmles hart,Rouz'd from my breast, his sure and safest layre,Nor chaste by hound, nor forc'd by Hunters arte,Yet see how right he comes vnto my fayre.See how my Deere comes to thy Beauties stand,And there stands gazing on those darting eyes,Whilst from theyr rayes, by Cupids skilfull hand,Into his hart the piercing Arrow flyes.See how he lookes vpon his bleeding wound,Whilst thus he panteth for his latest breath,And, looking on thee, falls vpon the ground,Smyling, as though he gloried in his death.And wallowing in his blood, some lyfe yet laft;His stone-cold lips doth kisse the blessed shaft.

Sweete, sleepe so arm'd with Beauties arrowes darting,Sleepe in thy Beauty, Beauty in sleepe appeareth;Sleepe lightning Beauty, Beauty sleepes, darknes cleereth,Sleepes wonder Beauty, wonders to worlds imparting.Sleep watching Beauty, Beauty waking, sleepe guardingBeauty in sleepe, sleepe in Beauty charmed,Sleepes aged coldnes with Beauties fire warmed,Sleepe with delight, Beauty with loue rewarding.Sleepe and Beauty, with equall forces stryuing,Beauty her strength vnto sleepes weaknes lending,Sleepe with Beauty, Beauty with sleepe contending,Yet others force the others force reuiuing,And others foe the others foe imbrace.Myne eyes beheld thys conflict in thy face.

I euer loue where neuer hope appeares,Yet hope drawes on my neuer-hoping care,And my liues hope would die but for dyspaire;My neuer certaine ioy breeds euer-certaine feares.Vncertaine dread gyues wings vnto my hope,Yet my hopes wings are loden so with feare,As they cannot ascend to my hopes spheare,Yet feare gyues them more then a heauenly scope.Yet this large roome is bounded with dyspaire,So my loue is still fettered with vaine hope,And lyberty depriues him of hys scope,And thus am I imprisond in the ayre:Then, sweet Dispaire, awhile hold vp thy head,Or all my hope for sorrow will be dead.

If chaste and pure deuotion of my youth,Or glorie of my Aprill-springing yeeres,Vnfained loue in naked simple truth,A thousand vowes, a thousand sighes and teares;Or if a world of faithful seruice done,Words, thoughts, and deeds deuoted to her honor,Or eyes that haue beheld her as theyr sunne,With admiration euer looking on her:A lyfe that neuer ioyd but in her loue,A soule that euer hath ador'd her name,A fayth that time nor fortune could not moue,A Muse that vnto heauen hath raised her fame.Though these, nor these deserue to be imbraced,Yet, faire vnkinde, too good to be disgraced.

Die, die, my soule, and neuer taste of ioy,If sighes, nor teares, nor vowes, nor prayers can moue;If fayth and zeale be but esteemd a toy,And kindnes be vnkindnes in my loue.Then, with vnkindnes, Loue, reuenge thy wrong:O sweet'st reuenge that ere the heauens gaue!And with the swan record thy dying song,And praise her still to thy vntimely graue.So in loues death shall loues perfection proueThat loue diuine which I haue borne to you,By doome concealed to the heauens aboue,That yet the world vnworthy neuer knew;Whose pure Idea neuer tongue exprest:I feele, you know, the heauens can tell the rest.

O thou vnkindest fayre! most fayrest shee,In thine eyes tryumph murthering my poore hart,Now doe I sweare by heauens, before we part,My halfe-slaine hart shall take reuenge on thee.Thy mother dyd her lyfe to death resigne,And thou an Angell art, and from aboue;Thy father was a man, that will I proue,Yet thou a Goddesse art, and so diuine.And thus, if thou be not of humaine kinde,A Bastard on both sides needes must thou be;Our Lawes allow no land to basterdy:By natures Lawes we thee a bastard finde.Then hence to heauen, vnkind, for thy childs part:Goe bastard goe, for sure of thence thou art.

Rare of-spring of my thoughts, my dearest Loue,Begot by fancy on sweet hope exhortiue,In whom all purenes with perfection stroue,Hurt in the Embryon makes my ioyes abhortiue.And you, my sighes, Symtomas of my woe,The dolefull Anthems of my endelesse care,Lyke idle Ecchoes euer answering; so,The mournfull accents of my loues dispayre.And thou, Conceite, the shadow of my blisse,Declyning with the setting of my sunne,Springing with that, and fading straight with this,Now hast thou end, and now thou wast begun:Now was thy pryme, and loe! is now thy waine;Now wast thou borne, now in thy cradle slayne.

Plac'd in the forlorne hope of all dispayreAgainst the Forte where Beauties Army lies,Assayld with death, yet armed with gastly feare,Loe! thus my loue, my lyfe, my fortune tryes.Wounded with Arrowes from thy lightning eyes,My tongue in payne my harts counsels bewraying,My rebell thought for me in Ambushe lyes,To my lyues foe her Chieftaine still betraying.Record my loue in Ocean waues (vnkind)Cast my desarts into the open ayre,Commit my words vnto the fleeting wind,Cancell my name, and blot it with dispayre;So shall I bee as I had neuer beene,Nor my disgraces to the world be seene.

Why doe I speake of ioy, or write of loue,When my hart is the very Den of horror,And in my soule the paynes of hell I proue,With all his torments and infernall terror?Myne eyes want teares thus to bewayle my woe,My brayne is dry with weeping all too long;My sighes be spent with griefe and sighing so,And I want words for to expresse my wrong.But still, distracted in loues lunacy,And Bedlam like thus rauing in my griefe,Now rayle vpon her hayre, now on her eye,Now call her Goddesse, then I call her thiefe;Now I deny her, then I doe confesse her,Now I doe curse her, then againe I blesse her.

My hart the Anuile where my thoughts doe beate,My words the hammers fashioning my desire,My breast the forge, including all the heate,Loue is the fuell which maintaines the fire:My sighes the bellowes which the flame increaseth,Filling mine eares with noise and nightly groning,Toyling with paine my labour neuer ceaseth,In greeuous passions my woes styll bemoning.Myne eyes with teares against the fire stryuing,With scorching gleed my hart to cynders turneth;But with those drops the coles againe reuyuing,Still more and more vnto my torment burneth.With Sisiphus thus doe I role the stone,And turne the wheele with damned Ixion.

Blacke pytchy Night, companyon of my woe,The Inne of care, the Nurse of drery sorrow,Why lengthnest thou thy darkest howres so,Still to prolong my long tyme lookt-for morrow?Thou Sable shadow, Image of dispayre,Portraite of hell, the ayres black mourning weed,Recorder of reuenge, remembrancer of care,The shadow and the vaile of euery sinfull deed.Death like to thee, so lyue thou still in death,The graue of ioy, prison of dayes delight.Let heauens withdraw their sweet Ambrozian breath,Nor Moone nor stars lend thee their shining light;For thou alone renew'st that olde desire,Which still torments me in dayes burning fire.

Sweete secrecie, what tongue can tell thy worth?What mortall pen sufficiently can prayse thee?What curious Pensill serues to lim thee forth?What Muse hath power aboue thy height to raise thee?Strong locke of kindnesse, Closet of loues store,Harts Methridate, the soules preseruatiue;O vertue! which all vertues doe adore,Cheefe good, from whom all good things wee deriue.O rare effect! true bond of friendships measure,Conceite of Angels, which all wisdom teachest;O, richest Casket of all heauenly treasure,In secret silence which such wonders preachest.O purest mirror! wherein men may seeThe liuely Image of Diuinitie.

The golden Sunne vpon his fiery wheelesThe horned Ram doth in his course awake,And of iust length our night and day doth make,Flinging the Fishes backward with his heeles:Then to the Tropicke takes his full Careere,Trotting his sun-steeds till the Palfrays sweat,Bayting the Lyon in his furious heat,Till Virgins smyles doe sound his sweet reteere.But my faire Planet, who directs me still,Vnkindly such distemperature doth bring,Makes Summer Winter, Autumne in the Spring,Crossing sweet nature by vnruly will.Such is the sunne who guides my youthfull season,Whose thwarting course depriues the world of reason.

Who list to praise the dayes delicious lyght,Let him compare it to her heauenly eye,The sun-beames to the lustre of her sight;So may the learned like the similie.The mornings Crimson to her lyps alike,The sweet of Eden to her breathes perfume,The fayre Elizia to her fayrer cheeke,Vnto her veynes the onely Phoenix plume.The Angels tresses to her tressed hayre,The Galixia to her more then white.Praysing the fayrest, compare it to my faire,Still naming her in naming all delight.So may he grace all these in her alone,Superlatiue in all comparison.

Define my loue, and tell the ioyes of heauen,Expresse my woes, and shew the paynes of hell;Declare what fate vnlucky starres haue giuen,And aske a world vpon my life to dwell.Make knowne that fayth vnkindnes could not moue;Compare my worth with others base desert:Let vertue be the tuch-stone of my loue,So may the heauens reade wonders in my hart.Behold the Clowdes which haue eclips'd my sunne,And view the crosses which my course doth let;Tell mee, if euer since the world begunne,So faire a Morning had so foule a set?And, by all meanes, let black vnkindnes proueThe patience of so rare, diuine a loue.

When I first ended, then I first began;The more I trauell, further from my rest;Where most I lost, there most of all I wan;Pyned with hunger, rysing from a feast.Mee thinks I flee, yet want I legs to goe,Wise in conceite, in acte a very sot;Rauisht with ioy amidst a hell of woe,What most I seeme, that surest I am not.I build my hopes a world aboue the skye,Yet with a Mole I creepe into the earth:In plenty am I staru'd with penury,And yet I serfet in the greatest dearth.I haue, I want, dispayre, and yet desire,Burn'd in a Sea of Ice, and drown'd amidst a fire.

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.