In Honour of Love

Love, that long since hast to thy mighty powrePerforce subdude my poor captived hart,And raging now therein with restlesse stowre,Doest tyrannize in everie weaker part,Faine would I seeke to ease my bitter smartBy any service I might do to thee,Or ought that else might to thee pleasing bee.

And now t’asswage the force of this new flame,And make thee more propitious in my need,I meane to sing the praises of thy name,And thy victorious conquests to areed,By which thou madest many harts to bleedOf mighty victors, with wide wounds embrewed,And by thy cruell darts to thee subdewed.

Onely I fear my wits, enfeebled lateThrough the sharp sorrowes which thou hast me bred,Should faint, and words should faile me to relateThe wondrous triumphs of thy great god-hed:But, if thou wouldst vouchsafe to overspredMe with the shadow of thy gentle wing,I should enabled be thy actes to sing.

Come, then, O come, thou mightie God of Love!Out of thy silver bowres and secret blisse,Where thou dost sit in Venus lap above,Bathing thy wings in her ambrosial kisse,That sweeter farre than any nectar is,Come softly, and my feeble breast inspireWith gentle furie, kindled of thy fire.

And ye, sweet Muses! which have often provedThe piercing points of his avengefull darts,And ye, fair Nimphs! which oftentimes have lovedThe cruel worker of your kindly smarts,Prepare yourselves, and open wide your hartsFor to receive the triumph of your glorie,That made you merie oft when ye were sorrie.

And ye, faire blossoms of youths wanton breed!Which in the conquests of your beautie bost,Wherewith your lovers feeble eyes you feed,But sterve their harts, that needeth nourture most,Prepare your selves to march amongst his host,And all the way this sacred hymne do sing,Made in the honor of your soveraigne king.

Great God of Might, that reignest in the mynd,And all the bodie to thy hest doest frame,Victor of gods, subduer of mankynd,That doest the lions and fell tigers tame,Making their cruell rage thy scornfull game,And in their roring taking great delight,Who can expresse the glorie of thy might?

Or who alive can perfectly declareThe wondrous cradle of thine infancie,When thy great mother Venus first thee bare,Begot of Plenty and of Penurie,Though elder then thine own nativitie,And yet a chyld, renewing still thy yeares,And yet the eldest of the heavenly peares?

For ere this worlds still moving mightie masseOut of great Chaos ugly prison crept,In which his goodly face long hidden wasFrom heavens view, and in deep darknesse kept,Love, that had now long time securely sleptIn Venus lap, unarmed then and naked,Gan reare his head, by Clotho being waked:

And taking to him wings of his own heat,Kindled at first from heavens life-giving fyre,He gan to move out of his idle seat;Weakly at first, but after with desyreLifted aloft, he gan to mount up hyre,And, like fresh eagle, made his hardy flightThro all that great wide wast, yet wanting light.

Yet wanting light to guide his wandring way,His own faire mother, for all creatures sake,Did lend him light from her owne goodly ray;Then through the world his way he gan to take,The world, that was not till he did it make,Whose sundrie parts he from themselves did sever.The which before had lyen confused ever.

The earth, the ayre, the water, and the fyre,Then gan to raunge themselves in huge array,And with contráry forces to conspyreEach against other by all meanes they may,Threatning their owne confusion and decay:Ayre hated earth, and water hated fyre,Till Love relented their rebellious yre.

He then them tooke, and, tempering goodly wellTheir contrary dislikes with loved meanes,Did place them all in order, and compellTo keepe themselves within their sundrie raines,Together linkt with adamantine chaines;Yet so as that in every living wightThey mix themselves, and shew their kindly might.

So ever since they firmely have remained,And duly well observed his beheast;Through which now all these things that are containedWithin this goodly cope, both most and least,Their being have, and daily are increastThrough secret sparks of his infused fyre,Which in the barraine cold he doth inspyre.

Thereby they all do live, and moved areTo multiply the likenesse of their kynd,Whilest they seeke onely, without further care,To quench the flame which they in burning fynd;But man, that breathes a more immortall mynd,Not for lusts sake, but for eternitie,Seekes to enlarge his lasting progenie.

For having yet in his deducted sprightSome sparks remaining of that heavenly fyre,He is enlumind with that goodly light,Unto like goodly semblant to aspyre;Therefore in choice of love he doth desyreThat seemes on earth most heavenly to embrace,That same is Beautie, borne of heavenly race.

For sure, of all that in this mortall frameContained is, nought more divine doth seeme,Or that resembleth more th’immortall flameOf heavenly light, than Beauties glorious beam.What wonder then, if with such rage extremeFrail men, whose eyes seek heavenly things to see,At sight thereof so much enravisht bee?

Which well perceiving, that imperious boyDoth therewith tip his sharp empoisned darts,Which glancing thro the eyes with countenance coyRest not till they have pierst the trembling harts,And kindled flame in all their inner parts,Which suckes the blood, and drinketh up the lyfe,Of carefull wretches with consuming griefe.

Thenceforth they playne, and make full piteous moneUnto the author of their balefull bane:The daies they waste, the nights they grieve and grone,Their lives they loath, and heavens light disdaine;No light but that whose lampe doth yet remaineFresh burning in the image of their eye,They deigne to see, and seeing it still dye.

The whylst thou, tyrant Love, doest laugh and scorneAt their complaints, making their paine thy play;Whylest they lye languishing like thrals forlorne,The whyles thou doest triumph in their decay;And otherwhyles, their dying to delay,Thou doest emmarble the proud hart of herWhose love before their life they doe prefer.

So hast thou often done (ay me the more!)To me thy vassall, whose yet bleeding hartWith thousand wounds thou mangled hast so sore,That whole remaines scarse any little part;Yet to augment the anguish of my smart,Thou hast enfrosen her disdainefull brest,That no one drop of pitie there doth rest.

Why then do I this honor unto thee,Thus to ennoble thy victorious name,Sith thou doest shew no favour unto mee,Ne once move ruth in that rebellious dame,

Somewhat to slacke the rigour of my flame?Certes small glory doest thou winne hereby,To let her live thus free, and me to dy.

But if thou be indeede, as men thee call,The worlds great parent, the most kind preserverOf living wights, the soveraine lord of all,How falles it then that with thy furious fervourThou doest afflict as well the not-deserver,As him that doeth thy lovely heasts despize,And on thy subiects most doth tyrannize?

Yet herein eke thy glory seemeth more,By so hard handling those which best thee serve,That, ere thou doest them unto grace restore,Thou mayest well trie if they will ever swerve,And mayest them make it better to deserve,And, having got it, may it more esteeme;For things hard gotten men more dearely deeme.

So hard those heavenly beauties be enfyred,As things divine least passions doe impresse;The more of stedfast mynds to be admyred,The more they stayed be on stedfastnesse;But baseborne minds such lamps regard the lesse,Which at first blowing take not hastie fyre;Such fancies feele no love, but loose desyre.

For Love is lord of truth and loialtie,Lifting himself out of the lowly dustOn golden plumes up to the purest skie,Above the reach of loathly sinfull lust,Whose base affect, through cowardly distrustOf his weake wings, dare not to heaven fly,But like a moldwarpe** in the earth doth ly.

His dunghill thoughts, which do themselves enureTo dirtie drosse, no higher dare aspyre;Ne can his feeble earthly eyes endureThe flaming light of that celestiall fyreWhich kindleth love in generous desyre,And makes him mount above the native mightOf heavie earth, up to the heavens hight.

Such is the powre of that sweet passion,That it all sordid basenesse doth expell,And the refyned mynd doth newly fashionUnto a fairer forme, which now doth dwellIn his high thought, that would it selfe excell;Which he beholding still with constant sight,Admires the mirrour of so heavenly light.

Whose image printing in his deepest wit,He thereon feeds his hungrie fantasy,Still full, yet never satisfyde with it;Like Tantale, that in store doth sterved ly,So doth he pine in most satiety;For nought may quench his infinite desyre,Once kindled through that first conceived fyre.

Thereon his mynd affixed wholly is,Ne thinks on ought but how it to attaine;His care, his ioy, his hope, is all on this,That seemes in it all blisses to containe,In sight whereof all other blisse seemes vaine:Thrice happie man, might he the same possesse,He faines himselfe, and doth his fortune blesse.

And though he do not win his wish to end,Yet thus farre happie he himselfe doth weene,That heavens such happie grace did to him lendAs thing on earth so heavenly to have seene,His harts enshrined saint, his heavens queene,Fairer then fairest in his fayning eye,Whose sole aspect he counts felicitye.

Then forth he casts in his unquiet thought,What he may do her favour to obtaine;What brave exploit, what perill hardly wrought,What puissant conquest, what adventurous paine,May please her best, and grace unto him gaine;He dreads no danger, nor misfortune feares,His faith, his fortune, in his breast he beares.

Thou art his god, thou art his mightie guyde,Thou, being blind, letst him not see his feares,But carriest him to that which he had eyde,Through seas, through flames, through thousand swords and speares;Ne ought so strong that may his force withstand,With which thou armest his resistlesse hand.

Witnesse Leander in the Euxine waves,And stout Aeneas in the Troiane fyre,Achilles preassing through the Phrygian glaives,And Orpheus, daring to provoke the yreOf damned fiends, to get his love retyre;For both through heaven and hell thou makest way,To win them worship which to thee obay.

And if by all these perils and these paynesHe may but purchase lyking in her eye,What heavens of ioy then to himselfe he faynes!Eftsoones he wypes quite out of memoryWhatever ill before he did aby:Had it beene death, yet would he die againe,To live thus happie as her grace to gaine.

Yet when he hath found favour to his will,He nathëmore can so contented rest,But forceth further on, and striveth stillT’approch more neare, till in her inmost brestHe may embosomd bee and loved best;And yet not best, but to be lov’d alone;For love cannot endure a paragone.

The fear whereof, O how doth it tormentHis troubled mynd with more then hellish paine!And to his fayning fansie representSights never seene, and thousand shadowes vaine,To breake his sleepe and waste his ydle braine:Thou that hast never lov’d canst not beleeveLeast part of th’evils which poore lovers greeve.

The gnawing envie, the hart-fretting feare,The vaine surmizes, the distrustfull showes,The false reports that flying tales doe beare,The doubts, the daungers, the delayes, the woes,The fayned friends, the unassured foes,With thousands more then any tongue can tell,Doe make a lovers life a wretches hell.

Yet is there one more cursed then they all,That cancker-worme, that monster, Gelosie,Which eates the heart and feedes upon the gall,Turning all Loves delight to miserie,Through feare of losing his felicitie.Ah, gods! that ever ye that monster placedIn gentle Love, that all his ioyes defaced!

By these, O Love! thou doest thy entrance makeUnto thy heaven, and doest the more endeereThy pleasures unto those which them partake,As after stormes, when clouds begin to cleare,The sunne more bright and glorious doth appeare;So thou thy folke, through paines of Purgatorie,Dost beare unto thy blisse, and heavens glorie.

There thou them placest in a paradizeOf all delight and ioyous happy rest,Where they doe feede on nectar heavenly-wize,With Hercules and Hebe, and the restOf Venus dearlings, through her bountie blest;And lie like gods in yvory beds arayd,With rose and lillies over them displayd.

There with thy daughter Pleasure they doe playTheir hurtlesse sports, without rebuke or blame,And in her snowy bosome boldly layTheir quiet heads, devoyd of guilty shame,After full ioyance of their gentle game;Then her they crowne their goddesse and their queene,And decke with floures thy altars well beseene.

Ay me! deare Lord, that ever I might hope,For all the paines and woes that I endure,To come at length unto the wished scopeOf my desire, or might myselfe assureThat happie port for ever to recure*!Then would I thinke these paines no paines at all,And all my woes to be but penance small.

Then would I sing of thine immortal praiseAn heavenly hymne such as the angels sing,And thy triumphant name then would I raiseBove all the gods, thee only honoring;My guide, my god, my victor, and my king:Till then, drad Lord! vouchsafe to take of meThis simple song, thus fram’d in praise of thee.