The Works of Edmund Spenser

Great shame it is to leave, like one afrayd,
So fayre a peece, for one repulse so light.
Caynst such strong castles needeth greater
might

Yet many wondrous things there are beside: The sweet eye-glaunces, that like arrowes glide; [hart; [belay: The charming smiles, that rob sence from the Then those small forts which ye were wont The lovely pleasance; and the lofty pride;

Such haughty mynds, enur'd to hardy fight,
Disdayne to yield unto the first assay.
Bring therefore all the forces that ye may,
And lay incessant battery to her heart;
Playnts, prayers, vowes, ruth, sorrow, and
dismay;

Those engins can the proudest love convert:
And, if those fayle, fall downe and dy before
her;

So dying live, and living do adore her.

Ye tradefull Merchants, that, with weary toyle,

Cannot expressed be by any art. [neede,
A greater craftesmans hand thereto doth
That can expresse the life of things indeed.

XVIII

The rolling wheele that runneth often round,
The hardest steele, in tract of time doth teare:
And drizling drops, that often doe redound,
The firmest flint doth in continuance weare:
Yet cannot I, with many a dropping teare
And long intreaty, soften her hard hart;
That she will once vouchsafe my plaint to
heare,

[gain; Or looke with pitty on my payneful smart ;
But, when I pleade, she bids me play my part;
And, when I weep, she sayes, Teares are but

Do seeke most pretious things to make your
And both the Indias of their treasure spoile;
What needeth you to seeke so farre in vaine?
For loe, my love doth in her selfe containe
All this worlds riches that may farre be found:
If Saphyres, loe, her eies be Saphyres plaine;
If Rubies, loe, hir lips be Rubies sound;
If Pearles, hir teeth be Pearles, both pure and
If Yvorie, her forehead Yvory weene; [round;|
If Gold, her locks are finest Gold on ground;
If Silver, her faire hands are Silver sheene:

But that which fairest is, but few behold,
Her mind adornd with vertues manifold.

XVI

water,

And, when I sigh, she sayes, I know the art;
And, when I waile, she turnes hir selfe to
laughter.
[vaine,

So do I weepe, and wayle, and pleade in
Whiles she as steele and flint doth still re-

mayne.

XIX

The merry Cuckow, messenger of Spring,
His trompet shrill hath thrise already sounded,
That warnes al lovers wayt upon their king,
Who now is comming forth with girland
crouned.

[light; With noyse whereof the quyre of Byrds re-
sounded,

One day as I unwarily did gaze
On those fayre eyes, my loves immortall
The whiles my stonisht hart stood in amaze,
Through sweet illusion of her lookes delight;
I mote perceive how, in her glauncing sight,
Legions of loves with little wings did fly;
Darting their deadly arrowes, fyry bright,
At every rash beholder passing by.
One of those archers closely I did spy,
Ayming his arrow at my very hart:
When suddenly, with twincle of her eye,
The Damzell broke his misintended dart.
Had she not so doon, sure I had bene slayne;
Yet as it was, I hardly scap't with paine.

XVII

The glorious pourtraict of that Angels face,
Made to amaze weake mens confused skil,
And this worlds worthlesse glory to embase,
What pen, what pencill, can expresse her till?
For though he colours could devize at will,
And eke his learned hand at pleasure guide,
Least, trembling, it his workmanship should
spill;

Their anthemes sweet, devized of loves prayse,
That all the woods theyr ecchoes back re-
bounded,

As if they knew the meaning of their layes.
But mongst them all, which did Loves honor

This holy season, fit to fast and pray,
Men to devotion ought to be inclynd:
Therefore, I lykewise, on so holy day,
For my sweet Saynt some service fit will find.
Her temple fayre is built within my mind,
In which her glorious ymage placed is;
On which my thoughts doo day and night
attend,

Lyke sacred priests that never thinke amisse!
There I to her, as th' author of my blisse,
Will builde an altar to appease her vre;
And on the same my hart will sacrifise,
Burning in flames of pure and chast desyre:
The which vouchsafe, O goddesse, to accept,
Amongst thy deerest relicks to be kept.

XXIII

Penelope, for her Ulisses sake,
Deviz'd a Web her wooers to deceave;
In which the worke that she all day did make,
The same at night she did againe unreave:
Such subtile craft my Damzell doth conceave,
Th' importune suit of my desire to shonne:
For all that I in many dayes doo weave,
In one short houre I find by her undonne.
So, when I thinke to end that I begonne,
I must begin and never bring to end:
For with one looke she spils that long I sponne;
And with one word my whole years work
doth rend.

How long shall this lyke dying lyfe endure,
And know no end of her owne mysery.
But wast and weare away in termes unsure,
Twixt feare and hope depending doubtfully!
Yet better were attonce to let me die,
And shew the last ensample of your pride;
Then to torment me thus with cruelty,
To prove your powre, which I too well have
tride.

But yet if in your hardned brest ye hide
A close intent at last to shew me grace;
Then all the woes and wrecks which I abide,
As meanes of blisse I gladly wil embrace;

And wish that more and greater they might be,

That greater meede at last may turne to mee.

XXVII

Faire Proud! now tell me, why should faire

be proud,

Sith all worlds glorie is but drosse uncleane,
And in the shade of death it selfe shall shroud,
However now thereof ye little weene!
That goodly Idoll, now so gay beseene,
Shall doffe her fleshes borrowd fayre attyre,
And be forgot as it had never beene;
That many now much worship and admire!
Ne any then shall after it inquire,
Ne any mention shall thereof remaine,
But what this verse, that never shall expyre,
Shall to your purchas with her thankles paine!
Faire! be no lenger proud of that shall perish;
But that, which shall you make immortall,

cherish.

Proud Daphne, scorning Phoebus lovely fyre,

On the Thessalian shore from him did flie:
For which the gods, in theyr revengefull yre,
Did her transforme into a laurell-tree.

Then fly no more, fayre Love, from l'hebus
chace,

But in your brest his leafe and love embrace.

XXIX

The paynefull smith, with force of fervent
heat,

The hardest yron soone doth mollify;
That with his heavy sledge he can it beat,

See! how the stubborne damzell doth de- And fashion to what he it list apply.

prave

My simple meaning with disdaynfull scorne;
And by the bay, which I unto her gave,
Accoumpts my self her captive quite forlorne.
The bay (quoth she) is of the victours borne,
Yielded them by the vanquisht as theyr meeds,
And they therewith doe Poetes heads adorne,
To sing the glory of their famous deedes.
But sith she will the conquest challeng needs,
Let her accept me as her faithfull thrall;
That her great triumph, which my skill ex-|
ceeds,

I may in trump of fame blaze over-all.
Then would I decke her head with glorious
bayes,
[prayse.
And fill the world with her victorious

Yet cannot all these flames, in which I fry,
Ne all the playnts and prayers, with which I
Her hart more harde then yron soft a whit;
Doe beat on th' and vile of her stubberne wit
But still, the more she fervent sees my fit,
The more she frieseth in her wilfull pryde;
And harder growes, the harder she is smit
With all the playnts which to her be applyde.

What then remaines but I to ashes burne,
And she to stones at length all frosen turne!

XXXIII

Great wrong I doe, I can it not deny, To that most sacred Empresse, my dear dred, Not finishing her Queene of Faëry, That mote enlarge her living prayses, dead, But Lodwick, this of grace to me aread; Do ye not thinck th' accomplishment of it Sufficient worke for one mans simple head, How comes it then that this her cold so great All were it, as the rest, but rudely writ?

XXX

My love is lyke to yse, and I to fyre;

Tell me, when shall these wearie woes have end,

Or shall their ruthlesse torment never cease;
But al my dayes in pining langour spend,
Without hope of aswagement or release?
Is there no meanes for me to purchace peace,
Or make agreement with her thrilling eyes;
But that their cruelty doth still increace,
And dayly more augment my miseryes?
But, when ye have shewd all extremityes,
Then thinke how litle glory ye have gayned
By slaying him, whose life, though ye despyse,
Mote have your life in honour long maintayned.

Arion, when, through tempests cruel wracke,
He forth was thrown into the greedy seas;
Through the sweet musick, which his harp
did make,

Allur'd a Dolphin him from death to ease.
But my rude musick, which was wont to please
Some dainty eares, cannot, with any skill,
The dreadfull tempest of her wrath appease,
Nor move the Dolphin from her stubborn will,
But in her pride she dooth persever still.
All carelesse how my life for her decayes:
Yet with one word she can it save or spill.
To spill were pitty, but to save were prayse!
Chose rather to be praysd for dooing good,
Then to be blam'd for spilling guiltlesse
blood.

XXXIX

Sweet Smile! the daughter of the Queene of Love,

Expressing all thy mothers powrefull art.
With which she wants to temper angry Jove,
When all the gods he threats with thundring
dart:

Sweet is thy vertue, as thy selfe sweet art.
For, when on me thou shinedst late in sadnesse,
A melting pleasance ran through every part,
And me revived with hart-robbing gladnesse.
Whylest rapt with joy resembling heavenly
madnes,

My soule was ravisht quite as in a traunce; And feeling thence, no more her sorowes sadnesse,

Fed on the fulnesse of that chearefull glaunce, More sweet than Nectar, or Ambrosiall meat, Seemd every bit which thenceforth I did eat.

Mark when she smiles with amiable cheare,
And tell me whereto can ye lyken it;
When on each eyelid sweetly doe appeare
An hundred Graces as in shade to sit.
Lykest it seemeth, in my simple wit,
Unto the fayre sunshine in somers day;
That, when a dreadfull storme away is flit,
Thrugh the broad world doth spred his goodly

ray;

At sight whereof, each bird that sits on spray, And every beast that to his den was fled, Comes forth afresh out of their late dismay, And to the light lift up theyr drouping hed. So my storme-beaten hart likewise is cheared With that sunshine, when cloudy looks are cleared.

XLI

[most,

Is it her nature, or is it her will,
To be so cruell to an humbled foe
If nature; then she may it mend with skill:
If will; then she at will may will forgoe.
But if her nature and her wil be so,
That she will plague the man that loves her
And take delight t' encrease a wretches woe;
Then all her natures goodly guifts are lost:
And that same glorious beauties ydle boast
Is but a bayt such wretches to beguile,
As, being long in her loves tempest tost,
She meanes at last to make her pitious spoyle.
O fayrest fayre! let never it be named,
That so fayre beauty was so fowly shamed.

XLII

The love which me so cruelly tormenteth,
So pleasing is in my extreamest paine,
That, all the more my sorrow it augmenteth,
The more I love and doe embrace my bane.
Ne doe I wish (for wishing were but vaine)
To be acquit fro my continual smart;
But joy, her thrall for ever to remayne,
And yield for pledge my poore captyvëd hart;
The which, that it from her may never start,
Let her, yf please her, bynd with adamant
chayne:
[vart
And from all wandring loves, which mote per-
His safe assurance, strongly it restrayne.
Onely let her abstaine from cruelty.
And doe me not before my time to dy.

XLIII

Shall I then silent be, or shall I speake?
And, if I speake, her wrath renew I shall;
And, if I silent be, my hart will breake,
Or choked be with overflowing gall.
What tyranny is this, both my hart to thrall,
And eke my toung with proud restraint to tie;
That nether I may speake nor thinke at all,
But like a stupid stock in silence die!

When those renoumed noble Peres of Greece,
Thrugh stubborn pride, amongst themselves did
Forgetfull of the famous golden fleece; [jar,
Then Orpheus with his harp theyr strife did bar.
But this continuall, cruell, civill warre,
The which my selfe against my selfe doe make;
Whilest my weak powres of passions warreid
No skill can stint, nor reason can aslake. [arre;
But, when in hand my tunelesse harp I take,
Then doe I more augment my foes despight;
And griefe renew, and passions doe awake
To battaile, fresh against my selfe to fight.
Mongst whome the more I seeke to settle

peace,

The more I find their malice to increase.

XLV

Leave, lady! in your glasse of cristall clene,
Your goodly selfe for evermore to vew:
And in my selfe, my inward selfe, I meane,
Within my hart, though hardly it can shew
Most lively lyke behold your semblant trew.
Thing so divine to vew of earthly eye,
The fayre Idea of your celestiall hew
And every part remaines immortally:
And were it not that, through your cruelty,
With sorrow dimmed and deform'd it were,
The goodly ymage of your visnomy,
Clearer then cristall, would therein appere.
But, if your selfe in me ye playne will see,
Remove the cause by which your fayre
beames darkned be.

XLVI

When my abodes prefixed time is spent,
My cruell fayre streight bids me wend my way:
But then from heaven most hideous stormes
are sent,

As willing me against her will to stay.
Whom then shall I, or heaven or her, obay ?
The heavens know best what is the best for me:
But as she will, whose will my life doth sway,
My lower heaven, so it perforce must bee.
But ye high hevens, that all this sorowe see,
Sith all your tempests cannot hold me backe,
Aswage your storms; or else both you, and she,
Will both together me too sorely wracke.
Enough it is for one man to sustaine

The stormes, which she alone on me doth raine.

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