Their looser lookes that stir up lustes impure: With such strange termes her eyes she doth inure,
That, with one looke, she doth my life dismay;
And with another doth it streight recure:
Her smile me drawes; her frowne me drives
[lookes:
Thus doth she traine and teach me with her
Such art of eyes I never read in bookes!
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 yre;
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.
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.
Such labour like the Spyders web I fynd, Whose fruitlesse worke is broken with least wynd.
When I behold that beauties wonderment,
And rare perfection of each goodly part;
Of natures skill the onely complement;
I honor and admire the Makers art.
But when I feele the bitter balefull smart,
Which her fayre eyes unwares doe worke in
That death out of theyr shiny beames doe dart;
thinke that I a new Pandora see,
Whom all the Gods in councell did agree
Into this sinfull world from heaven to send;
That she to wicked men a scourge should
For all their faults with which they did offend.
bee,
But, since ye are my scourge, I will i
That for my faults ye will me gently beat.
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.
Sweet is the Rose, but growes upon a brere ;
Sweet is the Junipere, but sharpe his bough;
Sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere ;
Sweet is the Firbloome, but his braunche
is rough;
Sweet is the Cypresse, but his rynd is tough;
Sweet is the Nut, but bitter is his pill;
Sweet is the Broome-flowre, but yet sowre
enough;
And sweet is Moly, but his root is ill.
So every sweet with soure is tempred still,
That maketh it be coveted the more:
For easie things, that may be got at will,
Most sorts of men doe set but little store.
Why then should I accoumpt of little paine.
That endlesse pleasure shall unto me gaine!
Is not dissolv'd through my so hot desyre,
Faire Proud! now tell me, why should faire But harder growes the more I her intreat!
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,
My simple meaning with disdayvnfull 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
Or how comes it that my exceeding heat
Is not delayd by her hart-frosen cold;
But that I burne much more in boyling sweat,
And feele my flames augmented manifold!
What more miraculous thing may be told,
That fire, which all things melts, should harden
The paynefull smith, with force of fervent
heat,
The hardest yron soone doth mollify;
That with his heavy sledge he can it beat,
And fashion to what he it list apply.
Yet cannot all these flames, in which I fry,
Her hart more harde then yron soft a whit;
Ne all the playnts and prayers, with which I
Doe beat on th' andvile of her stubberne wit
But still, the more she fervent sees my tit,
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!
Great wrong I doe, I can it not deny, To that most sacred Empresse, my dear dred, Not finishing her Queene of Faery, 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?
My love is lyke to yse, and I to fyre;
My hungry eyes, through greedy covetize
Still to behold the object of their paine,
With no contentment can themselves suffize;
But, having, pine; and, having not, com-
plaine.
For, lacking it, they cannot lyfe sustayne;
And, having it, they gaze on it the more;
In their amazement lyke Narcissus vaine,
Whose eyes him starv'd: so plenty makes me
poore.
Yet are mine eyes so filled with the store
Of that faire sight, that nothing else they
brooke,
But lothe the things which they did like before, And can no more endure on them to looke.
All this worlds glory seemeth vayne to me, And all their showes but shadowes, saving
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.
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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
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
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.
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
[most,
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.
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 captyvěd hart:
The which, that it from her may never start,
Let her, yf please her, bynd with adamant
And from all wandring loves, which mote per-
[vart
His safe assurance, strongly it restrayne.
Onely let her abstaine from cruelty.
And doe me not before my time to dy.
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!
Thrugh stubborn pride, amongst themselves did
When those renoumed noble Peres of Greece,
Forgetfull of the famous golden fleece; [jar,
Then Orpheus with his harp theyr strife did bar.
The which my selfe against my selfe doe make;
But this continuall, cruell, civill warre,
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;
To battaile, fresh against my selfe to fight.
And griefe renew, and passions doe awake
Mongst whome the more I seeke to settle
peace,
The more I fynd their malice to increase.
Leave, lady! in your glasse of cristall clene,
Your goodly selfe for evermore to vew:
Within my hart, though hardly it can shew
And in my selfe, my inward selfe, I meane,
Most lively lyke behold your semblant trew.
The fayre Idea of your celestiall hew
Thing so divine to vew of earthly eye,
And every part remaines immortally:
And were it not that, through your cruelty,
The goodly ymage of your visnomy,
With sorrow dimmed and deform'd it were,
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.
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,
Will both together me too sorely wracke.
Aswage your storms; or else both you, and she,
Enough it is for one man to sustaine
The stormes, which she alone on me doth
raine.
Trust not the treason of those smyling lookes,
Untill ye have theyr guylefull traynes well
tryde:
For they are lyke but unto golden hookes,
That from the foolish fish theyr bayts doe hyde:
So she with flattring smyles weake harts doth
guyde
Unto her love, and tempte to theyr decay;
Whome, being caught, she kills with cruell
pryde,
And feeds at pleasure on the wretched pray:
Yet, even whylst her bloody hands them slay,
Her eyes looke lovely, and upon them smyle;
That they take pleasure in her cruell play,
And, dying, doe themselves of payne beguyle.
O mighty charm! which makes men love
they'r bane,
[payne.
And thinck they dy with pleasure, live with
Innocent paper; whom too cruell hand
Did make the matter to avenge her yre:
And, ere she could thy cause wel understand,
Did sacritize unto the greedy fyre.
Well worthy thou to have found better hyre,
Then so bad end for hereticks ordayned;
Yet heresy nor treason didst conspire,
But plead thy maisters cause, unjustly payned.
Whom she, all carelesse of his griefe con-
strayned
To utter forth the anguish of his hart:
And would not heare, when he to her complayned
The piteous passion of his dying smart.
Yet live for ever, though against her will,
And speake her good, though she requite it ill.
Fayre cruell! why are ye so fierce and cruell?
Is it because your eyes have powre to kill?
Then know that mercy is the Mighties jewell:
And greater glory thinke, to save then spill.
But if it be your pleasure, and proud will,
To shew the powre of your imperious eyes;
Then not on him that never thought you ill,
But bend your force against your enemyes:
Let them feele the utmost of your crueltyes;
And kill with looks as Cockatrices doo :
But him, that at your footstoole humbled lies,
With mercifull regard give mercy too.
Such mercy shall you make admyr'd to be;
So shall you live, by giving life to me.
Long languishing in double malady
Of my harts wound, and of my bodies griefe;
There came to me a leach, that would apply
Fit medicines for my bodies best reliefe.
So oft as homeward I from her depart,
goe lyke one that, having lost the field,
Is prisoner led away with heavy hart,
Despoyld of warlike armes and knowen shield.
So doe I now my selfe a prisoner yeeld
To sorrow and to solitary paine;
From presence of my dearest deare exylde,
Long-while alone in langour to remaine.
Dare to approch, that may my solace breed;
There let no thought of joy, or pleasure vaine,
Of all worlds gladnesse, more my torment feed.
But sudden dumps, and drery sad disdayne
So I her absens will my penaunce make,
That of her presens I my meed may take.
The Panther, knowing that his spotted hyde
Doth please all beasts, but that his looks them
fray;
Within a bush his dreadfull head doth hide,
To let them gaze, whylest he on them may pray:
Right so my cruell fayre with me doth play;
For, with the goodly semblant of her hew,
She doth allure me to mine owne decay,
And then no mercy will unto me shew.
Great shame it is, thing so divine in view,
Made for to be the worlds most ornament,
To make the bayte her gazers to embrew:
Good shames to be to ill an instrument!
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