in her Chiracter

on't rageons comparisons

Arwen I love beauty

Looke ever lovely, as becomes you best;
That your bright beams, of my weak eies
admyred,

May kindle living fire within my brest.
Such life should be the honor of your light,
Such death the sad ensample of your might.

VIII

That I may laugh at her in equall sort,
As she doth laugh at me, and makes my
pain her sport.

XI

Dayly when I do seeke and sew for peace,
And hostages doe offer for my truth;
She, cruell warriour, doth herselfe addresse
To battell, and the weary war renew'th;
Ne wilbe moov'd with reason, or with rewth,
To graunt small respit to my restlesse toile;
But greedily her fell intent poursewth,
Of my poore life to make unpittied spoile.
Yet my poore life, all sorrowes to assoyle,
would her yield, her wrath to pacify:
But then she seeks, with torment and turmoyle,
To force me live, and will not let me dy.

More then most faire, full of the living fire,
Kindled above unto the Maker neere;
No eies but joyes, in which al powers conspire,
That to the world naught else be counted
deare ;
[guest
Thrugh your bright beams doth not the blinded
Shoot out his darts to base affections wound; I
But Angels come to lead fraile mindes to rest
In chast desires, on heavenly beauty bound.
You frame my thoughts, and fashion me
within;
[speake;

All paine hath end, and every war hath peace;

But mine, no price nor prayer may surcease.

XII

You stop my toung, and teach my hart to
You calme the storme that passion did begin,
Strong thrugh your cause, but by your vertue One day I sought with her hart-thrilling eies
weak.
[never; To make a truce, and termes to entertaine :
Dark is the world, where your light shined All fearelesse then of so false enimies,
Well is he borne, that may behold you ever. Which sought me to entrap in treasons traine.
So, as I then disarmed did remaine,

pare

IX

[spright;

throng.

Too feeble I t'abide the brunt so strong,
Was forst to yeeld my selfe into their hands;
Who, me captiving streight with rigorous

Long-while I sought to what I might com- A wicked ambush which lay hidden long
In the close covert of her guilefull eyen,
Those powrefull eies, which lighten my dark Thence breaking forth, did thick about me
Yet find I nought on earth, to which I dare
Resemble th' ymage of their goodly light.
Not to the Sun; for they doo shine by night;
Nor to the Moone; for they are changed never;
Nor to the Starres; for they have purer sight;
Nor to the Fire; for they consume not ever;
Nor to the Lightning; for they still persever;
Nor to the Diamond; for they are more tender;
Nor unto Cristall; for nought may them sever;
Nor unto Glasse; such basenesse mought

offend her,

Then to the Maker selfe they likest be,
Whose light doth lighten all that here we see.

X

Unrighteous Lord of Love, what law is this,
That me thou makest thus tormented be,
The whiles she lordeth in licentious blisse
Of her freewill, scorning both thee and me?
See! how the Tyrannesse doth joy to see
The huge massacres which her eyes do make;
And humbled harts brings captive unto thee,'
That thou of them mayst mightie vengeance
take,

But her proud hart doe thou a little shake.
And that high look, with which she doth
comptroll

All this worlds pride, bow to a baser make,
And al her faults in thy black booke enroll:

In that proud port, which her so goodly graceth,
Whiles her faire face she reares up to the skie,
And to the ground her eie-lids low embaseth,
Most goodly temperature ye may descry;
Myld humblesse, mixt with awfull majesty.
For, looking on the earth whence she was
Her minde remembreth her mortalitie, [borne,
Whatso is farest shall to earth returne.
But that same Tofty countenance seemes to
[clime;
Base thing, and thinke how she to heaven may
Treading downe earth as lothsome and for-
That hinders heavenly thoughts with drossy
lorne,
[slime.
Yet lowly still vouchsafe to looke on me;
Such lowlinesse shall make you lofty be.

scorne

XIV

Retourne agayne, my forces late dismayd,
Unto the siege by you abandon'd quite.

SONNETS.

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

575

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.

XV

Ye tradefull Merchants, that, with weary
toyle,
[gain;
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

One day as I unwarily did gaze [light;
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.

Cannot expressed be by any art. [neede,
A greater craftes mans 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,

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
water,

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

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

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.

With noyse whereof the quyre of Byrds re-
sounded,

Their anthemes sweet, devized of loves prayse, That all the woods theyr eechoes back rebounded,

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

No word was heard of her that most it ought;
But she his precept proudly disobayes,
And doth his ydie message set at nought.

Therefore, O Love, unlesse she turne to thee
Ere Cuckow end, let her a rebell be!

XX

In vaine I seeke and sew to her for grace,
And doe myne humbled hart before her poure;
The whiles her foot she in my necke doth place,
And tread my life downe in the lowly floure.
And yet the Lyon that is Lord of power,
And reigneth over every beast in field,
In his most pride disdeigneth to devoure
The silly lambe that to his might doth yield.
But she, more cruell, and more salvage wylde,

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,

See! how the stubborne damzell doth de-
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
[prayse.
And fill the world with her victorious

bayes,

Is not dissolv'd through my so hot desyre,
But harder growes the more I her intreat!
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
yse;

And yse, which is congeald with sencelesse cold,
Should kindle fyre by wonderfull devyse!

Such is the powre of love in gentle mind,
That it can alter all the course of kynd.

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!

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?

ΧΧΧ

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

PP

Bianty kruity

Storm

Contrachet.