Thou blind man's mark, thou fool's self-chosen snare,
Fond fancy's scum, and dregs of scattered thought;
Band of all evils, cradle of causeless care,
Thou web of will, whose end is never wrought;
Desire, Desire, I have too dearly bought,
With prize of mangled mind, thy worthless ware;
Too long, too long asleep thou hast me brought,
Who should my mind to higher things prepare.
But yet in vain thou hast my ruin sought;
In vain thou mad'st me to vain things aspire;
In vain thou kindlest all thy smoky fire;
For virtue hath this better lesson taught:
Within myself to seek my only hire,
Desiring nought, but how to kill Desire.
Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust;
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;
Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light,
That doth both shine and give us sight to see.
O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth brings out to death;
And think how evil becometh him to slide,
Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath.
Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see:
Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.
my Muse these notes intendeth, Which now my breast o'ercharged to music lendeth? To you, to you, all song of praise is due:
Only in you my song begins and endeth.
Who hath the which eyes marry state with pleasure? Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest treasure? To you, to all you, song of praise is due:
Only for the heaven forgat all measure.
Who hath the lips, where wit in fairness reigneth?
Who womankind at once both decks and staineth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due:
Only by you Cupid his crown maintaineth.
Who hath the feet, whose step of sweetness planteth? Who else, for whom Fame worthy trumpets wanteth? To you, to you, all song of praise is due: Only to you her sceptre Venus granteth.
Who hath the breast, whose milk doth passions nourish?
Whose grace is such, that when it chides doth cherish?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due:
Only through you the tree of life doth flourish.
Who hath the hand, which without stroke subdueth? Who long dead beauty with increase reneweth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due:
Only at you all envy hopeless rueth.
Who hath the hair, which, loosest, fastest tieth?
Who makes a man live then glad when he dieth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due:
Only of
the flatterer never lieth.
Who hath the voice, which soul from senses sunders?
Whose force but yours the bolts of beauty thunders?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due:
Only with you not miracles are wonders.
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,
Which now my breast o'ercharged to music lendeth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due:
Only in you my song begins and endeth.
Only Joy, now here you are,
Fit to hear and ease my care,
Let my whispering voice obtain
Sweet reward for sharpest pain;
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
“No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.”
Night hath closed all in her cloak,
Twinkling stars love-thoughts provoke,
Danger hence, good care doth keep,
Jealousy itself doth sleep;
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
"No, no, no, no, my dear, let be."
Better place no wit can find,
Cupid's yoke to loose or bind;
These sweet flowers on fine bed too,
Us in their best language woo;
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
No, no, no, no, my dear, let be."
This small light the moon bestows
Serves thy beams but to disclose,
So to raise my hap more high;
Fear not else, none can us spy;
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
“No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.”
That heard but
Dumb Sleep holdeth all the house;
Yet asleep methinks they say,
"Young fools, take time while you may";
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
"No, no, no, no, my dear, let be."
Niggard time threats, if we miss
This large offer of our bliss,
Long stay ere he grant the same:
Sweet, then, while each thing doth frame,
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
Your fair mother is abed,
Candles out, and curtains spread;
She thinks you do letters write;
Write, but let me first endite:
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
“No, no, no, no, my dear, let be."
Sweet, alas, why strive thus?
you
Concord better fitteth us;
Leave to Mars the force of hands,
Your power in your beauty stands;
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
“No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.”
Woe to me, and do you swear
Me to hate? but I forbear;
Cursed be my destinies all,
That brought me so high to fall;
Soon with my death I will please thee.
“No, no, no, no, my dear, let be."
In a grove most rich of shade,
Where birds wanton music made,
May, then young, his pied weeds showing, New perfumed with flowers fresh growing;
Astrophel with Stella sweet
Did for mutual comfort meet,
Both within themselves oppressed,
But each in the other blessed.
Him great harms had taught much care,
Her fair neck a foul yoke bare;
But her sight his cares did banish
In his sight her yoke did vanish.
ept they had, alas, the while,
But now tears themselves did smile,
While their eyes, by love directed,
Interchangeably reflected.
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