X

My God, my God, how much I love my goddess, Whose virtues rare, unto the heavens arise! My God, my God, how much I love her eyes One shining bright, the other full of hardness! My God, my God, how much I love her wisdom, Whose works may ravish heaven's richest maker! Of whose eyes' joys if I might be partaker Then to my soul a holy rest would come. My God, how much I love to hear her speak! Whose hands I kiss and ravished oft rekisseth, When she stands wotless whom so much she blesseth. Say then, what mind this honest love would break; Since her perfections pure, withouten blot, Makes her beloved of thee, she knoweth not?

THE SEVENTH DECADE

I

The first created held a joyous bower, A flowering field, the world's sole wonderment, High Paradise, from whence a woman's power Enticed him to fall to endless banishment. This on the banks of Euphrates did stand, Till the first Mover, by his wondrous might, Planted it in thine eyes, thy face, thy hands, From whence the world receives his fairest light. Thy cheeks contain choice flowers; thy eyes, two suns; Thy hands, the fruit that no life blood can stain; And in thy breath, that heavenly music wons, Which, when thou speak'st, angels their voices strain. As from the first thy sex exiled me, So to this next let me be called by thee!

II

Fair grace of graces, muse of muses all, Thou Paradise, thou only heaven I know! What influence hath bred my hateful woe, That I from thee and them am forced to fall? Thou falled from me, from thee I never shall, Although my fortunes thou hast brought so low; Yet shall my faith and service with thee go, For live I do, on heaven and thee to call. Banish'd all grace, no graces with me dwell; Compelled to muse, my muses from me fly; Excluded heaven, what can remain but hell? Exiled from paradise, in hate I lie, Cursing my stars; albeit I find it true, I lost all these when I lost love and you.

III

What viewed I, dear, when I thine eyes beheld? Love in his glory? No, him Thyrsis saw, And stood the boy, whilst he his darts did draw, Whose painted pride to baser swains he telled. Saw I two suns? That sight is seen but seld. Yet can their brood that teach the holy law Gaze on their beams, and dread them not a straw, Where princely looks are by their eyes repelled. What saw I then? Doubtless it was Amen, Armed with strong thunder and a lightning's flame, Who bridegroom like with power was riding then, Meaning that none should see him when he came. Yet did I gaze; and thereby caught the wound Which burns my heart and keeps my body sound.

IV

When tedious much and over weary long, Cruel disdain reflecting from her brow, Hath been the cause that I endured such wrong And rest thus discontent and weary now. Yet when posterity in time to come, Shall find th' uncancelled tenour of her vow, And her disdain be then confessed of some, How much unkind and long, I find it now, O yet even then—though then will be too late To comfort me; dead, many a day, ere then— They shall confess I did not force her heart; And time shall make it known to other men That ne'er had her disdain made me despair, Had she not been so excellently fair.

V

Had she not been so excellently fair, My muse had never mourned in lines of woe; But I did too inestimable weigh her, And that's the cause I now lament me so. Yet not for her contempt do I complain me: Complaints may ease the mind, but that is all; Therefore though she too constantly disdain me, I can but sigh and grieve, and so I shall. Yet grieve I not because I must grieve ever; And yet, alas, waste tears away, in vain; I am resolved truly to persever, Though she persisteth in her old disdain. But that which grieves me most is that I see Those which most fair, the most unkindest be.

VI

Thus long imposed to everlasting plaining, Divinely constant to the worthiest fair, And moved by eternally disdaining, Aye to persever in unkind despair: Because now silence wearily confined In tedious dying and a dumb restraint, Breaks forth in tears from mine unable mind To ease her passion by a poor complaint; O do not therefore to thyself suggest That I can grieve to have immured so long Upon the matter of mine own unrest; Such grief is not the tenour of my song, That 'bide so zealously so bad a wrong. My grief is this; unless I speak and plain me, Thou wilt persever ever to disdain me.

VII

Thou wilt persever ever to disdain me; And I shall then die, when thou will repent it. O do not therefore from complaint restrain me, And take my life from me, to me that lent it! For whilst these accents, weepingly exprest In humble lines of reverentest zeal, Have issue to complaint from mine unrest, They but thy beauty's wonder shall reveal; And though the grieved muse of some other lover, Whose less devotions knew but woes like mine, Would rather seek occasion to discover How little pitiful and how much unkind, They other not so worthy beauties find. O, I not so! but seek with humble prayer, Means how to move th' unmercifullest fair.

VIII

As draws the golden meteor of the day Exhaled matter from the ground to heaven, And by his secret nature, there to stay The thing fast held, and yet of hold bereaven; So by th' attractive excellence and might, Born to the power of thy transparent eyes, Drawn from myself, ravished with thy delight, Whose dumb conceits divinely sirenise, Lo, in suspense of fear and hope upholden, Diversely poised with passions that pain me, No resolution dares my thoughts embolden, Since 'tis not I, but thou that dost sustain me. O if there's none but thou can work my woe, Wilt thou be still unkind and kill me so?

IX

Wilt thou be still unkind and kill me so, Whose humbled vows with sorrowful appeal Do still persist, and did so long ago Intreat for pity with so pure a zeal? Suffice the world shall, for the world can say How much thy power hath power, and what it can; Never was victor-hand yet moved to slay The rendered captive, or the yielding man. Then, O, why should thy woman-thought impose Death and disdain on him that yields his breath, To free his soul from discontent and woes, And humble sacrifice to a certain death? O since the world knows what the power can do, What were't for thee to save and love me too?

X

I meet not mine by others' discontent, For none compares with me in true devotion; Yet though my tears and sighs to her be spent, Her cruel heart disdains what they do motion. Yet though persisting in eternal hate, To aggravate the cause of my complaining, Her fury ne'er confineth with a date, I will not cease to love, for her disdaining. Such puny thoughts of unresolved ground, Whose inaudacity dares but base conceit, In me and my love never shall be found. Those coward thoughts unworthy minds await. But those that love well have not yet begun; Persever ever and have never done!

THE EIGHTH DECADE

I

Persever ever and have never done, You weeping accent of my weary song! O do not you eternal passions shun, But be you true and everlasting long! Say that she doth requite you with disdain; Yet fortified with hope, endure your fortune; Though cruel now she will be kind again; Such haps as those, such loves as yours importune. Though she protests the faithfullest severity Inexecrable beauty is inflicting, Kindness in time will pity your sincerity, Though now it be your fortune's interdicting. For some can say, whose loves have known like passion, "Women are kind by kind, and coy for fashion."

II

Give period to my matter of complaining, Fair wonder of our time's admiring eye, And entertain no more thy long disdaining, Or give me leave at last that I may die. For who can live, perpetually secluded From death to life, that loathes her discontent? Lest by some hope seducively deluded, Such thoughts aspire to fortunate event; But I that now have drawn mal-pleasant breath Under the burden of thy cruel hate, O, I must long and linger after death, And yet I dare not give my life her date; For if I die and thou repent t' have slain me, 'Twill grieve me more than if thou didst disdain me.

III

'Twill grieve me more than if thou didst disdain me, That I should die; and thou, because I die so. And yet to die, it should not know to pain me, If cruel beauty were content to bid so. Death to my life, life to my long despair Prolonged by her, given to my love and days, Are means to tell how truly she is fair, And I can die to testify her praise. Yet not to die, though fairness me despiseth, Is cause why in complaint I thus persever; Though death me and my love inparadiseth, By interdicting me from her for ever. I do not grieve that I am forced to die, But die to think upon the reason why.

IV

My tears are true. Though others be divine, And sing of wars and Troy's new rising frame, Meeting heroic feet in every line, That tread high measures in the scene of fame, And I, though disaccustoming my muse, And sing but low songs in an humble vein, May one day raise my style as others use, And turn Elizon to a higher strain. When re-intombing from oblivious ages In better stanzas her surviving wonder, I may opposed against the monster rage That part desert and excellence asunder; That she though coy may yet survive to see, Her beauty's wonder lives again in me.

V

Conclusion of the whole

Sometimes in verse I praised, sometimes in verse sighed; No more shall pen with love and beauty mell, But to my heart alone my heart shall tell How unseen flames do burn it day and night, Lest flames give light, light bring my love to sight, And my love prove my folly to excel. Wherefore my love burns like the fire of hell, Wherein is fire and yet there is no light; For if one never loved like me, then why Skill-less blames he the thing he doth not know? And he that so hath loved should favour show, For he hath been a fool as well as I. Thus shall henceforth more pain, more folly have; And folly past, may justly pardon crave.

A CALCULATION UPON THE BIRTH OF AN HONOURABLE LADY'S DAUGHTER, BORN IN THE YEAR 1588 AND ON A FRIDAY

Fair by inheritance, whom born we see Both in the wondrous year and on the day Wherein the fairest planet beareth sway, The heavens to thee this fortune doth decree! Thou of a world of hearts in time shall be A monarch great, and with one beauty's ray So many hosts of hearts thy face shall slay, As all the rest for love shall yield to thee, But even as Alexander when he knew His father's conquests wept, lest he should leave No kingdom unto him for to subdue: So shall thy mother thee of praise bereave; So many hearts already she hath slain, As few behind to conquer shall remain.

SONNETS FROM THE MANUSCRIPT EDITION, NOT FOUND IN THAT OF 1594

I

Of the sudden surprising of his heart, and how unawares he was caught

Delight in your bright eyes my death did breed, As light and glittering weapons babes allure To play with fire and sword, and so procure Then to be burnt and hurt ere they take heed, Thy beauty so hath made me burn and bleed; Yet shall my ashes and my blood assure Thy beauty's fame forever to endure; For thy fame's life from my death doth proceed; Because my heart to ashes burned giveth Life to thy fame, thou right a phoenix art, And like a pelican thy beauty liveth By sucking blood out of my breast and heart. Lo why with wonder we may thee compare Unto the pelican and phoenix rare!

II

An exhortation to the reader to come and see his mistress's beauty

Eyes curious to behold what nature can create, Come see, come see, and write what wonder you do see, Causing by true report our next posterity Curse fortune for that they were born too late! Come then and come ye all, come soon lest that The time should be too short and men too few should be; For all be few to write her least part's history, Though they should ever write and never write but that. Millions look on her eyes, millions think on her wit, Millions speak of her, millions write of her hand. The whole eye on the lip I do not understand; Millions too few to praise but some one part of it, As either of her eye or lip or hand to write, The light or black, the taste or red, the soft or white.

III

Of the excellency of his lady's voice

Lady of ladies, the delight alone For which to heaven earth doth no envy bear; Seeing and hearing thee, we see and hear Such voice, such light, as never sung nor shone. The want of heaven I grant yet we may moan, Not for the pleasure of the angels there, As though in face or voice they like thee were, But that they many be, and thou but one. The basest notes which from thy voice proceed, The treble of the angels do exceed, So that I fear their choir to beautify, Lest thou to some in heaven shall sing and shine. Lo, when I hear thee sing, the reason why Sighs of my breast keep time with notes of thine!

IV

Of her excellency both in singing and instruments

Not that thy hand is soft, is sweet, is white, Thy lips sweet roses, breast sweet lily is, That love esteems these three the chiefest bliss Which nature ever made for lips' delight; But when these three to show their heavenly might Such wonders do, devotion then for this Commandeth us with humble zeal to kiss Such things as work miracles in our sight. A lute of senseless wood, by nature dumb, Touched by thy hand doth speak divinely well; And from thy lips and breast sweet tunes do come To my dead heart, the which new life do give. Of greater wonders heard we never tell Than for the dumb to speak, the dead to live.

V

Of the envy others bear to his lady for the former perfections

When beauty to the world vouchsafes this bliss, To show the one whose other there is not, The whitest skins red blushing shame doth blot, And in the reddest cheeks pale envy is. The fair and foul come thus alike by this; For when the sun hath our horizon got, Venus herself doth shine no more, God wot, Than the least star that takes the light from his. The poor in beauty thus content remain To see their jealous cause revenged in thee, And their fair foes afflicted with like pain. Lo, the clear proof of thy divinity; For unto God is only due this praise The highest to pluck down, the low to raise!

VI

To his mistress, upon occasion of a Petrarch he gave her, showing her the reason why the Italian commenters dissent so much in the exposition thereof

Miracle of the world! I never will deny That former poets praise the beauty of their days; But all those beauties were but figures of thy praise, And all those poets did of thee but prophesy. Thy coming to the world hath taught us to descry What Petrarch's Laura meant, for truth the lip bewrays. Lo, why th' Italians, yet which never saw thy rays, To find out Petrarch's sense such forged glosses try! The beauties which he in a veil enclosed beheld But revelations were within his surest heart By which in parables thy coming he foretold; His songs were hymns of thee, which only now before Thy image should be sung; for thou that goddess art Which only we without idolatry adore.

VII

Complaint of misfortune in love only

Now, now I love indeed, and suffer more In one day now then I did in a year; Great flames they be which but small sparkles were, And wounded now, I was but pricked before. No marvel then, though more than heretofore I weep and sigh; how can great wounds be there Where moisture runs not out? and ever, where The fire is great, of smoke there must be store. My heart was hitherto but like green wood, Which must be dried before it will burn bright; My former love served but my heart to dry; Now Cupid for his fire doth find it good: For now it burneth clear, and shall give light For all the world your beauty to espy.

VIII

Complaint of his lady's melancholiness

If that one care had our two hearts possessed, Or you once (felt) what I long suffered, Then should thy heart accuse in my heart's stead The rigour of itself for mine unrest. Then should thine arm upon my shoulder rest, And weight of grief sway down thy troubled head; Then should thy tears upon my sheet be shed, And then thy heart should pant upon my breast. But when that other cares thy heart do seize, Alas, what succour gain I then by this, But double grief for thine and mine unease? Yet when thou see'st thy hurts to wound my heart, And so art taught by me what pity is, Perhaps thy heart will learn to feel my smart.

IX

Dear, though from me your gratious looks depart, And of that comfort do myself bereave, Which both I did deserve and did receive, Triumph not over much in this my smart. Nay, rather they which now enjoy thy heart For fear just cause of mourning should conceive, Lest thou inconstant shouldst their trust deceive Which like unto the weather changing art. For in foul weather birds sing often will In hope of fair, and in fair time will cease, For fear fair time should not continue still; So they may mourn which have thy heart possessed For fear of change, and hope of change may ease Their hearts whom grief of change doth now molest.

X

If ever any justly might complain Of unrequited service, it is I; Change is the thanks I have for loyalty, And only her reward is her disdain; So as just spite did almost me constrain, Through torment her due praises to deny, For he which vexed is with injury By speaking ill doth ease his heart of pain. But what, shall torture make me wrong her name? No, no, a pris'ner constant thinks it shame, Though he (were) racked his first truth to gainsay. Her true given praise my first confession is; Though her disdain do rack me night and day, This I confessed, and will deny in this.

Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. London & Edinburgh

THE END