Written Not Long Since By Edmunde Spenser. * * * * * Printed For William Posbonby. 1595. G. W. Senior*, To The Author. [* These Commendatory Sonnets First Appeared In The First Folio Edition Of Spenser'S Entire Works (1611). G. W., As Todd Conjectures, May Be George Whetstone. C.] Darke Is The Day When Phoebus Face Is Shrowded, And Weaker Sights May Wander Soone Astray; But When They See His Glorious Raies Unclowded, With Steddy Steps They Keepe The Perfect Way: So, While This Muse In Forraine Land Doth Stay, Invention Weepes, And Pennes Are Cast Aside; The Time, Like Night, Deprivd Of Chearfull Day; And Few Doe Write, But Ah! Too Soone May Slide. Then His Thee Home, That Art Our Perfect Guide, And With Thy Wit Illustrate Englands Fame, Daunting Therby Our Neighbors Ancient Pride, That Do For Poesie Challenge Chiefest Name: So We That Live, And Ages That Succeed, With Great Applause Thy Learned Works Shall Reed. * * * * * Ah! Colin, Whether On The Lowly Plaine, Piping To Shepheards Thy Sweet Roundelayes, Or Whether Singing, In Some Loftie Vaine, Heroicke Deeds Of Past Or Present Dayes, Or Whether In Thy Lovely Mistresse Praise Thou List To Exercise Thy Learned Quill, Thy Muse Hath Got Such Grace And Power To Please, With Rare Invention, Beautified By Skill, As Who Therin Can Ever Ioy Their Fill! O, Therefore Let That Happy Muse Proceed To Clime The Height Of Vertues Sacred Hill, Where Endlesse Honour Shal Be Made Thy Meed: Because No Malice Of Succeeding Dales Can Rase Those Records Of Thy Lasting Praise. G. W. I[Unior]. * * * * * Amoretti.[*] [* These Sonnets Furnish Us With A Circumstantial And Very Interesting History Of Spenser'S Second Courtship, Which, After Many Repulses, Was Successfully Terminated By The Marriage Celebrated In The Epithalamion. As These Poems Were Entered In The Stationers' Registers On The 19Th Of November, 1594, We May Infer That They Cover A Period Of Time Extending From The End Of 1592 To The Summer Of 1594. It Is Possible, However, That These Last Dates May Be A Year Too Late, And That Spenser Was Married In 1593. We Cannot Be Sure Of The Year, But We Know, From The 266Th Verse Of The Epithalamion, That The Day Was The Feast Of St. Barnabas, June 11 Of The Old Style. In The 74Th Sonnet We Are Directly Told That The Lady'S Name Was Elizabeth. In The 61St, She Is Said To Be Of The "Brood Of Angels, Heavenly Born." From This And Many Similar Expressions, Interpreted By The Laws Of Anagram, And Taken In Conjunction With Various Circumstances Which Do Not Require To Be Stated Here, It May Be Inferred That Her Surname Was Nagle. C.] * * * * * I. Happy, Ye Leaves! When As Those Lilly Hands Which Hold My Life In Their Dead-Doing Might Shall Handle You, And Hold In Loves Soft Bands, Lyke Captives Trembling At The Victors Sight. And Happy Lines! On Which, With Starry Light. Those Lamping Eyes Will Deigne Sometimes To Look, And Reade The Sorrowes Of My Dying Spright, And Happy Rymes! Bath'D In The Sacred Brooke Of Helicon, Whence She Derived Is. When Ye Behold That Angels Blessed Looke, My Soules Long-Lacked Food, My Heavens Blis, Leaves, Lines, And Rymes, Seeke Her To Please Alone, Whom If Ye Please, I Care For Other None! Ii. Unquiet Thought! Whom At The First I Bred Of Th'Inward Bale Of My Love-Pined Hart, And Sithens Have With Sighes And Sorrowes Fed, Till Greater Then My Wombe Thou Woxen Art, Breake Forth At Length Out Of The Inner Part, In Which Thou Lurkest Lyke To Vipers Brood, And Seeke Some Succour Both To Ease My Smart, And Also To Sustayne Thy Selfe With Food. But If In Presence Of That Fayrest Proud Thou Chance To Come, Fall Lowly At Her Feet; And With Meek Humblesse And Afflicted Mood Pardon For Thee, And Grace For Me, Intreat: Which If She Graunt, Then Live, And My Love Cherish: If Not, Die Soone, And I With Thee Will Perish. Iii. The Soverayne Beauty Which I Doo Admyre, Witnesse The World How Worthy To Be Prayzed! The Light Wherof Hath Kindled Heavenly Fyre In My Fraile Spirit, By Her From Basenesse Raysed; That Being Now With Her Huge Brightnesse Dazed, Base Thing I Can No More Endure To View: But, Looking Still On Her, I Stand Amazed At Wondrous Sight Of So Celestiall Hew. So When My Toung Would Speak Her Praises Dew, It Stopped Is With Thoughts Astonishment; And When My Pen Would Write Her Titles True, It Ravisht Is With Fancies Wonderment: Yet In My Hart I Then Both Speak And Write The Wonder That My Wit Cannot Endite. Iv. New Yeare, Forth Looking Out Of Ianus Gate, Doth Seeme To Promise Hope Of New Delight, And, Bidding Th'Old Adieu, His Passed Date Bids All Old Thoughts To Die In Dumpish* Spright; And Calling Forth Out Of Sad Winters Night Fresh Love, That Long Hath Slept In Cheerlesse Bower, Wils Him Awake, And Soone About Him Dight His Wanton Wings And Darts Of Deadly Power. For Lusty Spring Now In His Timely Howre Is Ready To Come Forth, Him To Receive; And Warns The Earth With Divers Colord Flowre To Decke Hir Selfe, And Her Faire Mantle Weave. Then You, Faire Flowre! In Whom Fresh Youth Doth Raine, Prepare Your Selfe New Love To Entertaine. [L Dumpish, Mournful.] V. Rudely Thou Wrongest My Deare Harts Desire, In Finding Fault With Her Too Portly Pride: The Thing Which I Doo Most In Her Admire, Is Of The World Unworthy Most Envide. For In Those Lofty Lookes Is Close Implide Scorn Of Base Things, And Sdeigne Of Foul Dishonor; Thretning Rash Eies Which Gaze On Her So Wide, That Loosely They Ne Dare To Looke Upon Her. Such Pride Is Praise, Such Portlinesse Is Honor, That Boldned Innocence Beares In Hir Eies, And Her Faire Countenaunce, Like A Goodly Banner, Spreds In Defiaunce Of All Enemies. Was Never In This World Ought Worthy Tride*, Without Some Spark Of Such Self-Pleasing Pride. [* Tride, Found.] Vi. Be Nought Dismayd That Her Unmoved Mind Doth Still Persist In Her Rebellious Pride: Such Love, Not Lyke To Lusts Of Baser Kynd, The Harder Wonne, The Firmer Will Abide. The Durefull Oake Whose Sap Is Not Yet Dride Is Long Ere It Conceive The Kindling Fyre; But When It Once Doth Burne, It Doth Divide Great Heat, And Makes His Flames To Heaven Aspire. So Hard It Is To Kindle New Desire In Gentle Brest, That Shall Endure For Ever: Deepe Is The Wound That Dints The Parts Entire* With Chaste Affects, That Naught But Death Can Sever. Then Thinke Not Long In Taking Litle Paine To Knit The Knot That Ever Shall Remaine. [* Entire, Inward.] Vii. Fayre Eyes! The Myrrour Of My Mazed Hart, What Wondrous Vertue Is Contayn'D In You, The Which Both Lyfe And Death Forth From You Dart Into The Obiect Of Your Mighty View? For When Ye Mildly Looke With Lovely Hew, Then Is My Soule With Life And Love Inspired: But When Ye Lowre, Or Looke On Me Askew, Then Do I Die, As One With Lightning Fyred. But Since That Lyfe Is More Then Death Desyred, 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 More Then Most Faire, Full Of The Living Fire Kindled Above Unto The Maker Nere, No Eies, But Ioyes, In Which Al Powers Conspire, That To The World Naught Else Be Counted Deare! Thrugh Your Bright Beams Doth Not The Blinded Guest Shoot Out His Darts To Base Affections Wound; But Angels Come, To Lead Fraile Mindes To Rest In Chast Desires, On Heavenly Beauty Bound. You Frame My Thoughts, And Fashion Me Within; You Stop My Toung, And Teach My Hart To Speake; You Calme The Storme That Passion Did Begin, Strong Thrugh Your Cause, But By Your Vertue Weak. Dark Is The World Where Your Light Shined Never; Well Is He Borne That May Behold You Ever. Ix. Long-While I Sought To What I Might Compare Those Powrefull Eies Which Lighten My Dark Spright; 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 Ioy To See The Hugh Mass?Cres 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: That I May Laugh At Her In Equall Sort As She Doth Laugh At Me, And Makes My Pain Her Sport. [* Make, Mate.] Xi. Dayly When I Do Seeke And Sew For Peace, And Hostages Doe Offer For Ray Truth, She, Cruell Warriour, Doth Her Selfe 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, I 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. All Paine Hath End, And Every War Hafh Peace; But Mine, No Price Nor Prayer May Surcease. [* Rewth, Ruth, Pity.] Xii. One Day I Sought With Her Hart-Thrilling Eies To Make A Truce, And Termes To Entertaine; All Fearlesse Then Of So False Enimies, Which Sought Me To Entrap In Treasons Traine. So, As I Then Disarmed Did Remaine, A Wicked Ambush, Which Lay Hidden Long In The Close Covert Of Her Guilful Eyen, Thence Breaking Forth, Did Thick About Me Throng. Too Feeble I T'Abide The Brunt So Strong, Was Forst To Yield My Selfe Into Their Hands; Who, Me Captiving Streight With Rigorous Wrong, Have Ever Since Kept Me In Cruell Bands. So, Ladie, Now To You I Doo Complaine Against Your Eies, That Iustice I May Gaine. Xiii. 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 Awful! Maiestie. For, Looking On The Earth Whence She Was Borne, Her Minde Remembreth Her Mortalitie, Whatso Is Fayrest Shall To Earth Returne. But That Same Lofty Countenance Seemes To Scorne Base Thing, And Thinke How She To Heaven May Clime; Treading Downe Earth As Lothsome And Forlorne, That Hinders Heavenly Thoughts With Drossy Slime. Yet Lowly Still Vouchsafe To Looke On Me; Such Lowlinesse Shall Make You Lofty Be. Xiv. Retourne Agayne, My Forces Late Dismayd, Unto The Siege By You Abandon'D Quite. 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 Then Those Small Forts Which Ye Were Wont Belay**: 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 Down And Dy Before Her; So Dying Live, And Living Do Adore Her. [L Peece, Fortress.] [** Belay, Beleaguer.] Xv. Ye Tradefull Merchants, That, With Weary Toyle, Do Seeke Most Pretious Things To Make Your Gain, 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 Round; If Yvorie, Her Forhead Yvory Weene; 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 On Those Fayre Eyes, My Loves Immortall Light, 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 Arrows, 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 Pencil!, Can Expresse Her Fill? For Though He Colours Could Devize At Will, And Eke His Learned Hand At Pleasure Guide, Least, Trembling, It His Workmanship Should Spill*, Yet Many Wondrous Things There Are Beside: The Sweet Eye-Glaunces, That Like Arrowes Glide, The Charming Smiles, That Rob Sence From The Hart, The Lovely Pleasance, And The Lofty Pride, Cannot Expressed Be By Any Art. A Greater Craftesmans Hand Thereto Doth Neede, That Can Expresse The Life Of Things Indeed. [L Spill, Spoil.] 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 Drooping 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 Sigh, She Sayes, I Know The Art; And When I Waile, She Turnes Hir Selfe To Laughter. So Do I Weepe, And Wayle, And Pleade In Vaine, Whiles She As Steele And Flint Doth Still Remayne. [* Redound, Overflow.] Xix. The Merry Cuckow, Messenger Of Spring, His Trompet Shrill Hath Thrise Already Sounded. That Warnes Al Lovers Wayte Upon Their King, Who Now Is Coming Forth With Girland Crouned. With Noyse Whereof The Quyre Of Byrds Resounded Their Anthemes Sweet, Devized Of Loves Prayse, That All The Woods Theyr Ecchoes 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 Ydle 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 Than Either Lyon Or The Lyonesse, Shames Not To Be With Guiltlesse Bloud Defylde, But Taketh Glory In Her Cruelnesse. Fayrer Then Fayrest! Let None Ever Say That Ye Were Blooded In A Yeelded Pray. [* Floure, Floor, Ground.] Xxi. Was It The Worke Of Nature Or Of Art, Which Tempred So The Feature Of Her Face, That Pride And Meeknesse, Mist By Equall Part, Doe Both Appeare T'Adorne Her Beauties Grace? For With Mild Pleasance, Which Doth Pride Displace, She To Her Love Doth Lookers Eyes Allure; And With Stern Countenance Back Again Doth Chace 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 Away. Thus Doth She Traine And Teach Me With Her Lookes; Such Art Of Eyes I Never Read In Bookes! [* Termes, Extremes (?).] Xxii. 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 Chaste Desyre: The Which Vouchsafe, O Goddesse, To Accept, Amongst Thy Deerest Relicks To Be Kept. [* I.E. Easter.] 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 Do 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. Xxiv. 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 Mee, That Death Out Of Theyr Shiny Beames Doe Dart, I 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 Bee, For All Their Faults With Which They Did Offend. But Since Ye Are My Scourge, I Will Intreat That For My Faults Ye Will Me Gently Beat. Xxv. 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 Wel Have Tride. But Yet If In Your Hardned Brest Ye Bide 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. Xxvi. Sweet Is The Rose, But Growes Upon A Brere; Sweet Is The Iunipeer; But Sharpe His Bough; Sweet Is The Eglantine, But Pricketh Nere; Sweet Is The Firbloome, But His Braunches Rough*; Sweet Is The Cypresse, But His Rynd Is Rough; 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 Accompt Of Little Paine, That Endlesse Pleasure Shall Unto Me Gaine! [* I.E. Raw, Crude.] [** Pill, Peel.] 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 You Purchas With Her Thankles Pain! Faire! Be No Lenger Proud Of That Shall Perish, But That Which Shall You Make Immortall Cherish. [* Beseene, Appearing.] Xviii. The Laurel-Leafe Which You This Day Doe Weare Gives Me Great Hope Of Your Relenting Mynd: For Since It Is The Badge Which I Doe Beare*, Ye, Bearing It, Doe Seeme To Me Inclind. The Powre Thereof, Which Ofte In Me I Find, Let It Likewise Your Gentle Brest Inspire With Sweet Infusion, And Put You In Mind Of That Proud Mayd Whom Now Those Leaves Attyre: Proud Daphne, Scorning Phrebus 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 Phebus Chace, But In Your Brest His Leafe And Love Embrace. [* I. E. As Poet-Laureate.] [** Lovely, Loving.] Xxix. See! How The Stubborne Damzell Doth Deprave 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 Born, Yielded Them By The Vanquisht As Theyr Meeds, And They Therewith Doe Poetes Heads Adorne, To Sing The Glory Of Their Famous Deeds. But Sith She Will The Conquest Challeng Needs, Let Her Accept Me As Her Faithfull Thrall; That Her Great Triumph, Which My Skill Exceeds, I May In Trump Of Fame Blaze Over All. Then Would I Decke Her Head With Glorious Bayes, And Fill The World With Her Victorious Prayse. Xxx. My Love Is Lyke To Yse, And I To Fyre: How Comes It Then That This Her Cold So Great 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 Wonderful Devyse? Such Is The Powre Of Love In Gentle Mind, That It Can Alter All The Course Of Kynd. [* Delayd, Tempered.] Xxxi. Ah! Why Hath Nature To So Hard A Hart Given So Goodly Giftes Of Beauties Grace, Whose Pryde Depraves Each Other Better Part, And All Those Pretious Ornaments Deface? Sith To All Other Beastes Of Bloody Race A Dreadfull Countenance She Given Hath, That With Theyr Terrour All The Rest May Chace, And Warne To Shun The Daunger Of Theyr Wrath. But My Proud One Doth Worke The Greater Scath*, Through Sweet Allurement Of Her Lovely Hew, That She The Better May In Bloody Bath Of Such Poore Thralls Her Cruell Hands Embrew. But Did She Know How Ill These Two Accord, Such Cruelty She Would Have Soone Abhord. [* Scath, Injury.] Xxxii. 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 Hard Then Yron, Soft A Whit, Ne All The Playnts And Pray?Rs With Which I Doe Beat On Th'Andvile 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 Fa?Ry, 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, All Were It, As The Rest, But Rudely Writ? How Then Should I, Without Another Wit, Thinck Ever To Endure So Tedious Toyle, Sith That This One Is Tost With Troublous Fit Of A Proud Love, That Doth My Spirite Spoyle? Cease, Then, Till She Vouchsafe To Grawnt Me Rest, Or Lend You Me Another Living Brest. [* I.E. Lodowick Bryskett.] Xxxiv. Lyke As A Ship, That Through The Ocean Wyde By Conduct Of Some Star Doth Make Her Way, Whenas A Storm Hath Dimd Her Trusty Guyde, Out Of Her Course Doth Wander Far Astray, So I, Whose Star, That Wont With Her Bright Ray Me To Direct, With Cloudes Is Over-Cast, Doe Wander Now In Darknesse And Dismay, Through Hidden Perils Round About Me Plast. Yet Hope I Well That, When This Storme Is Past, My Helice*, The Lodestar Of Ray Lyfe, Will Shine Again, And Looke On Me At Last, With Lovely Light To Cleare My Cloudy Grief. Till Then I Wander Carefull, Comfortlesse, In Secret Sorrow And Sad Pensivenesse. [* I. E. Cynosure.] Xxxv. My Hungry Eyes, Through Greedy Covetize Still To Behold The Obiect Of Their Paine, With No Contentment Can Themselves Suffize; But Having, Pine, And Having Not, Complaine. 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 She. Xxxvi. Tell Me, When Shall These Wearie Woes Have End; Or Shall Their Ruthlesse Torment Never Cease, But Al My Days In Pining Languor Spend, Without Hope Of Asswagement 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 Shew'D All Extremityes, Then Think How Little Glory Ye Have Gayned By Slaying Him, Whose Lyfe, Though Ye Despyse, Mote Have Your Life In Honor Long Maintayned. But By His Death, Which Some Perhaps Will Mone, Ye Shall Condemned Be Of Many A One. Xxxvii. What Guyle Is This, That Those Her Golden Tresses She Doth Attyre Under A Net Of Gold, And With Sly Skill So Cunningly Them Dresses, That Which Is Gold Or Haire May Scarse Be Told? Is It That Mens Frayle Eyes, Which Gaze Too Bold, She May Entangle In That Golden Snare; And, Being Caught, May Craftily Enfold Their Weaker Harts, Which Are Not Wel Aware? Take Heed Therefore, Myne Eyes, How Ye Doe Stare Henceforth Too Rashly On That Guilefull Net, In Which If Ever Ye Entrapped Are, Out Of Her Bands Ye By No Meanes Shall Get. Fondnesse It Were For Any, Being Free, To Covet Fetters, Though They Golden Bee! Xxxviii. 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! Chuse Rather To Be Praysd For Doing 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 Wonts To Temper Angry Iove, 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 Ioy Resembling Heavenly Madness, My Soule Was Ravisht Quite As In A Traunce, And, Feeling Thence No More Her Sorrowes Sadnesse, Fed On The Fulnesse Of That Chearfull Glaunce. More Sweet Than Nectar, Or Ambrosiall Meat, Seem'D Every Bit Which Thenceforth I Did Eat. Xl. 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 Their Drouping Hed. So My Storme-Beaten Hart Likewise Is Cheared With That Sunshine, When Cloudy Looks Are Cleared. [Footnote: Xl. 4.--An Hundred Graces. E.K., In His Commentary On The Shepheards Calender, Quotes A Line Closely Resembling This From Spenser'S Pageants: "An Hundred Graces On Her Eyelids Sat." The Same Fancy Occurs In The Faerie Queene, And In The Hymn To Beauty. It Is Copied From A Poem Ascribed To Musaeus. C.] Xli. 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 Will 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. 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 Do I Wish (For Wishing Were But Vaine) To Be Acquit Fro My Continual Smart, But Ioy Her Thrall For Ever To Remayne, And Yield For Pledge My Poor And Captyved Hart, The Which, That It From Her May Never Start, Let Her, Yf Please Her, Bynd With Adamant Chayne, And From All Wandring Loves, Which Mote Pervart 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 Neither I May Speake Nor Thinke At All, But Like A Stupid Stock In Silence Die! Yet I My Hart With Silence Secretly Will Teach To Speak And My Just Cause To Plead, And Eke Mine Eies, With Meek Humility, Love-Learned Letters To Her Eyes To Read; Which Her Deep Wit, That True Harts Thought Can Spel, Wil Soon Conceive, And Learne To Construe Well. Xliv. When Those Renoumed Noble Peres Of Greece Through Stubborn Pride Among Themselves Did Iar, Forgetfull Of The Famous Golden Fleece, 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 Arre, No Skill Can Stint, Nor Reason Can Aslake. 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 Fynd Their Malice To Increace. 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,) Most Lively Lyke Behold Your Semblant Trew. Within My Hart, Though Hardly It Can Shew 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 Than Cristall, Would Therein Appere. But If Your Selfe In Me Ye Playne Will See, Remove The Cause By Which Your Fayre Beames Darkned Be. [* Visnomy, Countenance.] 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 Be. 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 Wrack. Enough It Is For One Man To Sustaine The Stormes Which She Alone On Me Doth Raine. Xlvii. Trust Not The Treason Of Those Smyling Lookes, Untill Ye Have Their Guylefull Traynes Well Tryde; For They Are Lyke But Unto Golden Hookes, That From The Foolish Fish Theyr Bayts Do 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 Their Cruell Play, And, Dying, Doe Themselves Of Payne Beguyle. O Mighty Charm! Which Makes Men Love Theyr Bane, And Thinck They Dy With Pleasure, Live With Payne. Xlviii. Innocent Paper! Whom Too Cruell Hand Did Make The Matter To Avenge Her Yre, And Ere She Could Thy Cause Well Understand, Did Sacrifize Unto The Greedy Fyre, Well Worthy Thou To Have Found Better Hyre Then So Bad End, For Hereticks Ordayned; Yet Heresy Nor Trea