Though melancholious wonders I deuise,
And compasse much, yet nothing can embrace;
And walke ore all, yet stand still in one place,
And bound on th' Earth, do soare aboue the skies:
I beg for life, and yet I bray for death,
And haue a mightie courage, yet dispaire;
I euer muse, yet am without all care,
And shout aloud, yet neuer straine my breath:
I change as oft as any wind can do,
Yet for all this am euer constant too.

SONET LXIX.

WHAT Wonder though my count'nance be not bright,
And that I looke as one with clouds inclos'd?
A great part of the Earth is enterpos'd
Betwixt the Sunne and me that giues me light:
Ah, since sequestred from that diuine face,
I find my selfe more sluggishly dispos'd:
Nor whilst on that cleare patterne I repos'd,
That put my inward darknesse to the flight.

No more then can the Sunne shine without beames,
Can she vncompas'd with her vertues liue,
Which to the world an euidence do giue
Of that rare worth which many a mouth proclaimes:
And which sometime did purifie my mind,
That by the want thereof is now made blind.

SONET LXX.

SOME gallant sprites, whose waies none yet dare trace,

To show the world the wonders of their wit,
Did (as their tossed fancies thought most fit)
Forme rare ideas of a diuine face.

Yet neuer art to that true worth attain'd,
Which Nature, now growne prodigall, imparts
To one deare one, whose sacred seuerall parts
Are more admir'd then all that poets fain'd.
Those bordring climes that boast of beautie's shrine,
If once thy sight emrich'd their soiles (my loue)
Then all with one consent behou'd t' approue,
That Calidon doth beauties best confine.
But ah, the Heau'n on this my ruine sounds,
The more her worth, the deeper are my wounds.

I pitie not their sighes that pierce the ayre,
To weepe at will were a degree of mirth:
But he (ay me) is to be pitied most,
Whose sorrowes haue attain'd to that degree,
That they are past expressing, and can be
Ouely imagin'd by a man that's lost.

The teares that would burst out yet are restrain'd,
Th' imprison'd plaints that perish without fame,
Sighs form'd and smoother'd ere they get a name,
Those to be pitied are (ô griefe vnfain'd)

Whilst sighes the voice, the voice the sighs confounds,

Then teares marre both, and all are out of bounds.

SONET LXXIÍ.

O My desire, if thou tookst time to marke,
When I against my will thy sight forsooke:
How that mine eyes with many an earnest looke,
Did in thy beautie's depth themselues embarke:
And when our lippes did seale the last farewell,
How loth were mine from those delights to part.
For what was purpos'd by the panting heart,
My toung cleau'd to the throat, and could not tell.
Then when to sorrow I the raines enlarg'd,
Whil'st being spoil'd of comfort and of might,
As fore'd for to forgo thy beautie's light,
Of burning sighs a volley I discharg'd:
No doubt then when thou spid'st what I did proue,
Thou saidst within thy selfe, This man doth loue.

MADRIGAL II.

BEHELD'ST thou me looke backe at our good night: O no good night,

Dismall, obscure, and blacke:

Mine eyes then in their language spake,
And would haue thus complain'd:

Thou leau'st the hart, makes vs depart;
Curst is our part,

And hard to be sustain'd.

O happie heart that was retain'd:
Alas, to leaue vs too, there is no art:

It in her bosome now should nightly sleepe,
And we exil'd, still for her absence weepe.

SONET LXXIII.

WHEN Whiles thy daintie hand doth crosse my light,
It seemes an yuorie table for Loue's storie,
On which th' impearled pillars, beautie's glorie,
Are rear'd betwixt the Sunne and my weake sight.
Though this would great humanitie appeare,
Which for a litle while my flame allayes,
And saues me vnconsum'd with beautie's rayes,
I rather die, then buy my life so deare.
Oft haue I wish'd whil'st in this state I was,
That th' alablaster bulwarke might transpare,
And that the pillars rarer then they are,
Might whiles permit some hapning rayes to passe:
But if eclips'd thy beautie's Sunne must stand,
Then be it with the Moone of thine owne hand.

SONET LXXIV.

Lo, in my faire each of the planets raignes :
She is as Saturne, euer graue and wise,
And as Ioue's thunderbolts, her thundring eyes
Do plague the pride of men with endlesse paines:
Her voyce is as Apollo's, and her head

Is euer garnish'd with his golden beames,
And ô her heart, which neuer fancie tames:
More fierce then Mars makes thousands to lie dead.
From Mercurie her eloquence proceeds,
Of Venus she the sweetnesse doth retaine,
Her face still full doth Phoebe's lightnesse staine,
Whom likewise she in chastitie exceeds.
No wonder then though this in me doth moue,
To such a diuine soule, a diuine loue.

SONET LXXV.

My faithfull thoughts no dutie do omit;
But being fraughted with most zealous cares,
Are euer busied for my loue's affaires,
And in my brest as senators do sit,

To my heart's famine yeelding pleasant food.
They sugred fancies in my bosome breed,
And would haue all so well for to succeed,
That through excessiue care they nought conclude:
But ah, I feare that their affections trie

In end like th' ape's, that whil'st he seekes to proue
The powrefull motions of a parent's loue,
Doth oft embrace his young ones till they die:
So to my heart my thoughts do cleaue so fast,
That ô, I feare they make it burst at last.

MADRIGAL III.

I SAW my loue like Cupid's mother,
Her tresses sporting with her face,
Which being proud of such a grace,
Whiles kist th' one cheeke, and whiles the other:
Her eyes glad such a meanes t' embrace,
Whereby they might haue me betraid,
Themselues they in ambushment laid,
Behind the treasures of her haire,
And wounded me so deadly there,
That doubtlesse I had dead remain'd,
Were not the treason she disdain'd;
And with her lippes' sweet balme my health pro-
I would be wounded oft to be so cur'd.

[cur'd:

SONET LXXVI.

WHAT fortune strange, what strange misfortune erst
Did tosse me with a thousand things in vaine,
Whiles sad despaires confounded did remaine?
Whiles all my hopes were to the winds disperst?
Erected whiles, and whiles againe renuerst?
Whiles nurc'd with smiles, whiles murther'd with
disdaine,

Whiles borne aloft, whiles laid as low againe?
And with what state haue I not once bene verst?
But yet my constant mind which vertue binds,
From the first course no new occurrence drawes:
Still like a rocke by sea against the waues,
Or like a hill by land against the winds:
So all the world that viewes that which I find,
May damne my destinie, but not my mind.

SONET LXXVII.

I LONG to see this pilgrimage expire,
That makes the eyes for to enuie the mind,
Whose sight with absence cannot be confin'd,
But warmes it selfe still at thy beautie's fire.
Loue in my bosome did thy image sinke
So deepely once, it cannot be worne out:
Yet once the eyes may haue their course about,
And see farre more, then now the mind can thinke.
I'le once retire in time before I die,

There where thou first my libertie didst spoile :
For otherwise dead in a forraine soile,
Still with my selfe entomb'd my faith shall lie. '
No, no, I'le rather die once in thy sight,
Then in this state die 'ten times in one night.

SONET LXXVIII.

I CHANC'D, my deare, to come vpon a day,
Whil'st thou wast but arising from thy bed,
And the warme snowes with comely garments cled;
More rich then glorious, and more fine then gay:
Then blushing to be seene in such a case,
O how thy curled lockes mine eyes did please,
And well become those waues, thy beautie's seas,
Which by thy haires were fram'd vpon thy face:
Such was Diana once when, being spide
By rash Acteon, she was much commou'd:
Yet more discreet then th' angrie goddesse prou'd,
Thou knew'st I came through errour, not of pride:
And thought the wounds I got by thy sweet sight,
Were too great scourges for a fault so light.

MADRIGAL IV.

ONCE for her face, I saw my faire
Did of her haires a shadow make:
Or rather wandring hearts to take.
She stented had those nets of gold,
Sure by this meanes all men t' ensnare,
She toss'd the streamers with her breath,
And seem'd to boast a world with death:
But when I did the sleight behold,
I to the shadow did repaire,

To flie the burning of thine eyes;
O happie he, by such a sleight that dies.

SONET LXXIX.

THE most refreshing waters come from rockes,
Some bitter rootes oft send foorth daintie flowres,
The growing greenes are cherished with showres,
And pleasant stemmes spring from deformed stockes:
The hardest hils do feed the fairest flockes:
All greatest sweetes were sugred first with sowres,
The headlesse course of vncontrolled houres,
To all difficulties a way vnlockes.

I hope to haue a Heauen within thine armes,
And quiet calmes when all these stormes are past,
Which coming vnexpected at the last,
May burie in obliuion by-gone harmes.
To suffer first, to sorrow, sigh, and smart,
Endeeres the conquest of a cruell hart.

SONET LXXX.

WHEN Loue spide Death like to triumph ore me,
That had bene such a pillar of his throne;
And that all Esculapius' hopes were gone,
Whose drugs had not the force to set me free,
He labour'd to reduce the Fates' decree,
And thus bespake the tyrant that spares none:
"Thou that wast neuer mou'd with worldlings mone,
To saue this man for my request agree:
And I protest that he shall dearely buy
The short prolonging of a wretched life:
For it shall be inuolu'd in such a strife,
That he shall neuer liue, but euer die."
O what a a cruell kindnesse Cupid crau'd,
Who for to kill me oft, my life once sau'd.

SONET LXXXI.

OFT haue I vow'd of none t' attend releefe,
Whose ardour was not equall vnto mine,
And in whose face there did not clearely shine
The very image of my inward greefe :
But so the dest'nies do my thoughts dispose;
I wot not what a fatall force ordaines,
That I abase my selfe to beare disdaines,
And honour one that ruines my repose.
Oft haue I vow'd no more to be orethrowne,
But still retaining my affections free,

To fancie none, but them that fancied me:
But now I see my will is not mine owne.
Then ah, may you bewitch my iudgement so,
That I must loue, although my heart say no!

I WOULD thy beautie's wonders show,
Which none can tell, yet all do know:
Thou borrowst nought to moue delight,
Thy beauties (deare) are all perfite.
And at the head I'le first begin,
Most rich without, more rich within:
Within, a place Minerua claimes,
Without, Apollo's golden beames,

Whose smiling wanes those seas may scorne,
Where beautie's goddesse earst was borne:
And yet do boast a world with death,
If toss'd with gales of thy sweet breath.
1 for two crescents take thy browes,

Or rather for two bended bowes,

Whose archer loue, whose white men's harts,
Thy frownes, no, smiles, smiles are thy darts;
Which to my ruine euer bent,
Are oft discharg'd but neuer spent.
Thy sunnes, I dare not say, thine eyes,
Which oft do set, and oft do rise:
Whilst in thy face's hean'n they moue,
Giue light to all the world of lone:
And yet do whiles defraud our sight,
Whil'st two white clouds eclipse their light.
The laborinthes of thine eares,

Where Beautie both her colours reares,
Are lawne laid on a scarlet ground,
Whereas Loue's ecchoes euer sound:

Thy cheekes, strawberries dipt in milke,
As white as snow, as soft as silke;
Gardens of lillies and of roses,
Where Cupid still himselfe reposes,
And on their daintie rounds he sits,
When he would charme the rarest wits.
Those swelling vales which beautie owes,
Are parted with a dike of snowes:
The line that still is stretch'd out euen,
And doth diuide thy face's heauen:
It hath the prospect of those lippes,
From which no word vnballanc'd slippes:
There is a grot by Nature fram'd,
Which Art to follow is asham'd:

All those whom fame for rare giues foorth,
Compar'd with this are litle woorth,
T is all with pearles and rubies set;
But I the best almost forget,
There do the gods (as I haue tride)
Their ambrosie and nectar hide.
The daintie pit that 's in thy chin,
Makes many a heart for to fall in,
Whereas they boyle with pleasant fires,
Whose fuell is endam'd desires.
'Tis eminent in beautie's field,
As that which threatens all to yeeld.
T' vphold those treasures vndefac'd,
There is an yuorie pillar plac'd,
Which like to Maia's sonne doth proue,
For to beare vp this world of loue:
In it some branched veines arise,
As th' azure pure would braue the skies.
I see whiles as I downward moue,
Two litle globes, two worlds of loue,
Which vndiscouer'd, vndistressed,
Were neuer with no burden pressed:
Nor will for lord acknowledge none,
To be enstal'd in beautie's throne:
As barren yet so were they bare,
O happie he that might dwell there.

And now my Muse we must make hast,

To it that 's iustly cal'd the wast,

That wasts my heart with hopes and feares,
My breath with sighes, mine eyes with teares:
Yet I to it, for all those harmes,
Would make a girdle of mine armes.
There is below which no man knowes,
A mountaine made of naked snowes;
Amidst the which is Loue's great seale,
To which for helpe I oft appeale,
And if by it my right were past,

I should brooke beautie still at last.
But ah, my Muse will lose the crowne,

I dare not go no further downe,
Which doth discourage me so much,
That I no other thing will touch.
No, not those litle daintie feet,
Which Thetis staine, for Venus meet:
Thus wading through the depths of beautie,
I would haue faine discharg'd my dutie:
Yet doth thy worth so passe my skill,
That I show nothing but good will.

SONET LXXXIII.

THAT fault on me (my faire) no further vrge, Nor wrest it not vnto a crooked sence,

The punishment else passeth the offence: This fault was in it selfe too great a scourge,

An, thou (my loue) wilt lose thy selfe at last,
Who can to match thy selfe with none agree:
Thou ow'st thy father nephewes, and to me
A recompence for all my passions past.

Ah, why should'st thou thy beautie's treasure wast,
Which will begin for to decay I see?
Earst Daphne did become a barren tree,
Because she was not halfe so wise as chast:
And all the fairest things do soonest fade,
Which O, I feare, thou with repentance trie;
The roses blasted are, the lillies dye,
And all do languish in the sommer's shade:
Yet will I grieue to see those flowers fall downe,
Which for my temples should haue fram'd a crowne.

SONET LXXXV,

SOME yet not borne surueying lines of mine,
Shall enuie with a sigh, the eyes that view'd
Those beauties with my bloud so oft imbrude,
The which by me in many a part do shine.
Those reliques then of this turmoil'd engine,
Which for thy fauour haue so long pursude,
Then after death will make my fortune rued,
And thee despited that didst make me pine.
Ah, that thou should'st, to wracke so many hearts,
Exceed in all excellencies, but loue!
That maske of rigour from thy mind remoue,
And then thou art accomplish'd in all parts:
Then shall thy fame ore all vntainted flie,
Thou in my lines, and I shall liue in thee.

This is not she that onely shines by night,
No borrow'd beame doth beautifie thy faire:
But this is she, whose beauties, more then rare,
Come crown'd with roses to restore the light,
When Phoebe pitch'd her pitchie pauilion out,
The world with weeping told,

How happie it would hold

It selfe, but to behold

The azure pale that compas'd her about.
Whil'st like a palide half-imprison'd rose,
Whose naked white doth but to blush begin,
A litle scarlet deckes the yuorie skinne,
Which still doth glance transparent as she goes:
The beamie god comes burning with desire;
And when he finds her gone,
With many a grieuous grone,
Enrag'd, remounts anone,

And threatneth all our hemi-sphere with fire.
Lift vp thine eyes and but beheld thy blisse,
Th' Heau'ns raine their riches on thee whil'st thou
sleep'st:

Thinke what a matchlesse treasure that thou keep'st,
When thou hast all that any else can wish.
Those Sunnes which daily dazle thy dim eyes,
Might with one beame or so,
Which thou mightst well forgo,
Straight banish all my wo,

And make me all the world for to despise.

But Sun-parch'd people loath the precious stones,
And through abundance vilifie the gold;
All dis-esteeme the treasures that they hold,
And thinke not things possest (as they thought) once.
Who surfet oft on such excessiue ioyes,
Can neuer pleasure prize,
But building on the skies,
All present things despise,

And like their treasure lesse, then others' toyes.
I enuie not thy blisse, so Heau'n hath doom'd;
And yet I cannot but lament mine owne,
Whose hopes hard at the haruest were orethrowne,
And blisse halfe ripe, with frosts of feare consum'd:
Faire blossomes, which of fairer fruites did boast,
Were blasted in the Bowers,
With eye exacted showers,
Whose sweet-supposed sowers

Of preconceited pleasures grieu'd me most.
And what a griefe is this (as chance effects)
To see the rarest beauties worst bestow'd?
Ah, why should halting Vulcan be made proud
Of that great beautie which sterne Mars affects?
And why should Tithon thus, whose day growes late,
Enioy the morning's loue?

Which though that I disproue,
Yet will I too approue,

Since that it is her will, and my hard fate.

SONET XC.

I wor not what transported hath my mind,
That I in armes against a goddesse stand;
Yet though I sue t' one of th' immortall band,
The like before was prosp'rously design'd.
To loue Anchises Venus thought no scorne,
And Thetis earst was with a mortall match'd,
Whom if th' aspiring Peleus had not catch'd,
The great Achilles neuer had bene borne.
Thus flatter I my selfe whilst nought confines
My wandring fancies that strange wayes do trace,
He that embrac'd a cloud in Iunoe's place,
May be a terrour to the like designes :
But fame in end th' aduentrer euer crownes,
Whom either th' issue or th' attempt renownes.

SONET LXXXVII.

;

No wonder, thou endang’rest liues with lookes,
And dost bewitch the bosome by the eare:
What hostes of hearts, that no such sleight did feare,
Are now entangled by thy beautie's hookes?
But if so many to the world approue,
Those princely vertues that enrich my mind,
And hold thee for the honour of thy kind;
Yea though disdain'd, yet desperatly loue:
O what a world of haplesse louers liue,
That like a treasure entertaine their thought,
And seeme in show as if effecting nought,
And in their brest t' entombe their fancies striue:
Yet let not this with pride thy heart possesse;
The Sun being mounted high, doth seeme the lesse.

SONET XCI.

AND must I lose in vaine so great a loue,
And build thy glorie on my ruin'd state?
And can a heauenly brest contract such hate?
And is the mildest sexe so hard to moue?
Haue all my offrings had no greater force,
The which so oft haue made thine altars smoke?
Well, if that thou haue vow'd not to reuoke
The fatall doome that 's farre from all remorce,
For the last sacrifice my selfe shall smart,
My bloud must quench my vehement desires;
And let thine eyes drinke vp my funerall fires,
And with my ashes glut thy tygrish heart:
So though thou at my wonted flames didst spurne,
Thou must trust those, when as thou seest me burne.

SONET LXXXVIII.

THOSE beauties (deare) which all thy sexe enuies,
As grieu❜d men should such sacred wonders view:
For pompe apparel'd in a purple hue,

Do whiles disdaine the pride of mortall eyes,
Which, ah, attempting farre aboue their might,
Do gaze vpon the glorie of those Sunnes, [runnes,
Whilst many a ray that from their brightnesse
Doth dazle all that dare looke on their light:
Or was it this, which ô I feare me most,
That cled with scarlet, so thy purest parts,
Thy face it hauing wounded worlds of harts,
Would die her lillies with the bloud they lost:
Thus ere thy cruelties were long conceal'd,
They by thy guilty blush would be reueal'd.

SONET XCII.

I wor not which to chalenge for my death,
Of those thy beauties that my ruine seekes,
The pure white fingers or the daintie cheekes,
The golden tresses, or the nectar'd breath:
Ah, they be all too guiltie of my fall,
All wounded me though I their glorie rais'd;
Although I graunt they need not to be prais'd,
It may suffise they be Aurora's all:

Yet for all this, O most ungratefull woman,
Thou shalt not scape the scourge of iust disdaine;
I gaue thee gifts thou shouldst haue giuen againe,
It's shame to be in thy inferiors common:
gaue all what I held most deare to thee,
Yet to this houre thou neuer guerdon'd me.

SONET LXXXIX.

SMALL Comfort might my banish'd hopes recall,
When whiles my daintie faire I sighing see;
If I could thinke that one were shed for me,
It were a guerdon great enough for all:
Or would she let one teare of pittie fall,
That seem'd dismist from a remorcefull eye,
I could content my selfe vngrieu'd to die,
And nothing might my constancie appall,
The onely sound of that sweet word of loue,
Prest twixt those lips that do my doome containe.
Were I imbark'd, might bring me backe againe
From death to life, and make me breathe and moue.
Strange crueltie, that neuer can afford

So much as once one sigh, one teare, one word.

SONET XCIII.

WHILST carelesse swimming in thy beautie's seas,
I wondring was at that bewitching grace,
Thou painted pitie on a cruell face,
And angled so my iudgement by mine eyes:
But now begun to triumph in my scorne,
When I cannot retire my steps againe,
Thou arm'st thine eyes with enuy and disdaine,
To murther my abortiue hopes halfe borne:
Whilst like to end this long continued strife,
My palenesse showes I perish in dispaire;
Thou loth to lose one that esteemes thee faire,
With some sweete word or looke prolongst my life:
And so each day in doubt redact'st my state,
Deare, do not so, once either loue or hate.