V. SONNET.

How that vast Heaven entitled First is roll'd,
If any glancing towers beyond it be,
And people living in eternity,

Or essence pure that doth this all uphold:
What motion have those fixed sparks of gold,
The wand'ring carbuncles which shine from high,
By sprites, or bodies cross-ways in the sky,
If they be turn'd, and mortal things behold:
How Sun posts heaven about, how night's pale queen
With borrow'd beams looks on this hanging round;
What cause fair Iris hath, and monsters seen
In air's large fields of light and seas profound,
Did hold my wand'ring thoughts; when thy sweet
Bade me leave all, and only think on thee.

VI. SONNET.

[eye

FAIR is my yoke, though grievous be my pains,
Sweet are my wounds, although they deeply smart,
My bit is gold, though shorten'd be the reins,
My bondage brave, though I may not depart;
Although I burn, the fire which doth impart
Those flames, so sweet reviving force contains,
That, like Arabia's bird, my wasted heart,
Made quick by death, more lively still remains.
I joy, though oft my waking eyes spend tears,
I never want delight, even when I groan,
Best 'companied when most I am alone,
A Heaven of hopes I have midst Hells of fears:
Thus every way contentment strange I find
But most in her rare beauty, my rare mind.

IX. SONNET.

Now while the Night her sable veil hath spread,
And silently her resty coach doth roll,
Rousing with her from Thetis' azure bed,
Those starry nymphs which dance about the pole;
While Cynthia, in purest cypress clad,
The Latmian shepherd in a trance descries,
And looking pale from height of all the skies,
She dyes her beauties in a blushing red;
While sleep, in triumph, closed hath all eyes,
And birds and beasts a silence sweet do keep,
And Porteus' monstrous people in the deep,
The winds and waves, hush'd up, to rest entice;
I wake, I turn, I weep oppress'd with pain,
Perplex'd in the meanders of my brain.

X. SONNET.

SLEEP, silence' child, sweet father of soft rest,
Prince whose approach peace to all mortals brings,
Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings,
Sole comforter of minds which are oppress'd;
Lo, by thy charming rod, all breathing things
Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulness possess'd,
And yet o're me to spread thy drowsy wings
Thou spar'st, alas! who cannot be thy guest.
Since I am thine, O come, but with that face
To inward light, which thou art wont to show,
With feigned solace ease a true felt woe;
Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace,
Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath,
I long to kiss the image of my death.

VII. SONNET.

VAUNT not, fair Heavens, of your two glorious lights,
Which though most bright, yet see not when they
And shining, cannot show their beams divine [shine,
Both in one place, but part by days and nights,
Earth, vaunt not of those treasures ye enshrine,
Held only dear, because hid from our sights,
Your pure and burnish'd gold, your diamonds fine,
Snow-passing ivory that the eye delights.
Nor seas, of those dear wares are in you found
Vaunt not, rich pearl, red coral, which do stir
A fond desire in fools to plunge your ground;
These all more fair are to be had in her:
Pearl, ivory, coral, diamond, suns, gold,
Teeth, neck, lips, heart, eyes, hair are to behold.

XI. SONNET.

FAIR Moon, who with thy cold and silver shine
Mak'st sweet the horror of the dreadful night,
Delighting the weak eye with smiles divine,
Which Phoebus dazzles with his too much light;
Bright queen of the First Heaven, if in thy shrine
By turning oft, and Heaven's eternal might,
Thou hadst not yet that once sweet fire of thine,
Endemion, forgot, and lovers' plight:

If cause like thine may pity breed in thee,
And pity somewhat else to it obtain,
Since thou hast power of dreams as well as he
That holds the golden rod and moral chain;
Now while she sleeps, in doleful guise her show
These tears, and the black map of all my woe.

VIII. SONNET.

WHEN Nature now had wonderfully wrought
All Auristella's parts, except her eyes,
To make those twins two lamps in beauty's skies,
She counsel of her starry senate sought.
Mars and Apollo first did her advise,
To wrap in colour black those comets bright,
That Love him so might soberly disguise,
And unperceived wound at every sight.
Chaste Phoebe spake for purest azure dyes;
But Jove and Venus green about the light,
To frame thought best, as bringing most delight,
That to pin'd hearts hope might for aye arise:
Nature, all said, a paradise of green [seen.
There plac'd to make all love which have them

XII. SONNET.

LAMP of Heaven's crystal hall that brings the hours,
Eye-dazzler, who makes the ugly night
At thy approach fly to her slumb'ry bowers,
And fills the world with wonder and delight;
Life of all lives, death-giver by thy flight
To the south pole from these six signs of ours,
Goldsmith of all the stars, with silver bright
Who Moon enamels, Apelles of the flowers:
Ah from those wat'ry plains thy golden head
Raise up, and bring the so long ling'ring morn;
A grave, nay Hell, I find become this bed,
This bed so grievously where I am torn:
But wo is me though thou now brought the day,
Day shall but serve more sorrows to display.

I, who yet human weakness did not know,
(For yet I had not felt that archer's bow,
Nor could I think that from the coldest water
The winged youngling burning flames could scatter)
On every part my vagabonding sight

Did cast, and drown mine eyes in sweet delight.
"O wondrous thing,"said 1," that beauty's nam'd!
Now I perceive I heretofore have dream'd,
And never found in all my flying days
Joy unto this, which only merits praise.
My pleasures have been pains, my comforts crosses,
My treasure poverty, my gains but losses.
O precious sight! which none doth else descry
Except the burning Sun, and quivering I.
And yet, O dear-bought sight! O would for ever
I might enjoy you, or had joy'd you never!
O happy flood! if so ye might abide,
Yet ever glory of this moment's pride,
Adjure your rillets all for to behold her,
And in their crystal arms to come and fold her:
And since ye may not long this bliss embrace,
Draw thousand portraits of her on your face,
Portraits which in my heart be more apparent,
If like to yours my breast but were transparent.
O that I were, while she doth in you play,
A dolphin, to transport her to the sea!

To none of all those gods I would her render,
From Thule to Inde though I should with her
wander.

Oh! what is this? the more I fix mine eye,
Mine eye the more new wonders doth espy,
The more I spy, the more in uncouth fashion
My soul is ravish'd in a pleasant passion.

"But look not eyes"-As more I would have said, A sound of rattling wheels me all dismay'd, And with the sound forth from the trembling bushes,

With storm-like course a sumptuous chariot rushes,
A chariot all of gold, the wheels were gold,
The nails, and axle gold on which it roll'd:
The upmost part a scarlet veil did cover,
More rich than Danae's lap spread with her lover.
In midst of it, in a triumphant chair,
A lady sate miraculously fair,

Whose pensive countenance, and looks of honour,
Do more allure the mind that thinketh on her,
Than the most wanton face, and amorous eyes,
That Amathus or flow'ry Paphos sees;
A crew of virgins made a ring about her,
The diamond she, they seem the gold without her.
Such Thetis is, when to the billows' roar
With mermaids nice she danceth on the shore:
So in a sable night the Sun's bright sister
Among the lesser twinkling lights doth glister.
Fair yokes of ermilines, whose colours pass
The whitest snows on aged Grampius' face,
More swift than Venus' birds this chariot guided
To the astonish'd bank, where as it bided:
But long it did not bide, when poor those streams
(Ah me!) it made, transporting those rich gems,
And by that burden lighter, swiftly drived
Till as methought it at a tow'r arrived:

Upon a rock of crystal shining clear
With diamonds wrought this castle did appear,
Whose rising spires of gold so high them reared,
That, Atlas-like, it seem'd the Heaven they beared.
Amidst which heights on arches did arise
(Arches which gilt flames brandish to the skies)
Of sparkling topazes, proud, gorgeous, ample,
(Like to a little Heaven) a sacred temple.

The walls no windows have, nay all the wall
Is but one window, night there doth not fall
More when the Sun to western worlds declineth,
Than in our zenith when at noon he sbineth.
Two flaming hills the passage strait defend
Which to this radient building doth ascend,
Upon whose arching tops on a pilaster
A port stands open, raised in love's disaster
For none that narrow bridge and gate can pass,
Who have their faces seen in Venus' glass.
If those within but to come forth do venture,
That stately place again they never enter.
The precinct's strengthen'd with a ditch of fears,
In which doth swell a lake of inky years
Of madding lovers, who abide their moaning,
And thicken e'en the air with piteous groaning.
This hold to brave the skies the Dest'nies fram'd,
And then the fort of Chastity is nam❜d.
The queen of the third Heaven once, to appal it,
The god of Thrace here brought, who could not
thrall it;

For which he vow'd ne'er arms more to put on,
And on Riphean hills was heard to groan.
Here Psyche's lover hurls his darts at randon,
Which all for nought him serve, as doth his
brandon.

What grievous agony did invade my mind,
When in that place my hope I saw confin'd,
Where with high tow'ring thoughts I only reach'd
her,
[her.
Which did burn up their wings when they approac'd
Methought I sat me by a cypress shade,
And night and day the hyacinth there read;
And that bewailing nightingales did borrow
Plaints of my plaint, and sorrows of my sorrow.
My food was wormwood, mine own tears my drink,
My rest, on death and sad mishaps to think.
And for such thoughts to have my heart enlarged,
And ease mine eyes with briny tribute charged,
Over a brook I laid my pining face:

[me,

But then the brook, as griev'd at my disgrace,
A face me show'd so pin'd, sad, overclouded,
That at the sight afraid mine eyes them shrouded.
This is thy guerdon, Love, this is the game,
In end which to thy servants doth remain.
More would I say; when fear made sleep to leave
And of those fatal shadows did bereave me;
But ah, alas! instead to dream of love,
And woes, I now them in effect did prove:
For what unto my troubled brain was painted,
Awak'd I found that time and place presented.

XIV. SONNET.

AH burning thoughts, now let me take some rest,
And your tumultuous broils awhile appease:
Is 't not enough, stars, fortune, love molest
Me all at once, but ye must too displease?
Let hope (though false) yet lodge within my breast,
My high attempt (though dangerous) yet praise:
What though I trace not right Heaven's steepy ways,
It doth suffice my fall doth make me blest.
I do not doat on days, I fear not death,
So that my life be good, I wish't not long;
Let me renown'd live from the worldly throng,
And when Heaven lists, recal this borrow'd breath,
Men but like visions are, time all doth claim,
He lives who dies to win a lasting name.

XV. SONNET.

THAT learned Grecian who did so excel
In knowledge passing sense, that he is nam'd
Of all the after world divine, doth tell
That all the time when first our souls are fram'd,
Ere in these mansions blind they come to dwell,
They live bright rays of that eternal light,
And others see, know, love, in Heaven's great height,
Not toil'd with aught 'gainst reason to rebel.
It is most true, for straight at the first sight
My mind me told that in some other place
It elsewhere saw th' idea of that face,
And lov'd a love of heavenly pure delight.
What wonder now I feel so fair a flame,
Since I her lov'd ere on this Earth she came ?

XVI. SONNET.

NOR Arne, nor Mincius, nor stately Tiber,
Sebethus, nor the flood into whose streams
He fell who burnt the world with borrow'd beams,
Gold-rolling Tagus, Munda, famous Iber, [Seine,
Sorgue, Rhone, Loire, Garron, nor proud banked
Peneus, Phasis, Xanthus, humble Ladon,
Nor she whose nymphs excel her loved Adon,
Fair Tamesis, nor Ister large, nor Rhine,
Euphrates, Tigris, Indus, Hermus, Gange,
Pearly Hydaspes, serpent-like Meander,
The flood which robbed Hero of Leander,
Nile that so far his hidden head doth range,
Have ever had so rare a cause of praise,
As Ora where this northern phenix stays.

WITH flaming horns the Bull now brings the year,
Melt do the mountains, rolling floods of snow,
The silver rivers in smooth channels flow,
The late bare woods green anadems do wear;
The nightingale, forgetting winter's woe,
Spread are those flow'rs which names of princes bear,
Calls up the lazy morn her notes to hear;
Some red, some azure, white, and golden grow.
Here lows a heifer, there bewailing strays
A harmless lamb, not far a stag rebounds;
The shepherds sing to grazing flocks sweet lays,
And all about the echoing air resounds.
Hills, dales, woods, floods, ev'ry thing doth change,
But she in rigour, I in love am strange.

XX. SONNET.

THAT I SO slenderly set forth my mind,
Writing I know not what in ragged rhymes,
'ercharg'd with brass in these so golden times,
When others tow'r so high, I'm left behind:
I crave not Phoebus leave his sacred cell,
To bind my brows with fresh Aonian bays;
But leav't to those, who, tuning sweetest lays,
By Tempe sit, or Aganippe's well;
Nor yet to Venus' tree do I aspire,
Since she for whom I might affect that praise,
My best attempts with cruel words gainsays,
And I seek not that others me admire.
Of weeping myrrh the crown is which I crave,
With a sad cypress to adorn my grave.

XVII. SONNET.

To bear my plaints, fair river crystalline,
Thou in a silent slumber seem'st to stay;
Delicious flowers, lily and columbine,
Ye bow your heads when I my woes display;
Forests, in you the myrtle, palm and bay,
Have had compassion, list'ning to my groans;
The winds with sighs have solemniz'd my moans
'Mong leaves, which whisper'd what they could not
say;

The caves, the rocks, the hills, the sylvans' thrones, (As if even pity did in them appear)

Have at my sorrow rent their ruthless stones :
Each thing I find hath sense except my dear,
Who doth not think I love, or will not know
My grief, perchance delighting in my woe.

XXI. MADRIGAL.

WHEN as she smiles I find

More light before mine eyes,
Than when the Sun from Inde
Brings to our world a flow'ry paradise:
But when she gently weeps,
And pours forth pearly showers,
On cheeks fair blushing flowers,
A sweet melancholy my senses keeps;
Both feed so my disease,

So much both do me please,

That oft I doubt, which more my heart doth burn, Love to behold her smile, or pity mourn.

XVIII. SONNET.

SWEET brook, in whose clear crystal I my eyes
Have oft seen great in labour of their tears;
Enamell'd bank, whose shining gravel bears
These sad charactures of my miseries; [spheres,
High woods, whose mountain-tops menace the
Wild citizens, Amphions of the trees,
You gloomy groves at hottest noons which freeze,
Elysian shades which Phoebus never clears;
Vast solitary mountains, pleasant plains,
Embroider'd meads that ocean-ways you reach ;
Hills, dales, springs, all whom my sad cry constrains
To take part of my plaints, and learn woe's speech,
Will that remorseless fair e'er pity show?
Of grace now answer, if ye aught know: No.

XXII. SONNET.

My tears may well Numidian lions tame,
And pity breed into the hardest heart
That ever Pyrrha did to maid impart,
When she them first of blushing rocks did frame.
Ah, eyes, which only serve to 'wail my smart,
How long will you my inward woes proclaim?
May 't not suffice you bear a weeping part
All night, at day but you must do the same?
Cease, idle sighs, to spend your storms in vain,
And these sweet silent thickets to molest,
Contain you in the prison of my breast,
You do not ease but aggravate my pain;
Or if burst forth you must, that tempest move
In sight of her whom I so dearly love.

XXIII. SONNET.

You restless seas, appease your roaring waves,
And you, who raise huge mountains in that plain,
Air's trumpeters, your hideous sounds contain,
And listen to the plaints my grief doth cause.
Eternal lights! though adamantine laws
Of destinies to move still you ordain,
Turn hither all your eyes, your axles pause,
And wonder at the torments I sustain,
Sad Earth, if thou, made dull by my disgrace,
Be not as senseless, ask those powers above
Why they so crost a wretch brought on thy face,
Fram'd for mishap, the anchorite of love;
And bid them (that no more tuas may burn)
To Erimanth' or Rhodope me turn.

XXIV. SONNET.

IF crost with all mishaps be my poor life,
If one short day I never spent in mirth,
If my sp'rit with itself holds lasting strife,
If sorrows death is but new sorrows birth;
If this vain world be but a mournful stage,
Where slave-born man plays to the laughing stars,
If youth be toss'd with love, with weakness age,
If knowledge serves to hold our thoughts in wars,
If time can close the hundred mouths of Fame,

And make what's long since past, like that's to be,
If virtue only be an idic name,

If being born I was but born to die;
Why seek I to prolong these loathsome days?
The fairest rose in shortest time decays.

I look each day when death should end the wars,
Uncivil wars 'twixt sense and reason's light;
My pains I count to mountains, meads and floods,
And of my sorrow partners make the stars;
All desolate I haunt the fearful woods,
When I should give myself to rest at night.

With watchful eyes I ne'er behold the night,
Mother of peace, (but ah to me of wars)
And Cynthia queen-like shining through the woods,
But straight those lamps come in my thought whose
light

My judgment dazzled, passing brightest stars,
And then my eyes in-isle themselves with floods.

Turn to the springs again first shall the floods,
Clear shall the Sun the sad and gloomy night,
To dance about the pole cease shall the stars,
The elements renew their ancient wars
Shall first, and be depriv'd of place and light,
Ere I find rest in city, fields, or woods.

End these my days, ye inmates of the woods,
Take this my life, ye deep and raging floods;
Sun, never rise to clear ine with thy light,
Horrour and darkness, keep a lasting night,
Consume me, care, with thy intestine wars,
And stay your influence o'er me, ye bright stars.

Care, horrour, wars I call, and raging floods,
In vain the stars, th' inhabitants o' th' woods,
For all have sworn to night shall dim my sight.

XXV. SONNET.

ALL other beauties howsoe'er they shine
In hairs more bright than is the golden ore,
Or cheeks more fair than fairest eglantine,
Or hands like hers that comes the Sun before:

Match'd with that heavenly hue, and shape divine,
With those dear stars which my weak thoughts adore,
Look but as shadows, or if they be more,
It is in this, that they are like to thine.
Who sees those eyes, their force that doth not prove;
Who gazeth on the dimple of that chin,
And finds not Venus' son entrench'd therein,
Or bath not sense, or knows not what is love.
To see thee had Narcissus had the grace,
He would have died with wond'ring on thy face.

XXVII. SONNET.

O SACRED blush empurpling cheeks, pure skies
With crimson wings which spread thee like the morn;
O bashful look, sent from those shining eyes,
Which though slid down on Earth doth Heaven adorn;
O tongue, in which most luscious nectar lies,
That can at once both bless and make forlorn;
Dear coral lip, which beauty beautifies,
That trembling stood before her words were born;
And you her words; words? no, but golden chains,
Which did inslave my ears, ensnare my soul,
Wise image of her mind, mind that contains
A power all power of senses to controul:
So sweetly you from love dissuade do me,
That I love more, if more my love can be

XXVI. SEXTAIN.

THE Heaven doth not contain so many stars,
Nor levell'd lie so many leaves in woods,
When Autumn and cold Boreas sound their wars;
So many waves have not the ocean floods,
As my torn mind hath torments all the night,
And heart spends sighs, when Phoebus brings the light.

Why was I made a partner of the light,
Who, crost in birth, by bad aspect of stars,
Have never since had happy day or night?
Why was not I a liver in the woods,
Or citizen of Thetis' crystal floods,

But fram'd a man for love and fortune's wars?

XXVIII. SONNET.

SOUND hoarse, sad lute, true witness of my woe,
And strive no more to ease self-chosen pain
With soul-enchanting sounds, your accents strain
Unto those tears incessantly which flow.
Sad treble, weep, and you, dull basses, show
Your master's sorrow in a doleful strain;
Let never joyful hand upon you go,
Nor concert keep but when you do complain.
Fly Phoebus' rays, abhor the irksome light;
Woods' solitary shades for thee are best,
Or the black horrours of the blackest night,
When all the world save thou and I do rest:
Then sound, sad lute, and bear a mourning part,
Thou Hell canst move, though not a woman's heart,