LONG while I sought to what I might compare
Those powerful eyes which lighten my dark spright,
Yet find I nought on earth to which I dare
Resemble th' image of the goodly light.
Not to the sun, for they do shine by night;
Nor to the moon, for they are changed never:
Nor to the stars, for they have purer sight;
Nor to the fire, for they consume not ever;
Nor to the lightning, for they still presever;
Nor to the diamond, for they are more tender;
Nor unto crystal, for nought may them sever;
Nor unto glass, such baseness mought offend her :
Then to the Maker self they likest be,
Whose light doth lighten all that here we see.
ONE day I sought with heart-thrilling eyes
To make a truce, and terms to entertain,
All fearless then of so false enemies,
Which sought me to entrap in treason's train :
So as I then disarmed did remain,
A wicked ambush which lay hidden long
In the close covert of her guileful eyen,
Thence breaking forth, did thick about me throng. Too feeble I to abide the brunt so strong,
Was forced to yield myself into their hands,
Who me captiving, straight with rigorous wrong
Have ever since kept me in cruel bands:
So, Lady, now to you I do complain
Against your eyes, that justice I may gain.
In that proud port which her so goodly graceth,
Whiles her fair face she rears up to the sky,
And to the ground her eyelids low embraceth,
Most goodly temperature ye may descry,
Mild humbless, mixt with aweful majesty ;
For looking on the earth, whence she was born,
Her mind remembreth her mortality;
What-so is fairest shall to earth return.
But that some lofty countenance seems to scorn
Base thing, and think how she to heaven may clime,
Treading down earth as loathsome and forlorn,
That hinders heavenly thoughts with drossy shine :
Yet lowly still vouchsafe to look on me;
Such lowliness shall make you lofty be.
YE tradeful Merchants! that with weary toil
Do seek most precious things to make your gain,
And both the Indias of their treasure spoil,
What needeth you to seek so far in vain?
For, lo! my love doth in herself contain
All this world's riches that may far be found.
If saphyrs, lo! her eyes be saphyrs plain;
If rubies, lo! her lips be rubies sound;
If pearls, her teeth be pearls, both pure and round;
If ivory, her forehead ivory ween;
If gold, her locks are finest gold on ground;
If silver, her fair hands are silver sheen :
But that which fairest is, but few behold,
Her mind, adorned with vertues manifold.
ONE day as I unwarily did gaze
On those fair eyes, my love's immortal light,
The whiles my 'stonished heart stood in amaze,
Through sweet allusion of her look's delight,
I mote perceive how in her glancing sight
Legions of Loves with little wings did fly,
Darting their deadly arrows fiery bright
At every rash beholder passing by;
One of those archers closely I did spy
Aiming his arrow at my very heart;
When suddenly with twinkle of her eye,
The damsel broke his misintended dart:
Had she not done so, sure I had been slain,
Yet as it was I hardly 'scaped with pain.
THE glorious portrait of that angel's face,
Made to amaze weak men's confused skill,
And this world's worthless glory to embrace,
What pen, what pensil, can express her fill?
For though he colours could devise at will,
And eke his learned hand at pleasure guide,
Lest trembling it his workmanship should spill,
Yet many wondrous things there are beside :
The sweet eye-glances, that like arrows glide;
The charming smiles that rob sense from the heart;
The lovely pleasance, and the lofty pride,
Cannot expressed be by any art:
A greater craftsman's hand thereto doth need,
That can express the life of things indeed.
THE rolling wheel that runneth often round,
The hardest steel in tract of time doth tear;
And drizzling drops, that often do redound
The firmest flint doth in continuance wear :
Yet cannot I, with many a dropping tear,
And long entreaty, soften her hard heart,
That she will once vouchsafe my plaint to hear,
On look with pity on my painful smart :
But when I plead, she bids me play my part;
And when I weep, she says tears are but water;
And when I sigh, she says I know the art;
And when I wail, she turns herself to laughter:
So do I weep and wail, and plead in vain,
Whiles she as steel and flint doth still remain.
THE merry cuckoo, messenger of spring,
His trumpet shrill hath thrice already sounded,
That warns all lovers wait upon their king,
Who now is coming forth with girland crowned;
With noise whereof the quire of birds resounded
Their anthems sweet, devized of love's praise,
That all the woods their echoes back rebounded,
As if they knew the meaning of their lays :
But 'mongst them all, which did Love's honour raise,
No word was heard of her that most it ought,
But she his precept proudly disobeys,
And doth his idle message set at nought:
Therefore, O Love! unless she turns to thee
E'er cuckoo end, let her a rebel be.
WHEN I behold that beauty's wonderment,
And rare perfection of each goodly part,
Of Nature's skill the only complement,
I honour and admire the Maker's art;
But when I feel the bitter baleful smart
Which her fair eyes unwares do work in me,
That death out of their shiny beams do dart,
I think that I a new Pandora see,
Whom all the gods in counsel did agree
Into this sinful world from heaven to send,
That she to wicked men a scourge should be,
For all their faults with which they did offend.
But since ye are my scourge, I will entreat,
my faults ye will me gently beat.
How long shall this like dying life endure,
And know no end of its own misery,
But waste and wear away in terms unsure,
"Twixt fear and hope depending doubtfully?
Yet better were at once to let me die,
And shew the last ensample of your pride,
Than to torment me thus with cruelty,
To prove your pow'r, which I too well have tride.
But yet if in your harden'd breast ye hide
A close intent at last to shew me grace,
Then all the woes and wrecks which I abide,
As means of bliss I gladly will embrace,
And wish that more and greater they might be,
That greater meed at last may turn to me.
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