XLIII. SONNET.

DEAR eye, which deign'st on this sad monument,
The sable scroll of my mishaps to view,
Though it with mourning Muses' tears be spent,
And darkly drawn, which is not feign'd, but true;
If thou not dazzled with a heavenly hue,
And comely feature, didst not yet lament,
But happy lives unto thyself content,
O let not Love thee to his laws subdue;
Look on the woeful shipwreck of my youth,
And let my ruins thee for beacon serve,
To shun this rock Capharean of untruth,
And serve no God which doth his churchmen starve:
His kingdom's but of plaints, his guerdon tears;
What he gives more is jealousies and fears.

And happy in these floating bowers abide,
Where trembling roofs of trees from Sun you hide,
Which make Idæan woods in every crook;
Whether ye garlands for your locks provide,
Or pearly letters seek in sandy book,

Or count your loves when Thetis was a bride,
Lift up your golden heads and on me look.
Read in mine eyes my agonizing cares,
And what ye read, recount to her again:
Fair nymphs, say all these streams are but my tears;
And, if she ask you how they sweet remain,
Tell, that the bitt'rest tears which eyes can pour,
When shed for her, can be no longer sour.

XLVI. SONNET.

SHE whose fair flowers no autumn makes decay,
Whose hue cœlestial, earthly hues doth stain,
Into a pleasant odoriferous plain

Did walk alone to brave the pride of May.
And whilst through flow'ry lists she made her way,
That proudly smil'd her sight to entertain,
Lo, unawares where Love did hid remain
She spied, and sought to make of him her prey:
For which of golden locks a fairest hair
To bind the boy she took, but he, afraid,
At her approach sprang swiftly in the air,
And, mounting far from reach, look'd back and said,
"Why shouldst thou (sweet) me seek in chains to
Sith in thy eyes I daily am confin'd?"

[bind

XLIX. SONNET.

DEAR Wood, and you sweet solitary place,
Where I estranged from the vulgar live,
Than if I had what Thetis doth embrace:
Contented more with what your shades me give,
What snaky eye, grown jealous of my pace,
Now from your silent horrours would me drive,
When Sun advancing in his glorious race
Beyond the Twins, doth near our pole arrive?
What sweet delight a quiet life affords,
And what it is to be from bondage free,
Sweet flow'ry place, I first did learn of thee.
Far from the madding worldling's hoarse discords,
Ah! if I were mine own, your dear resorts

I would not change with princes' stateliest courts.

L. SONNET.

AH! who can see those fruits of Paradise,
Coelestial cherries which so sweetly swell,
That sweetness' self confin'd there seems to dwell,"
And all those sweetest parts about despise ?
Ah! who can see, and feel no flame surprise
His harden'd heart? For me, alas, too well
I know their force, and how they do excel:
Now through desire I burn, and now I freeze;
I die (dear life) unless to me be given
As many kisses as the spring hath flow'rs,
Or there be silver drops in Iris' show'rs,
Or stars there be in all-embracing Heaven;
And if displeas'd ye of the match complain,
Ye shall have leave to take them back again.

LI. SONNET.

Is 't not enough (ah me!) me thus to see
Like some Heaven-banish'd ghost still wailing go,
A shadow which your rays do only show;
To vex me more, unless ye bid me die,
What could ye worse allot unto your foe?
But die will I, so ye will not deny

That grace to me which mortal foes ev'n try,
To choose what sort of death shall end my woe.
Once did I find, that whiles you did me kiss,
Ye gave my panting soul so sweet a touch,
That half I swoon'd in midst of all my bliss;
I do but crave my death's wound may be such:
For though by grief I die not and annoy,
Is 't not enough to die through too much joy?.

While she here gaz'd on thee, rich Tagus' treasure
Thou neededst not envy, nor yet the fountain,
In which that hunter saw the naked Moon;
Absence hath robb'd thee of thy wealth and pleasure,
And I remain, like marigold, of Sun

Depriv'd, that dies by shadow of some mountain.

Nymphs of the forests, nymphs who on this mountain

Are wont to dance, showing your beauty's treasure To goat-feet sylvans, and the wond'ring Sun, When as you gather flow'rs about this fountain, Bid her farewel who placed here her pleasure, And sing her praises to the stars and Moon.

Among the lesser lights as is the Moon, [tain;
Blushing through muffling clouds on Latmos' moun-
Or when she views her silver locks for pleasure
In Thetis' streams, proud of so gay a treasure:
Such was my fair, when she sate by this fountain
With other nymphs, to shun the amorous Sun.

As is our Earth in absence of the Sun,
Or when of Sun deprived is the Moon;
As is without a verdant shade a fountain,
Or, wanting grass, a mead, a vale, a mountain;
Such is my state, bereft of my dear treasure,
To know whose only worth, was all my pleasure.

Ne'er think of pleasure, beart; eyes, shun the Sun;
Tears be your treasure, which the wand'ring Moon
Shall see you shed by mountain, vale and fountain.

LIII. SONNET.

WITH grief in heart, and tears in swelling eyes,
When I to her had given a sad farewel,
Close sealed with a kiss, and dew which fell
On my else moisten'd face from beauty's skies;
So strange amazement did my mind surprise,
That at each pace I fainting turn'd again,
Like one whom a torpedo stupefies,
Not feeling honour's bit, nor reason's rein:
But when fierce stars to part me did constrain,
With back-cast looks, I both envy'd and bless'd
The happy walls and place did her contain,
Until my eyes that flying object miss'd:
So wailing parted Ganymede the fair,
When eagle's talons bore him through the air.

LV. SONNET.

WINDOW, Some time which served for a sphere
To that dear planet of my heart, whese light
Made often blush the glorious queen of night,
While she in thee more beauteous did appear;
What mourning weeds, alas, dost thou now wear?
How loathsome to my eyes is thy sad sight!
How poorly look'st thou, with what heavy cheer,
Since sets that Sun which made thee shine so bright?
Unhappy now thee close; for, as of late
To wond'ring eyes thou wert a paradise,
Bereft of her who made thee fortunate,
A gulf thou art, whence clouds of sighs arise:
But unto none so noisome as to me,
Who hourly sees my murder'd joys in thee.

LIV. SEXTAIN.

SITH gone is my delight and only pleasure,
The last of all my hopes, the cheerful Sun
That clear'd my life's dark sphere, Nature's sweet
treasure,

More dear to me than all beneath the Moon;
What resteth now, but that upon this mountain
I weep, till Heaven transform me to a fountain?

Fresh, fair, delicious, crystal, pearly fountain,
On whose smooth face to look she oft took pleasure,
Tell me (so may thy streams long cheer this moun-
tain,

So serpent ne'er thee stain, nor scorch thee Sun,
So may with wat'ry beams thee kiss the Moon!)
Dost thou not mourn to want so fair a treasure.

LVI. SONNET.

How many times night's silent queen her face
Hath hid, how oft with stars in silver mask,
In Heaven's great ball, she hath begun her task,
And cheer'd the waking eye in lower place;
How oft the Sun hath made, by Heaven's swift race,
The happy lover to forsake the breast
Of his dear lady, wishing in the west
His golden coach to run had larger space,
I ever count and tell, since I, alas!
Did bid farewel to my heart's dearest guest;
The miles I number, and in mind I chase
The floods and mountains hold me from my rest.
But wo is me, long count and count may I,
Ere I see her whose absence makes me die.

LVII. SONNET.

Of death some tell, some of the cruel pain
Which that bad craftsman in his work did try,
When (a new monster) flames once did constrain
A human corpse to yield a bellowing cry.
Some tell of those in burning beds who lie,
Because they durst in the Phlegrean plain
The mighty ruler of the skies defy,

And siege those crystal tow'rs which all contain.
Another counts of Phlegethon's hot floods,
The souls which drink Ixion's endless smart,
And his who feeds a vulture with his heart.
One tells of spectres in enchanted woods:
Of all those pains th' extremest who would prove,
Let him be absent and but burn in love.

LVIII. SONNET.

HAIR, precious hair, which Midas' hand did strain,
Part of the wreath of gold that crowns those brows
Which winter's whitest white in whiteness stain,
And lily by Eridan's bank that grows:
Hair, (fatal present!) which first caus'd my woes,
When loose ye hang like Danae's golden rain,
Sweet nets which sweetly do all hearts enchain,
Strings, deadly strings, with which Love bends his
bows:

How are ye hither come? Tell me, O hair!
Dear armelet, for what thus were ye given?
I know, a badge of bondage I you wear,
Yet, hair, for you O that I were a Heaven!
Like Berenice's locks, that ye might shine
(But brighter far) about this arm of mine.

LIX. SONNET.

ARE these the flow'ry banks? Is this the mead Where she was wont to pass the pleasant hours? Was 't here her eyes exhal'd mine eyes' salt show'rs, And on her lap did lay my wearied head? Is this the goodly elm did us o'erspread, Whose tender rind, cut forth in curious flow'rs By that white hand, contains those flames of ours? Is this the murmuring spring us musick made? Deflourish'd mead, where is your heavenly hue? And bank, that Arras did you late adorn? How look'st thou, elm, all wither'd and forlorn Only, sweet spring, nought alter'd seems in you. But while here chang'd each other thing appears, To salt your streams take of mine eyes these tears.

LX. SONNET.

ALEXIS, here she stay'd, among these pines,
Sweet hermitress, she did all alone repair;
Here did she spread the treasure of her hair,
More rich than that brought from the Colchian

mines:

Here sate she by these musked eglantines;
The happy flow'rs seem yet the print to bear;
Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar'd lines,
To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend an ear.

FAME, who with golden wings abroad doth range
Where Phoebus leaves the night or brings the day;
Fame, in one place who restless dost not stay
Till thou hast flow'd from Atlas unto Gange:
Fame, enemy to Time, that still doth change,
And in his changing course would make decay
What here below he findeth in his way,
Even making Virtue to herself look strange:
Daughter of Heaven! now all thy trumpets sound,
Raise up thy head unto the highest sky,
With wonder blaze the gifts in her are found;
And when she from this mortal globe shall fly,
In thy wide mouth keep long, keep long her

1. SONNET.

Or mortal glory O soon darken'd ray!
O winged joys of man, more swift than wind!
O fond desires, which in our fancies stray!
O trait'rous hopes, which do our judgments blind!
Lo, in a flash that light is gone away,
Which dazzle did each eye, delight each mind,
And with that Sun, from whence it came, combin'd,
Now makes more radiant Heaven's eternal day.
Let Beauty now bedew her cheeks with tears,
Let widow'd Music only roar and groan,
Poor Virtue, get thee wings and mount the spheres,
For dwelling place on Earth for thee is none:
Death hath thy temple raz'd, Love's empire foil'd,
The world of honour, worth, and sweetness spoil'd.

IV. SONNET.

O WOFUL life! life? no, but living death,
Frail boat of crystal in a rocky sea,

A gem expos'd to fortune's stormy breath,
Which kept with pain, with terrour doth decay:
The false delights, true woes thou dost bequeath
My all-appalled mind so do affray,
That I those envy which are laid in earth,
And pity those who run thy dreadful way.
When did mine eyes behold one cheerful morn?
When had my tossed soul one night of rest?
When did not angry stars my designs scorn?
O! now I find what is for mortals best:
Even, since our voyage shameful is, and short,
Soon to strike sail, and perish in the port.

THOSE eyes, those sparkling sapphires of delight,
Which thousand thousand hearts did set on fire,
Of which that eye of Heaven which brings the light
Oft jealous, staid amaz'd them to admire :
That living snow, those crimson roses bright,
Those pearls, those rubies which inflam'd desire,
Those locks of gold, that purple fair of Tyre,
Are wrapt (ah me!) up in eternal night.
What hast thou more to vaunt of, wretched world,
Sith she who caused all thy bliss is gone?
Thy ever-burning lamps, rounds ever whorl'd,
Cannot unto thee model such a one:

Or if they would such beauty bring on Earth,
They should be forc'd again to give her birth.

DISSOLVE, my eyes, your globes in briny streams,
And with a cloud of sorrow dim your sight,
The Sun's bright sun is set, of late whose beams
Gave lustre to your day, day to your night.
My voice, now cleave the earth with anatbems,
Roar forth a challenge in the world's despite,
Till that disguised grief is her delight,
That life a slumber is of fearful dreams;
And, woful mind, abhor to think of joy;
My senses all, from comforts all you hide,
Accept no object but of black annoy,
[wide:
Tears, plaints, sighs, mourning weeds, graves gaping
I have nought left to wish; my hopes are dead,
And all with her beneath a marble laid.

III. SONNET.

O FATE, conjur❜d to pour your worst on me!
O rigorous rigour which doth all confound!
With cruel hands ye have cut down the tree,
And frunt with leaves have scatter'd on the ground.
A little space of earth my love doth bound;
That beauty, which did raise it to the sky,
Turn'd in disdained dust, now low doth lie,
Deaf to my plaints, and senseless of my wound.
Ah! did I live for this? ah! did I love?
And was 't for this (fierce powers) she did excel,
That ere she well the sweets of life did prove,
She should (too dear a guest) with darkness dwell?
Weak influence of Heaven! what fair is wrought,
Falls in the prime, and passeth like a thought.

SWEET Soul, which in the April of thy years,
For to enrich the Heaven mad'st poor this round,
And now, with flaming rays of glory crown'd,
Most blest abides above the sphere of spheres;
If heavenly laws, alas! have not thee bound
From looking to this globe that all up-bears,
If ruth and pity there-above be found,
O deign to lend a look unto these tears:
Do not disdain (dear ghost) this sacrifice;
And though I raise not pillars to thy praise,
My off'rings take, let this for me suffice,
My heart a living pyramid I'll raise:
And whilst kings' tombs with laurels flourish green,
Thine shall with myrtles and these flow'rs be seen.