THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM. By W. Shakespeare.  
AT LONDON Printed for W. jaggard, and are to be sold by W. Leake, at the Greyhound in Paul's Churchyard. 1599   


WHen my Love swears that she is made of truth,  
I do believe her (though I know she lies)  
That she might think me some untutored youth,  
Unskilful in the world's false forgeries.  
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,  
Although I know my years be passed the best:  
I smiling, credit her false speaking tongue,  
Outfacing faults in Love, with loves ill rest.  
But wherefore says my Love that she is young?  
And wherefore say not I, that I am old?  
O, loves best habit is a soothing tongue,  
And Age (in Love) loves not to have years told.  
Therefore I'll lie with Love, and Love with me,  
Since that our faults in Love thus smothered be.   

TWo Loves I have, of Comfort, and Despair,  
That like two Spirits, do suggest me still:  
My better Angel is a Man (right fair)  
My worse spirit a Woman (coloured ill.)  
To win me soon to hell, my Female evil  
Tempteth my better Angel from my side,  
And would corrupt my Saint to be a Devil,  
Wooing his purity with her fair pride.  
And whether that my Angel be turned fiend,  
Suspect I may (yet not directly tell:  
For being both to me: both, to each friend,  
I guess one Angel in another's hell:  
The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt,  
Till my bad Angel fire my good one out.   

DId not the heavenly Rhetoric of thine eye,  
'Gainst whom the world could not hold argument,  
Persuade my heart to this false perjury:  
Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.  
A woman I forswore: but I will prove  
Thou being a Goddess, I forswore not thee:  
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love,  
Thy grace being gained, cures all disgrace in me.  
My vow was breath, and breathe a vapour is,  
Then thou fair Sun, that on this earth doth shine,  
Exhale this vapour vow, in thee it is:  
If broken, than it is no fault of mine.  
If by me broke, what fool is not so wise  
To break an Oath, to win a Paradise?   

SWeet Cytherea, sitting by a Brook,  
With young Adonis, lovely, fresh and green,  
Did court the Lad with many a lovely look,  
Such looks as none could look but beauty's queen.  
She told him stories, to delight his ears:  
She show'd him favours, to allure his eye:  
To win his heart, she touched him here and there,  
Touches so soft still conquer chastity.  
But whether unripe years did want conceit,  
Or he refused to take her figured proffer,  
The tender nibler would not touch the bait,  
But smile, and jest, at every gentle offer:  
Then fell she on her back, fair queen, & toward  
He rose and ran away, ah fool too froward.   

IF Love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?  
O, never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed:  
Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll constant prove,  
those thoughts to me like Okes, to thee like Osiers bowed▪  
Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes,  
where all those pleasures live, that Art can comprehend▪  
If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice:  
Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend,  
All ignorant that soul, that sees thee without wonder,  
Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire:  
Thine eye Ioues lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful thunder  
which (not to anger bend) is music & sweet fire  
Celestial as thou art, O, do not love that wrong:  
To sing heavens praise, with such an earthly tongue.   

Scarce had the Sun dried up the dewy morn,  
And scarce the heard gone to the hedge for shade:  
When Cytherea (all in Love forlorn)  
A longing tarriance for Adonis made  
Under an osier growing by a brook,  
A brook, where Adonis used to cool his spleen:  
Hot was the day, she hotter that did look  
For his approach, that often there had been.  
Anon he comes, and throws his Mantle by,  
And stood stark naked on the brooks green brim:  
The Sun looked on the world with glorious eye,  
Yet not so wistly, as this Queen on him:  
He spying her, bounced in (whereas he stood)  
Oh JOVE (quoth she) why was not I a flood?   

Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle.  
Mild as a Dove, but neither true nor trusty,  
Brighter than glass, and yet as glass is brittle,  
Softer than wax, and yet as Iron rusty:  
A lily pale, with damask die to grace her,  
None fairer, nor none falser to deface her.   

Her lips to mine how often hath she joined,  
Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing▪  
How many tales to please me hath she coined,  
Dreading my love, the loss whereof still fearing.  
Yet in the mids of all her pure protestings,  
Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were ieasting.   

She burned with love, as straw with fire flameth,  
She burned out love, as soon as straw out burneth:  
She framed the love, and yet she foiled the framing,  
She bad love last, and yet she fell a turning.  
Was this a lover, or a Lecher whether▪  
Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.   

IF Music and sweet Poetry agree,  
As they must needs (the Sister and the brother)  
Then must the love be great twixt thee and me,  
Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other.  
Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly tuch  
Upon the Lute, doth ravish human sense:  
Spenser to me, whose deep Conceit is such,  
As passing all conceit, needs no defence.  
Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious sound,  
That Phoebus' Lute (the Queen of Music) makes:  
And I in deep Delight am chief drowned,  
When as himself to singing he betakes.  
One God is God of both (as Poets feign)  
One Knight loves Both, and both in thee remain.   

Fair was the morn, when the fair Queen of love,  
Paler for sorrow then her milk white Dove,  
For Adon's sake, a youngster proud and wild,  
Her stand she takes upon a steep up hill.  
Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds,  
She silly Queen, with more than loves good will,  
Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds,  
Once (quoth she) did I see a fair sweet youth  
Here in these brakes, deep wounded with a Boar,  
Deep in the thigh a spectacle of ruth,  
See in my thigh (quoth she) here was the sore,  
She showed hers, he saw more wounds than one,  
And blushing fled, and left her all alone.   

SWeet Rose, fair flower, untimely plucked, soon vaded,  
Plucked in the bud, and vaded in the spring▪  
Bright orient pearl, alack too timely shaded,  
Fair creature killed too soon by Deaths sharpè sting:  
Like a green plumb that hangs upon a tree:  
And falls (through find) before the fall should be.   

I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have,  
For why: thou lefts me nothing in thy will.  
And yet thou lefts me more than I did crave,  
For why: I craved nothing of thee still:  
O yes (dear friend I pardon crave of thee,  
Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.   

Venus' with Adonis sitting by her,  
Under a Myrtle shade began to woo him,  
She told the youngling how god Mars did try her,  
And as he fell to her, she fell to him.  
Even thus (quoth she) the warlike god embraced me:  
And then she clipped Adonis in her arms:  
Even thus (quoth she) the warlike god unlaced me,  
As if the boy should use like loving charms:  
Even thus (quoth she) he seized on my lips,  
And with her lips on his did act the seizure:  
And as she fetched breath, away he skips,  
And would not take her meaning nor her pleasure.  
Ah, that I had my Lady at this bay:  
To kiss and clip me till I run away.   

Crabbed age and youth cannot live together,  
Youth is full of pleasance, Age is full of care,  
Youth like summer morn, Age like winter weather,  
Youth like summer brave, Age like winter bare.  
Youth is full of sport, Age's breath is short,  
Youth is nimble, Age is lame  
Youth is hot and bold, Age is weak and cold,  
Youth is wild, and Age is tame.  
Age I do abhor thee, Youth I do adore thee,  
O my love my love is young:  
Age I do defy thee. Oh sweet Shepherd hie thee:  
For me thinks thou stays too long.   

BEauty is but a vain and doubtful good,  
A shining gloss, that vadeth suddenly,  
A flower that dies, when first it 'gins to bud,  
A brittle glass, that's broken presently.  
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,  
Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.   

And as goods lost, are seld or never found,  
As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh:  
As flowers dead, he withered on the ground,  
As broken glass no symant can redress.  
So beauty blemished once, for ever lost,  
In spite of physic, painting, pain and cost.   

Good night, good rest, ah neither be my share,  
She bade good night, that kept my rest away,  
And daft me to a cabin hanged with care:  
To descant on the doubts of my decay.  
Farewell (quoth she) and come again to morrow  
Far well I could not, for I supped with sorrow.   

Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,  
In scorn or friendship, nill I construe whether:  
'Tmay be she joyed to jest at my exile,  
'Tmay be again, to make me wander thither.  
Wander (a word) for shadows like myself,  
As take the pain but cannot pluck the pelf.   

Lord how mine eyes throw gazes to the East,  
My heart doth charge the watch, the morning rise  
Doth scite each moving sense from idle rest,  
Not daring trust the office of mine eyes.  
While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,  
And with her lays were tuned like the lark.   

For she doth welcome daylight with her ditte,  
And drives away dark dreaming night:  
The night so packed, I post unto my pretty,  
heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight,  
Sorrow changed to solace, and solace mixed with sorrow▪  
For why, she sight, and bade me come to morrow.   

Were I with her, the night would post too soon,  
But now are minutes added to the hours:  
To spite me now, each minute seems an hour,  
Yet not for me, shine sun to secure flowers.  
Pack night, peep day, good day of night now borrow  
Short night to night, and length thyself to morrow    

SONNETS To sundry notes of Music.  
AT LONDON Printed for W. jaggard, and are to be sold by W. Leake, at the Greyhound in Paul's Churchyard. 1599   


IT was a Lordings daughter, the fairest one of three  
That liked of her master, as well as well might be,  
Till looking on an Englishman, the fairest that eye coul  
Her fancy fell a turning.  
Long was the combat doubtful, that love with love did  
To leave the master lovelesse, or kill the gallant knight  
To put in practice either, alas it was a spite  
Unto the silly damsel.  
But one must be refused, more much was the pain,  
That nothing could be used, to turn them both to gain  
For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with di●●  
Alas she could not help it.  
Thus art with arms contending, was victor of the day  
Which by a gift of learning, did bear the maid away,  
Then lullaby the learned man hath got the Lady gay,  
For now my song is ended.    


ON a day (alack the day)  
Love whose month was ever May  
Spied a blossom passing fair,  
Playing in the wanton air,  
Through the velvet leaves the wind  
All unseen 'gan passage find,  
That the lover (sick to death)  
Wished himself the heavens breath,  
Air (quoth he) thy cheeks may blow  
Air, would I might triumph so  
But (alas) my hand hath sworn,  
Near to pluck thee from thy throne,  
Vow (alack) for youth unmeet,  
Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet,  
Thou for whom jove would swear,  
juno but an Ethiope were  
And deny himself for jove  
Turning mortal for thy love.    


MY flocks feed not, my Ewes breed not,  
My Rams speed not, all is amiss:  
Love is dying, Faiths defying,  
Hearts nenying, causer of this.  
All my merry jigs are quite forgot,  
All my Lady's love is lost (god wots)  
Where her faith was firmly fixed in love,  
There a nay is placed without remove.  
One silly cross, wrought all my loss,  
O frowning fortune cursed fickle dame,  
For now I see, inconstancy,  
More in wowen then in men remain.   

In black morn I, all fears scorn I,  
Love hath sorlorne me, living in thrall:  
heart is bleeding, all help needing,  
O cruel speeding, fraughted with gall.  
My shepherds pipe can sound no deal,  
My weather's bell rings doleful knell,  
My curtail dog that wont to have played,  
Plays not at all but seems afraid.  
With sighs so deep, procures to weep,  
In howling wise, to see my doleful plight,  
How sighs resound through heartless ground  
Like a thousand vanquished men in bloody fight.   

Clear wells spring not, sweet birds sing not,  
Green plants bring not forth their die,  
Herds stands weeping, flocks all sleeping,  
Nymphs black peeping fearfully:  
All our pleasure known to us poor swains:  
All our merry meetings on the plains,  
All our evening sport from us is fled,  
All our love is lost, for love is dead,  
Farewell sweet love thy like near was,  
For a sweet content the cause of all my woe,  
Poor Coridon must live alone,  
Other help for him I see that there is none.    


When as thine eye hath chose the Dame,  
And stalled the dear that thou shouldst strike,  
Let reason rule things worthy blame,  
As well as fancy (partyall might)  
Take counsel of some wiser head,  
Neither too young, nor yet unwed.   

And when thou comest thy tale to tell,  
Smooth not thy tongue with filled talk,  
Lest she some subtle practice smell,  
A Cripple soon can find a halt,  
But plainly say thou lov'st her well,  
And set her person forth to sale.   

What though her frowning brows be bend  
Her cloudy looks will calm yer night,  
And then too late she will repent,  
That thus dissembled her delight.  
And twice desire yet it be day,  
That which with scorn she put away.   

What though she strive to try her strength,  
And ban and brawl, and say the nay:  
Her feeble force will yield at length,  
When craft hath taught her thus to say:  
Had women been so strong as men  
In faith you had not had it then.   

And to her will frame all thy ways,  
Spare not to spend, and chief there,  
Where thy desert may merit praise  
By ringiug in thy Lady's ear,  
The strongest castle, tower and town,  
The golden bullet beats it down.   

Serve always with assured trust,  
And in thy suit be humble true,  
Unless thy Lady prove unjust,  
Press never thou to choose a new:  
When time shall serve, be thou not slack,  
To proffer though she put thee back.   

The wiles and guiles that women work,  
Dissembled with an outward show:  
The tricks and toys that in them lurk,  
The Cock that treads them shall not know,  
Have you not heard it said full oft,  
A Woman's nay doth stand for nought.   

Think Women still to strive with men,  
To sin and never for to saint,  
There is no heaven (by holy then)  
When time with age shall them attaint,  
Were kisses all the joys in bed,  
One Woman would another wed.   

But soft enough, too much I fear,  
Lest that my mistress hear my song▪  
She will not stick to round me on th' are,  
To teach my tongue to be so long:  
Yet will she blush, here be it said,  
To hear her secrets so bewrayed.    


Live with me and be my Love,  
And we will all the pleasures prove  
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,  
And all the craggy mountains yield.   

There will we sit upon the Rocks,  
And see the Shepherds feed their flocks,  
By shallow Rivers, by whose false  
Melodious birds sing Madrigals.   

There will I make thee a bed of Roses,  
With a thousand fragrant poses,  
A cap of flowers, and a Kirtle  
Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle.   

A belt of straw and Yuye buds,  
Wi●h Coral Clasps and Amber studs,  
And if these pleasures may thee move,  
Then live with me, and be my love.   

loves answer.  
IF that the World and Love were young▪  
And truth in every shepherds tongue,  
These pretty pleasures might me move,  
To live with thee and be thy love.    


AS it fell upon a Day,  
In the merry Month of May,  
Sitting in a pleasant shade,  
Which a grove of Myrtles made,  
Beasts did leap, and Birds did sing,  
Trees did grow, and Plants did spring:  
Every thing did banish moan,  
Save the Nightingale alone.  
She (poor Bird) as all forlorn,  
Leaned her breast up-till a thorn,  
And there sung the dolefulst Ditty,  
That to hear it was great Pity,  
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry  
Teru, Teru, by and by:   

That to hear her so complain,  
Scarce I could from tears refrain:  
For her griefs so lively shown,  
Made me think upon mine own.  
Ah (thought I) thou mournest in vain,  
None takes pity on thy pain:  
Senseless Trees, they cannot hear thee,  
Ruthless Bears, they will not cheer thee.  
King Pandion, he is dead:  
All thy friends are leapt in Lead.  
All thy fellow Birds do sing,  
Careless of thy sorrowing.   

Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled,  
Thou and I, were both beguiled.  
Every one that flatters thee,  
Is no friend in misery:  
Words are easy, like the wind,  
Faithful friends are hard to find:  
Every man will be thy friend,  
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend:  
But if store of Crowns be scant,  
No man will supply thy want  
If that one be prodigal,  
Bountiful they will him call:  
And with suchlike flattering,  
Pity but he were a King.   

If he be addict to vice,  
Quickly him, they will entice.  
If to Women he be bend,  
They have at Commandment.  
But if Fortune once do frown,  
Then farewell his great renown:  
They that fawned on him before.  
Use his company no more.  
He that is thy friend indeed,  
He will help thee in thy need:  
If thou sorrow, he will weep:  
If thou wake, he cannot sleep:  
Thus of every grief, in heart  
He, with thee, doth bear a part.  
These are certain signs, to know  
Faithful friend, from flattering foe.