Syr. P. S. His Astrophel and Stella.  
Wherein the excellence of sweet Poesy is concluded  
To the end of which are added, sundry other rare Sonnets of divers Noble men and Gentlemen.  
At London, Printed for Thomas Newman. Anno. Domini. 1591.   

To the worshipful and his very good Friend, Ma. Francis Flower Esquire, increase of all content.  
IT was my fortune (right worshipful) not many days since, to light upon the famous device of Astrophel and Stella, which carrying the general commendation of all men of judgement, and being reported to be one of the rarest things that ever any Englishman set abroach, I have thought good to publish it under your name, both for I know the excellency of your worship's conceit, above all other to be such, as is only fit to discern of all matters of wit, as also for the credit and countenance your patronage may give to such a work. Accept of it I beseech you, as the first fruits of my affection, which desires to approve itself in all duty unto you: and though the Argument perhaps may seem too light for your grave view, yet considering the worthiness of the Author, I hope you will entertain it accordingly. For my part, I have been very careful in the Printing of it, and where as being spread abroad in written Copies, it had gathered much corruption by ill Writers: I have used their help and advice in correcting & restoring it to his first dignity, that I know were of skill and experience in those matters. And the rather was I moved to set it forth, because I thought it pity any thing proceeding from so rare a man, should be obscured, or that his fame should not still be nourished in his works, whom the works with one united grief bewailed. Thus craving pardon for my bold attempt, & desiring the continuance of your worships favour unto me, I end.  
Yours always to be commanded. Tho: Newman.   

Somewhat to read for them that list.  
TEmpus adest plausus aurea pompa venit, so ends the Scene of Idiots, and enter Astrophel in pomp. Gentlemen that have seen a thousand lines of folly, drawn forth ex uno puncto impudentiae, & two famous Mountains to go to the conception of one Mouse, that have had your ears deafened with the echo of Fame's brazen towers, when only they have been touched with a leaden pen, that have seen Pan sitting in his bower of delights, & a number of Midases to admire his miserable hornepipes, let not your surfeited sight, new come from such puppetplay, think scorn to turn aside into this Theatre of pleasure, for here you shall find a paper stage streud with pearl, an artificial heaven to overshadow the fair frame, & crystal walls to encounter your curious eyes, whiles the tragicommody of love is performed by starlight. The chief Actor here is Melpomene, whose dusky robes dipped in the ink of tears, as yet seem to drop when I view them near. The argument cruel chastity, the Prologue hope, the Epilogue despair, videte queso et linguis animisque favete. And here peradventure, my witless youth may be taxed with a margin note of presumption, for offering to put up any motion of applause in the behalf of so excellent a Poet, (the least syllable of whose name sounded in the ears of judgement, is able to give the meanest line he writes a dowry of immortality) yet those that observe how jewels oftentimes come to their hands that know not their value, & that the coxcombs of our days, like Esop's Cock, had rather have a Barley kernel wrapped up in a Ballet, than they will dig for the wealth of wit in any ground that they know not, I hope will also hold me excused, though I open the gate to his glory, & invite idle ears to the admiration of his melancholy.  
Quid petitur sacris nisi tantum fama poetis.  
Which although it be oftentimes imprisoned in ladies casks, & the precedent books of such as cannot see without another man's spectacles, yet at length it breaks forth in spite of his keepers, and useth some private pen (in steed of a picklock) to procure his violent enlargement.  
The Sun for a time, may mask his golden head in a cloud: yet in the end, the thick vail doth vanish, and his embellished blandishment appears. Long hath Astrophel (England's Sun) withheld the beams of his spirit, from the common view of our dark sense, and night hath hovered over the gardens of the nine Sisters, while Ignis fatuus, and gross fatty flames (such as commonly arise out of Dunghilles) have took occasion in the midst eclipse of his shining perfections, to wander a broad with a wisp of paper at their tails like Hobgoblins, and lead men up and down in a circle of absurdity a whole week, and never know where they are. But now that cloud of sorrow is dissolved, which fiery Love, exhaled from his dewy hair, and affection hath unburdened the labouring streams of her womb, in the low cistern of his grave: the night hath resigned her jetty throne unto Lucifer, and clear daylight possesseth the sky that was dimmed; wherefore break of your dance you Fairies and Elves, and from the fields with the torn carcases of your Timbrils, for your kingdom is expired. Put out your rush candles, you Poets and Rhymers, and bequeath your crazed quaterzayns to the Chandler's, for lo, here he cometh that hath broenk your legs. Apollo hath resigned his ivory Harp unto Astrophel, & he like Mercury, must lull you a sleep with his music. Sleep Argus, sleep Ignorance, sleep Impudence, for Mercury hath Io, & only Io Paean belongeth to Astrophel. Dear Astrophel, that in the ashes of thy Love, livest again like the Phoenix; o might thy body (as thy name) live again likewise, here amongst us: but the earth, the mother of mortality, hath snatched thee too soon into her chilled cold arms, and will not let thee by any means, be drawn from her deadly embrace; and thy divine Soul, carried on an Angel's wings to heaven, is installed in Hermes place, sole prolocutor to the Gods. Therefore mayest thou never return from the Elysian fields like Orpheus, therefore must we ever mourn for our Orpheus.  
Fain would a second spring of passion here spend itself on his sweet remembrance: but Religion that rebuketh profane lamentation, drinks in the rivers of those dispaireful tears, which languorous ruth hath outwelled, & bids me look back to the house of honour, where from one & the self same root of renown, I shall find many goodly branches derived, & such as with the spreading increase of their virtues, may somewhat overshadow the grief of his los. Amongst the which fair sister of Phoebus, & eloquent secretary to the Muses, most rare Countess of Pembroke thou art not to be omitted: whom Arts do adore as a second Minerva, and our Poets extol as the Patroness of their invention; for in thee, the Lesbian Sapph with her lirick Harp is disgraced, & the Laurel Garland which thy Brother so bravely advanced on his Lance, is still kept green in the Temple of Pallas. Thou only sacrificest thy soul to contemplation, thou only entertainest empty handed Homer, & keepest the springs of Castalia from being dried up. Learning, wisdom, beauty, and all other ornaments of Nobility whatsoever, seek to approve themselves in thy sight, and get a further seal of felicity, from the smiles of thy favour.  
O jove digna viro ni jove nata fores.  
I fear I shall be counted a mercenary flatterer, for mixing my thoughts with such figurative admiration, but general report that surpasseth my praise, condemneth my rhetoric of dullness for so cold a commendation. Indeed to say the truth, my style is somewhat heavy gated, and cannot dance trip and go so lively, with oh my love, ah my love, all my loves gone, as other Shepherds that have been fools in the Morris time out of mind: nor hath my prose any skill to imitate the Almond leap verse, or sit tabring five years together nothing but to be, to he: on a paper drum. Only I can keep pace with Gravesend barge, and care not if I have water enough, to land my ship of fools with the Term, (the tide I should say.) Now every man is not of that mind, for some to go the lighter away, will take in their fraught of spangled feathers, golden pebbles, Straw, Reeds, Bulrushes, or any thing, and then they bear out their sails as proudly, as if they were balisted with Bulbiefe. Others are so hardly bestead for loading that they are feign to retail the cinders of Troy, and the shivers of broken truncheons, to fill up their boat that else should go empty: and if they have but a pound weight of good Merchandise, it shall be placed at the poop, or plucked in a thousand pieces to credit their carriage. For my part every man as he likes, Mens cuinsque is est quisque. 'tis as good to go in cut fingered Pumps as cork shoes, if one were Cornish diamonds on his toes. To explain it by a more familiar example, an Ass is no great state-man in the beasts commonwealth, though he wear his ears upsevant musse, after the Muscovy fashion, & hang the lip like a Capcase half open, or look as demurely as a six penny brown loaf, for he hath some imperfections that do keep him from the common Council: yet of many, he is deemed a very virtuous member, and one of the honestest sort of men that are; So that our opinion (as Sextus Empedocus affirmeth) gives the name of good or ill to every thing. Out of whose works (lately translated into English, for the benefit of unlearned writers) a man might collect a whole book of this argument, which no doubt would prove a worthy commonwealth matter, and far better than wits wax kernel: much good worship have the Author.  
Such is this golden age wherein we hue, and so replenished with golden Asses of all sorts, that if learning had lost itself in a grove of Genealogies, we need do no more but set an old goose overhalfe a dozen pottle pots, (which are as it were the eggs of invention) and we shall have such a breed of books within a little while after, as will fill all the world with the wild fowl of good wits; I can tell you this is a harder thing than making gold of quicksilver, and will trouble you more than the Moral of Aesop's Glow-worm, hath troubled our English Apes, who striving to warm themselves, with the flame of the Philosopher's stone, have spent all their wealth in buying bellows to blow this false fire. Gentlemen, I fear I have too much presumed on your idle leisure, and been too bold, to stand talking all this while in an other man's door: but now I will leave you to survey the pleasures of Paphos, and offer your smiles on the Altars of Venus.  
Yours in all desire to please, Tho: Nashe.   

SIR P. S. HIS ASTROPHEL AND STELLA.  

Loving in truth, and fayne my love in verse to show,  
That the dear She, might take some pleasure of my pain:  
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,  
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain.  
I sought fit words, to paint the blackest face of woe,  
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain,  
Oft turning others leaves, to see if thence would flow,  
Some fresh and fruitful shower, upon my Sunne-burnt brain.  
But words came halting out, wanting inventions stay,  
Invention Nature's child, fled Stepdame's studies blows:  
And others feet, still seemed but strangers in my way,  
Thus great with Child to speak, and helpless in my throws,  
Biting my tongue and pen, beating myself for spite:  
Fool said My muse to me, look in thy heart and write.   

NOt at first sight, nor with a dribbing shot,  
Love gave the wound, which while I breath will bleed:  
But known, worth did in tract of time proceed,  
Till by degrees it had full conquest got.  
I saw and liked, I liked but loved not,  
I loved, but did not strait what Love decreed:  
At length to loves decrees, I first agreed.  
Yet with repining at so partial lot.  
Now even that foot-steppe of lost liberty  
Is gone, and now like slave borne Muscovite:  
I call it praise to suffer tyranny,  
And now employ the remnant of my wit  
To make myself believe that all is well,  
While with a feeling skill I paint my hell.   

LEt Dainty wits cry, on the Sister's nine,  
That bravely masked, their fancies may be told:  
Or Pinders Apes flaunt in their phrases fine,  
Enameling their pride with flowers of gold.  
Or else let them in stately glory shine,  
Ennobling new found tropes, with problems old:  
Or with strange similes, enriched each line,  
Of herbs or beasts, which Ind or Africa hold.  
For me in sooth, no Muse but one I know,  
Phrases and Problems from my reach do grow,  
And strange things cost too dear for my poor spirits,  
How then? even thus, in Stellas face I reed,  
What love and beauty be, than all my deed.  
But coppying is, what in her nature writes.   

Virtue (alas) now let me take some rest,  
Thou settest a bate between my love and me:  
If vain love have my simple soul oppressed,  
Leave what thou lik'st, and deal thou not with it.  
Thy Sceptre use in some old Cato's breast,  
Churches and Schools are for thy seat most fit:  
I do confess, (pardon a fault confessed,)  
My mouth too tender is for thy hard bit.  
But if that needs, thou wilt usurping be  
That little reason that is left in me.  
And still the effect of thy persuasions prove,  
I swear, my heart such one shall show to thee,  
That shrines in flesh so true a deity.  
That Virtue, thou thyself shalt be in love.   

It is most true, what we call Cupid's dart,  
An Image is, which for ourselves we carve:  
And fools adore, in Temple of our heart,  
Till that good God make church and Churh-men starve.  
It is most true, that eyes are bound to serve  
The inward part: and that the heavenly part  
Ought to be King, from whose rules who doth swerver,  
Rebels to nature, strive for their own smart.  
True that true beauty virtue is indeed,  
Whereof this beauty can but be a shade,  
Which Elements with mortal mixture breed,  
True that on earth we are but Pilgrims made.  
And should in soul, up to our Country move:  
True and most true, that I must Stella love.   

SOme Lovers speak, when they their Muses entertain  
Of hopes begot, by fear, of wots not what desires,  
Of force of heavenly beams, infusing hellish pain;  
Of living deaths dear wounds, fair storms and flashing fires.  
Some one his songs in jove and Ioues strange tales attires,  
Bordered with Bulls and Swans, powdered with golden rain:  
An other humbler wit to shepherds pipe retires,  
Yet hiding royal blood, full oft in Rural vain.  
To some a sweetest plaint a sweetest style assordes,  
Whiles tears pour out his ink, and sighs breath out his words.  
His paper pale despair, and pain his pen doth move.  
I can speak what I feel, and feel as much as they,  
But think that all the map of my state, I display.  
When trembling voice brings forth, that I do Stella love.   

WHen nature made her chief work, Stellas eyes,  
In colour black, why wrapped she beams so bright?  
Would she in beamy black like Painter wise,  
Frame daintiest lustre mixed with shadows light?  
Or did she else that sober hew devise,  
In object best, to strength and knit our sight:  
Lest if no vail these brave beams did disguise,  
They Sunlike would more dazzle than delight.  
Or would she her miraculous power show,  
That whereas black seems Beauty's contrary,  
She even in black doth make all Beauties flow:  
But so and thus, she minding Love should be  
Placed ever there, gave him this mourning weed:  
To honour all their deaths, who for her bleed.   

Love borne in Greece, of late fled from his native place,  
Forced by a tedious proof, that Turkish hardened hearts  
Were no fit marks, to pierce with his fine pointed darts:  
And pleased with our soft peace, staid here his fleeting race.  
But finding these cold climes, too coldly him embrace,  
Not used to frozen lips, he strove to find some part  
Where with most ease and warmth, he might employ his art.  
At length himself he parched in Stellas face,  
Whose fair skin, beamy eyes, like morning Sun in snow:  
Deceived the quaking boy, who thought from so pure light,  
Effects of lively heat in nature needs must grow.  
But she most fair, most cold; made him there take his flight  
To my close heart; where while some fire brands he did lay,  
He burned unwares his wings, and cannot fly away.   

Queen virtues Court, which some call Stellas face,  
Prepared by Nature's chiefest furniture:  
Hath his front built of Alabaster pure,  
Gold is the covering of that stately place.  
The door, by which sometimes runs forth her grace  
Red Porphire is, which lock of Pearl makes sure:  
Whose Porches rich, with name of cheeks endure,  
Marble mixed red and white, do interlace.  
The Windows now, through which this heavenly guest  
Looks on the world, and can find nothing such,  
Which dare claim from those sights the name of best,  
Of touch they are, that without touch do touch,  
Which Cupid's self, from Beauty's mine did draw:  
Of touch they are, and poor I am their straw.   

REason, in faith thou art well served, that still  
Wouldst brabbling be, with sense and love in me:  
I rather wish thee climb the Muse's hill,  
Or reach the fruit of Nature's chiefest tree;  
Or seek heavens course, or heavens unused to thee:  
Why shouldst thou toil, our thorny ground to till?  
Leave sense and those that senses objects be,  
Deal thou with powers, of thoughts leave thou to will.  
But thou wouldst needs fight both with Love and sense,  
With sword of wit, giving wounds of dispraise:  
Till down right blows did foil thy cunning fence,  
So soon as they struck thee with Stellas rays.  
Reason, thou knewst, and offered strait to prove  
By reason good, good reason her to love.   

IN truth oh Love: with what a boyish kind  
Thou dost proceed, in thy most serious ways;  
That when thy heaven to thee his best displays,  
Yet of that best thou leav'st the best behind.  
That like a Child that some fair book doth find  
With gilded leaves of coloured Velom, plays  
Or at the most on some fair picture stays,  
But never heeds the fruit of Writers mind.  
So when thou sawest in Nature's cabinet,  
Stella, thou strait lookest babies in her eyes:  
In her cheeks pit, thou didst thy pitfall set,  
And in her breast to peep, a lowting lies.  
Playing and shining in each outward part:  
But fool seek'st not to get into her heart.   

CVpid because thou shinest in Stellas eyes,  
That from her looks thy dimness now escapes free:  
That those lips swelled so full of thee they be.  
That sweet breath maketh oft the flames to rise,  
That in her breast thy pap well sugared lies,  
That grace even makes thy gracious wrongs; that she,  
What word so ere she speaks, persuades for thee:  
That her clear voice, lifteth the Sun to Skies.  
Thou countest Stella thine, like those whose powers  
Having got up a breach, (by fight well)  
Cry victory, this happy day is ours:  
Oh no, her heart is such a Citadel.  
So fortified with wit, stored with disdain:  
That to win it, is all the skill and pain.   

PHoebus was judge, twixt jove and Mars in love,  
Of those three Gods whose arms the fairest wear:  
Ioues golden shield, did Eagle Sables bear.  
Whose talents hold young Ganymede above.  
But in verde fields, Mars bears a golden Spear,  
Which through a bleeding heart, his point did shove:  
Each had his Crest, Mars carried Venus' glove.  
jove on his Helm the Thunder bolt did rear.  
Cupid then smiles, for on his crest there lies  
Stellas fair hair, her face he makes his shield:  
Where Roses gules, are borne in silver field.  
Phoebus' drew wide the Curtain of the skies  
To blaze the last, and swore devoutly then:  
The first thus matched, were scarcely Gentlemen.   

ALas, have I not pain enough my friend,  
Upon whose breast, a fiercer gripe doth tire,  
Than did on him, who first stole down the fire;  
While Love on me, doth all his quiver spend,  
But with your rhubarb words you must contend,  
To grieve me worse in saying, that desire  
Doth plunge my well formed soul, even in the mire  
Of sinful thoughts, which do in ruin end.  
If that be sin which doth the manners frame,  
Well stayed with truth, in word and faith of deed,  
Ready of wit, and fearing nought but shame;  
If it be sin which in sixth heart doth breed,  
A loathing of all lost true chastity;  
Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.   

YOu that do search for every purling spring,  
Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows,  
And every flower (not sweet perhaps) which grows  
near there about, into your Poems wring.  
You that do dictionary method bring  
Into your rhymes, running in rattling rows,  
You that old Petrarchs long deceased woes  
With new borne sighs, and wit disguised sing;  
You take wrong ways, those far-fet helps be such,  
As do bewray a want of inward touch,  
And sure at length stolen goods do come to light.  
But if both for your love and skill you name,  
You seek to nurse at fullest breast of Fame,  
Stella behold and then begin to write.   

IN nature apt to like, when I did see  
Beauties which were of many Carrects fine,  
My boiling spirits did thither then incline,  
And Love I thought that I was full of thee;  
But finding not those restless flames in me  
Which others said did make their souls to pine,  
I thought those babes of some pin's hurt did whine:  
By my love judging what loves pains might be.  
But while I thus with this young Lion played,  
Mine eyes (shall I say cursed or blest) beheld  
Stella: now she is named, need more be said?  
In her sight I a lesson new have spelled.  
I now have learned love right, and learned even so,  
As they that being poisoned, poison know.   

HIs mother dear Cupid offended late,  
Because that Mars grew slacker in her love,  
With pricking shot he did not thoroughly move  
To keep the place of their first loving state:  
The boy refused, for fear of Mars' hate;  
Who threatened stripes, if he his wrath did prove:  
But she in chafe him from her lap did shove,  
Broke bow, broke shafts, where Cupid weeping sat,  
Till that his Grandam Nature pitying it,  
Of Stellas brows, made him two better bows:  
And in her eyes of arrows infinite.  
O how for joy he leaps, o how he crows;  
And strait therewith, like wags new got to play:  
Falls to shrewd turns, and I was in his way.   

WIth what strange checks I in myself am shent,  
When into Reason's Audit I do go:  
And by such counts myself a Banckerowt know  
Of all those goods which heaven to me hath lent,  
Unable quite, to pay even Nature's rent,  
Which unto it by birthright I do owe:  
And which is worse, no good excuse can show,  
But that my wealth I have most idly spent,  
My wit doth waste, my knowledge brings forth toys,  
My wit doth strive, those passions to defend  
With my reward, the spoil of vain annoys;  
I see my course, to lose myself doth bend.  
I see and yet no greater sorrow take  
Than that I lose no more for Stellas sake.   

ON Cupid's bow, how are my heart strings bend?  
That see my wrack, and yet embrace the same:  
When most I glory, than I feel most shame;  
I willing run, yet when I run repent;  
My best wits still their own disgrace invent,  
My very ink, turns strait to Stellas name:  
And yet my words (as them my pen doth frame)  
For though she pass all things, yet what is all  
That unto me, that far like him that both  
Looks to the skies and in a ditch doth fall,  
O let me prove my mind yet in his growth  
And not in nature, for best fruits unfit;  
Scholar saith Love bend hitherward thy wit.   

FLy, fly my friends, I have my deaths wound, fly;  
See there that boy, that murdering boy I say,  
Who like a thief hid in a bush doth lie,  
Till bloody bullet get him wrongful prey.  
So, tyrant he no fit place could spy,  
Nor so far level in so secret stay:  
As that sweet black which walls thy heavenly eye,  
There he himself with his shot close doth lay.  
Poor passenger, pass now thereby I did,  
And stayed to see the prospect of the place,  
While that black hue from me the bad guest hid,  
But strait I saw motions of lightning's grace,  
And there descried the glister of his dart:  
But ere I could fly thence, it pierced my heart.   

YOur words my friends me causelessly do blame,  
My young mind marred whom Love doth menace so:  
That my own writings like bad servants show  
My wits, quick in vain thoughts, in virtue lame;  
That Plato I have read for nought, but if he tame  
Such coltish years; that to my birth I own  
Nobler desires: lest else that to my foe  
Great expectation were a train of shame.  
For since mad Mars great promise made to me,  
If now the May or my years much decline,  
What can be hoped my harvest time will be,  
Well said, your wit in virtues golden mine  
Digs deep with learning's spade: now tell me this,  
Hath this world ought so fair as Stella is?   

IN highest way of heaven the Sun did ride,  
Progressing from fair Twin in golden place,  
Having no mask of Clouds before his face,  
But streaming forth of his heat in chiefest pride,  
When some fair Ladies by hard promise tied,  
On horseback met him in his furious race,  
Yet each prepared with Fans well shading grace,  
From that foes wounds their tender skins to hide.  
Stella alone, with face unarmed marched,  
Either to do like him, as careless shown:  
Or careless of the wealth, because her own.  
Yet were their hid and meaner beauties parched,  
Her daintiest bare went free; the cause was this,  
The Sun that others burnt, did her but kiss.   

THe curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness  
Bewray itself in my long settled eyes:  
When these same fumes of melancholy rise,  
With idle pains and missing pains doth guess;  
Some that know how, my spring I did address,  
Deem that my Muse some fruit of knowledge plies:  
Others, because the Prince my service tries,  
Think that I think, State errors to redress;  
But harder judges, judge ambitious rage,  
(Scourge of itself, till climbing slippery place)  
Holds my young brain captived in golden cage.  
O fools, far otherwise alas the case;  
For all my thoughts have neither stop nor start,  
But only Stellas eyes, and Stellas heart.   

RIch fools there be, whose base and filthy heart,  
Lies hatching still the goods wherein they flow:  
Damning themselves to Tantalus his smart,  
Wealth breeding want, more rich, more wretched grow.  
Yet to those fools, heaven doth such wit impart,  
As what their hands do hold, their heads do know.  
And knowing love, and loving lay apart,  
As scattered things, far from all dangers show.  
But that rich fool, whom by blind Fortune's lot,  
The richest gem of love and life enjoys,  
And can with foul abuse such beauty's blot:  
Let him deprived of sweet, but unfelt joys  
Exiled for aye, from those high treasures which  
He knows not grow, in only folly rich.   

THE wisest scholar of the wight most wise,  
By Phoebus' doom, with sugared sentence says:  
That virtue if it once meet our eyes,  
Strange flames of love it in our souls would raise.  
But for that man with pain this truth descries,  
While he each thing in senses balance ways,  
And so, nor will nor can behold those skies,  
Which inward Sum to heroic minds displays.  
Virtue of late with virtuous care to stir  
Love of himself, take Stellas shape, that he  
To mortal eyes might sweetly shine in her.  
It is most true, for since I did her see,  
virtues great beauty in her face I prove,  
And find defect; for I do burn in love.   

THough dusky wits do scorn Astrology,  
And fools can think those lamps of purest light.  
Whose number ways greatness eternity.  
Promising wondrous wonders to invite,  
To have for no cause birthright in the skies.  
But for to spangle the black weeds of Night,  
Or for some brave within that Chamber high,  
They should still dance to please a gazer's sight.  
For me I nature every deal do know,  
And know great causes, great effects procure,  
And know those bodies high, reign on the low.  
And if these rules did fall, proof makes me sure,  
Who oft bewrays my after following case,  
By only those two stars in Stellas face.   

BEcause I oft in dark abstracted guise,  
Seem most alone in greatest company,  
With dearth of words, and answers quite awry,  
To them that would make naked speech arise;  
They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies,  
That poison foul of bubbling pride doth lie  
So in my swelling breast, that only I  
Faun on myself, all others do despise:  
Yet pride (I think) doth not my soul possess,  
(Which looks too oft in this unflattering glass)  
But one worse fault, ambition I confess,  
That makes me oft my best friends overpass,  
Unseen unheard, while thought to highest place  
Bends all his powers, even unto Stellas grace.   

YOu that with allegories curious frame  
Of others children changelings use to make,  
With me those pains for Godsake do not take,  
I list not dig so deep for brazen fame.  
When I see Stella, I do mean the same  
Princess of beauty, for whose only sake,  
The reins of love I love, though never slake;  
And joy therein, though Nations count it shame:  
I beg no subject to use eloquence,  
Nor hidden ways to guide Philosophy,  
Look at my hands for no such quintessence,  
But know that I in pure simplicity,  
breath out the flames which burn within my heart,  
Love only leading me into this art.   

LIke some weak Lords neighbours by mighty kings,  
To keep themselves and their chief cities free  
Do easily yield, that all their coast may be  
Ready to serve their Camp of needful things:  
So Stellas heart finding what power Love brings,  
To keep itself in life and liberty,  
Doth willing grant that in the Frontier he  
Use all to help his other conquerings.  
And thus her heart escapes, but thus her eyes  
Serve him with shot, her lips his Heralds are,  
Her breasts his Tents, legs his triumphal Chare,  
Herself his food, her skin his Armour brave.  
But for because my chiefest prospect lies  
Upon the coast, I am given up for a slave.   

WHether the Turkish new Moon minded be,  
To fill her horns upon the Christian coast,  
How Poland's King minds without leave of host,  
To warm with ill made fire cold Musconie,  
If French can yet three parts in one agree,  
What now the Dutch in their full diets boast,  
How Holland hearts, now so good Towns are lost,  
Wherewith my Father made it once half tame,  
If in the Scottish Court be weltering yet;  
These questions busy wits to me do frame:  
I cumbered with good manners, answer do,  
But know not how, for still I think on you.   

WIth how sad steps o Moon thou clim'st the skies,  
How silently, and with how mean a face,  
What may it be, that even in heavenly place,  
That busy Archer his sharp Arrows tries?  
Sure if that long with love acquainted eyes  
Can judge of love, thou feelst of lovers case,  
I read within thy looks thy languished grace.  
To me that feel the like, my state descries.  
Then even of fellowship o Moon tell me,  
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?  
Are beauties there, as proud as here there be?  
Do they above, love to be loved, and yet  
Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess?  
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?   

Morpheus' the lively son of deadly Sleep,  
Witness of life to them that living die:  
A Prophet oft of hidden mystery;  
A Poet eke as humours fly and creep:  
Since thou in me so sure a hold dost keep,  
That never I with closed up sense do lie,  
But by thy work, my Stella I descry,  
Teaching blind eyes both how to smile and weep;  
Vouchsafe of all acquaintance this to tell,  
Whence hast thou ivory, Rubies, Pearl, and Gold,  
To show her skin, lips, teeth, and head so well?  
(Fool answers he) no Indeses such treasures hold,  
But from thy heart, while my Sire charmeth thee,  
Sweet Stellas Image I do steal to me.   

I Might, unhappy word, (woe me) I might,  
And then would not, or could not see my bliss:  
Till now, wrapped in a most infernal Night,  
I find, how heavenly day (wretch) did I miss;  
heart rend thyself, thou dost thyself but right.  
No lovely Paris made thy Helen his,  
No force, no fraud, robbed thee of thy delight,  
No Fortune of thy fortune Author is;  
But to myself, myself did give the blow,  
While too much wit forsooth so troubled me,  
That I respects for both our sakes must show.  
And could I not by rising morn foresee,  
How fair a day was near, (o punished eyes)  
That I had been more foolish, or more wise.   

COme let me write, and to what end? to ease  
A burdened heart, (how can words ease, which are  
The glasses of thy daily vexing care?)  
Oh, cruel fights well pictured forth do please.  
Art not ashamed to publish thy disease?  
Nay, that may breed my fame, it is so rare,  
But will not wise men think thy words fond ware?  
Then be they close, and they shall none displease,  
What idler thing than speak and not be heard?  
What harder thing than smart and not to speak?  
Peace foolish wit, with wit my wit is marred;  
Thus writ I while I doubt to write, and wreak  
My harms in ynkes poor loss, perhaps some find  
Stellas great power, that so confused my mind.   

WHat may words say? or what may words not say,  
Where truth itself must speak like flattery?  
Within what bounds can one his liking stay,  
Where Nature doth with excellence agree?  
What Nestor's counsel can my flames allay,  
Since Reason's self doth blow the coals to me?  
And ah, what hope that hope should once see day,  
Where Cupid is sworn page to Chastity;  
Honour is honoured, that thou dost possess  
Him as thy slave, and now long needy Fame  
Doth even grow rich, meaning my Stellas name;  
Wit learns in thee perfection to express,  
Not thou by praise, but praise in thee is raised,  
It is a praise, to praise where thou art praised.   

STella, whence doth these new assaults arise,  
A conquered, yielding, ransacked heart to win?  
Whereto long since, through my long battered eyes,  
Whole Armies of thy beauties entered in,  
And there long since, Love thy Lieutenant lies,  
My forces razed, thy banners raised within;  
Of conquest what do these effects suffice,  
But will't new war upon thine own begin,  
With so sweet voice, and by sweet nature so,  
In sweetest strength, so sweetly skilled withal,  
In all sweet stratagems sweet Art can show:  
That not my soul which at thy foot did fall  
Long sithence forced by thy beams; but stone nor tree  
By senses privilege can scape from thee.   

THus night while sleep gins, with heavy wings  
To close mine eyes, and that my troubled thought  
Doth fall to stray, and my chief powers are brought  
To leave the sceptre of all subject things,  
The first that strait my fancy's error brings  
Unto my mind, is Stellas Image, wrought  
By Loves own self, but with so curious draft,  
That she me thinks not only shines but sings:  
I start, look heart, hark, but what enclosed up sense  
Was held, in open view it flies away,  
Leaving me nought but wailing eloquence.  
I seeing bitter sights in sighs decay,  
Called it anew, and wooed Sleep again,  
But him her host her unkind guest had slain.   

COme Sleep, o Sleep, the certain knot of peace,  
The bathing place of wits, the balm of woe,  
The poor man's wealth, the prisoners release,  
The indifferent judge between the high and low,  
With shield of proof, shield me from out the press  
Of these fierce darts, Despair at me doth throw;  
O make in me those civil wars to cease:  
I will good tribute pay if thou do so.  
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,  
A chamber deaf of noise, and blind of light,  
A rosy garland, and a weary head.  
And if these things (as being thine in right)  
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me  
(Livelier than else) rare Stellas Image see.   

AS good to write, as for to lie and groan,  
O Stella dear, how much thy power hath wrought,  
That hast my mind now of the basest brought,  
My still kept course while others sleep to moan;  
Alas if thou, the height of virtues throne,  
Canst but vouchsafe the influence of a thought,  
Upon a wretch which long thy grace hath sought,  
Way then by thee how I am overthrown;  
And then think thus, although thy beauty be  
Made manifest, by such a victory,  
Yet noblest Conquerors do wreaks avoid;  
Since than thou hast so far subdued me,  
That in my heart I offer still to thee,  
O do not let thy Temple be destroyed.   

Having this day, my horse, my hand, my Lance  
Guided so well, that I obtained the prize,  
Both by the judgement of the English eyes,  
And of some sent by that sweet enemy France,  
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance,  
Town folk my strength: a daintier judge applies  
His praise to slight, which from good use doth rise:  
Some lucky wits, impute it but to chance:  
Others, because from both sides I do take  
My blood, from them that do excel in this,  
Think Nature me a man at Arms did make.  
How far they shoot awry; the true cause is,  
Stella looked on, and from her heavenly face,  
Sent forth her beams, which made so fair a race.   

O Eyes, which do the Spheres of beauty move,  
Whose beams all joys, whose joys all virtues be:  
Who while they make Love conquer, conquer Love,  
The Schools where Venus hath learned Chastity;  
O eyes, where humble looks most glorious prove,  
Only love tasting of your cruelty.  
Do not, do not, from me, poor me, remove,  
Keep still my Zenith, ever shine on me;  
For thoughts eye never sees them, but strait ways  
My life forgets to nourish languished sprights:  
Yet still on me (o eyes) dart down your rays;  
And if from Majesty of sacred Lights  
Oppressing mortal sense, my death proceed:  
Wrecks triumphs best, which Love hie set doth breed.   

Fair eyes, sweet lips, dear heart, that foolish I  
Can hope by Cupid's help, on you to pray:  
Since to himself he doth your gifts apply,  
As his main force, chief sport, and easeful stay.  
For when he will see who dare him gainsay,  
Then with those eyes he looks, lo by and by,  
Each soul doth at loves feet his weapons lay,  
Glad if for her he give them leave to die.  
When he will play, then in her lips his eye,  
Where blushing red, that loves self them do love,  
With either lip he doth the other kiss;  
But when he will for quiets sake remove  
From all the world, her heart is then his room:  
Where well he knows, no man to him can come.   

MY words I know do well set forth my mind,  
My mind, bemoans his sense of inward smart:  
Such smart may pity claim of any heart;  
Her heart, sweet heart, is of no tigers kind,  
And yet she hears, and I no pity find,  
But more I cry, less grace she doth impart;  
Alas, what cause is there so overthwart,  
That Nobleness itself makes thus unkind?  
I much do guess, yet find no truth but this,  
That when the breath of my complaints do touch  
Those dainty doors unto the Court of Bliss,  
That once come there, the sobs of my annoys,  
Are metamorphosed strait to tunes of joys.   

STella oft sees the very face of woes  
Painted in my bewrinckled stormy face:  
But cannot skill to pity my disgrace;  
No though the cause hereof herself she knows.  
Yet Hermes late, a Fable who did show,  
Of Lovers never known, (a piteous case)  
Pity thereof got in her breast such place,  
As from her eyes, a Spring of tears did flow.  
Alas, if Fancy drawn by feigned things,  
Though false, yet with free store more grace doth breed  
Then Servants wreck, where new doubt honour brings,  
Than think my Deer, that in me you do reed  
Of lovers ruin some sad Tragedy:  
And if not me, pity the tale of me.   

I Cursed thee oft, I pity now thy case,  
Blind hitting Boy, since she that thee and me  
Rules with a beck, so tyranniseth thee,  
That thou must want or food or dwelling place;  
For she protests to banish thee her face.  
Her face (o Love) a rogue than shouldst thou be,  
If Love learn not alone to love and see,  
Without desire to feed of further grace.  
Alas poor wag, that now a Scholar art  
To such a Schoolmistress, whose lessons new  
Thou needs must miss, and so thou needs must smart;  
Yet dear, let me this pardon get of you,  
That he so long may sport him with desire,  
Till without Fuel, thou can make hot fire.   

WHat, have I thus betrayed my liberty,  
Can those black beams, such burning marks engrave  
In my free side, or am I borne a slave,  
Whose neck becomes such yoke of tyranny?  
Or want I sense to feel my misery,  
Or spirit, disdain of such disdain to have,  
Who for long faith some gentle pity crave,  
Yet get no alms, but scorn of beggary.  
Virtue awake, beauty but beauty is;  
I may, I must, I can, I will, I do  
Leave following that which it is gain to miss,  
Let her go: soft, but there she comes, go to,  
Unkind I love you, not, (woe me) that I  
Must make my heart thus give my tongue the lie.   

Soul's joy, bend not those morning stars from me,  
Where virtue is made strong by beauty's might,  
Where love is chasteness, scorning youths delight,  
And humbleness is linked with majesty;  
What ever may ensue, ah let me be  
Copartner of the riches of that sight:  
Let not mine eyes be blinded from that light;  
Oh look, oh shine, o let me die and see,  
For though I oft myself of them bemoan,  
That through my heart their beamy darts be gone,  
Whose cureless wounds even now most freshly bleed;  
Yet since my death's wound is already got,  
Dear killer, spare not thy sweet cruel shot,  
A kind of grace it is to kill with speed.   

I On my horse, and Love on me doth try  
Our horsemanship, while two strong works I prove,  
A horseman to my horse, a horse to Love;  
And now man's wrongs in me poor beast descry.  
The rains wherewith the rider doth me tie  
Are reverent thoughts, which bitten of reverence move,  
Curbde in with fear, but with gilt boss above  
Of hope, which makes it seem fair to the eye:  
The wand is will, thou fancy saddle art,  
Girt fast by memory; and while I spur  
My horse, he spurs with sharp desires my heart,  
He sits me fast how ever I do stir,  
And now hath made me to his hand so right,  
That in the manage I myself delight.   

STella, the fullness cannot stayed be  
Of hidden thoughts, within my panting breast:  
But they do swell and struggle forth of me,  
Till that in words thy figure be expressed;  
And yet as soon as they thus form be,  
According to my Lord loves own behest,  
With sad eyes I their weak proportion see  
To portrait what within this world is blest.  
So that I cannot choose but write my mind,  
And cannot choose but put out that I writ,  
While those poor babes their death in birth do find;  
And now my pen these lines had dashed quite,  
But that they stop his fury from the same:  
Because their forefront bears sweet Stellas name.   

PArdon mine ears, both I and they do pray,  
So may your tongue still flauntingly proceed,  
To them that do such entertainments need;  
So may you still have something new to say  
On silly me, do not your burden lay  
Of all the grave conceits your brain doth breed:  
But find some Hercules, to bear (in steed  
Of Atlas tired) your wisdoms heavenly sway,  
For me while you discourse of courtly tides,  
Of cunningest Fishers in most troubled streams,  
Of straying waves when valiant error guides;  
Mean while my heart confers with Stellas beams,  
As pity 'tis so sweet a Comedy,  
By such unfit speech, should hindered be.   

A Strife is grown between Virtue and Love,  
While each pretends, that Stella may be his:  
Her eyes, her lips, Love saith that he owes this,  
Since they do wear his badge, most firmly prove;  
But Virtue thus, that title doth disprove.  
That Stella, (o dear name) that Stella is,  
That virtuous Soul, sure heir of heavenly Bliss:  
Not this fair outside, which our heart doth move;  
And therefore, though her beauty and her grace,  
Be Loves indeed, in Stellas self he may  
By no pretence claim any manner place.  
Well Love, since this Demur our suit doth stay,  
Let Virtue have that Stellas self, yet thus,  
That Virtue but that body grant to us.   

IN Martial sports I had my cunning tried,  
And yet to break more staves I did address  
While people shouts: indeed I must confess,  
Youth, luck, and praise, filled my veins with pride;  
When Cupid having me his slave descried,  
In Mars his livery, prancing in the press,  
Now what sir fool said he (I would no less)  
Look here I say, I looked, and Stella spied:  
Who hard by, through a window sent her light;  
My heart then quaked, than dazzled were my eyes,  
One hand forgot to rule, th'other to fight,  
No Trumpet sound I heard, nor friendly cries;  
My foe came on, and beat the air for me,  
Till that her blush, taught me my shame to see.   

BEcause I breath not love to every one,  
Nor do not use set Colours for to wear:  
Nor nourish special locks with vowed hair,  
Nor give each speech a full point of a groan,  
The Courtly Nymphs acquainted with the moan  
Of them, which in their lips loves Standard bear:  
What he, (say they of me) no I dare swear,  
He cannot love: no, no, let him alone.  
And think so still, so Stella know my mind.  
Protest indeed, I know not Cupid's dart:  
But how fair Maids, at length this true shall find,  
That his right badge, is learned in the heart.  
Dumb Swans, not chattering Pies do Lovers prove,  
They love indeed, who dare not say they love.   

FIE school of Patience, fie, your Lesson is  
Far far too long, to learn it without book:  
What, a whole week, and get not half a look?  
And think I should not your large precepts miss,  
When I might read these Letters fair of bliss,  
Within her face each virtue I could brook,  
From what the leaden counsels that I took:  
As of a friend which meant not much amiss.  
But now alas, that I do want her sight,  
What dost thou think that I can evertake,  
In thy cold strife, a phlegmatic delight?  
No Patience, if thou wilt my good, then make  
Her come, and here with patience my desire:  
And then with patience bid me bear my fire.   

Muses, I oft have craved your holy aid,  
With choicest flowers, my speech t'engarland so,  
That it disguised, in true (but naked) show,  
Might win some grace in your sweet skill arraide;  
And oft whole troops of saddest words I said,  
Striving abroad, a foraging to go,  
Until by your inspiring I might know,  
How the black banners might be best displayed.  
But I mean now no more your help to prove.  
No other sugering of speech to try,  
But on her name uncessantly to cry.  
For let me but name her whom I do love,  
So sweet sound strait my ears and heart do hit,  
That I well find no eloquence to it.   

Woo having made with many sighs his own  
Each sense of mine; each gift, each power of mind  
Grown now his slaves, he forced them out to find  
The throwest words, fit for Woes self to groan  
Hoping that when they might find Stella alone,  
Before she could prepare to be unkind,  
Her soul (armed with such a dainty rind,)  
Should soon be hurt with sharpness of the moan.  
She heard my plaints, and did not only hear,  
But them so sweet, she did most sweetly sing,  
With that fair breast, making Woes darkness clear,  
My privy cares I holp to her to bring,  
To tell my grief, and she with face and voice,  
So sweets my pains, that my pains me rejoice.   

DOubt there hath been, when with his golden chain  
The Orator so far men's hearts doth bind:  
That no place else their giddy steps could find;  
But as he them more slacker short did rain,  
Whether with words his sovereignty he gain,  
Clothed with fine tropes as his strongest lined,  
Or else pronouncing grace, wherewith his mind  
Prints his own form lively, in rudest brain.  
Now judge by this, in piercing phrases late  
The Anatomy of all my woes I wrote,  
Stellas sweet breath the same to me did reed.  
Oh voice, oh face, maugre my speeches might,  
With wooed words, most ravishing delight,  
Even those sad words a joy to me did breed.   

Dear, why make you more of a dog than me?  
If he do love, alas I burn in love;  
If he wait well, I never thence would move;  
If he be fair, yet but a dog can be;  
Little he is, so little worth is he:  
He barks, my songs in one voice oft doth prove;  
Bidden, (perhaps) he fetcheth thee a glove;  
But I unbid, fetch even my soul to thee.  
Yet while I languish, him that bosom eclipse,  
That lap doth lap, nay let's in spite of spite  
This fawning mate taste of those sugared lips;  
Alas, if you grant only such delight  
To witless things, then Love I hope, (since wit  
Becomes a clog) will soon ease me of it.   

WHen my good Angel guides me to the place  
Where's all my good; I do in Stella see,  
That Heavenly joys throws only down on me  
Thundered disdains, and Lightning of disgrace;  
But when the ruggedst step of Fortune's race  
Makes me fall from her sight, then sweetly she  
With words, wherein the Muse's Treasures be,  
Shows love and pity to my absent case.  
Now I (with beating long, by hardest fate)  
So dull am, that I cannot look into  
The ground of this fierce love, and loving hate;  
Then some good body tell me how to do,  
Whose presence absence, absence presence is:  
Blessed in my curse, and cursed in my bliss.   

OFt with true sighs, oft with uncalled tears,  
Now with slow words, now with dumb eloquence,  
I Stellas eyes assailed, I closed her ears,  
But this at last is her sweetest defence;  
That who indeed a sound affection bears,  
So captives to his Saint both soul and mind,  
That wholly Hers, all selfness he forbears.  
Thence his desire he learns, his lives course thence,  
Now since this chaste love, hates this love in me;  
With chastened mind I needs must show, that she  
Shall quickly me from what she hates remove.  
O Doctor Cupid, thou for me reply:  
Driven else to grant by Angel Sophistry,  
That I love not, without I leave to love.   

LAte tired with woe, even ready for to pine  
With rage of love, I call my Love unkind.  
She in whose eyes, loves fires unfelt do shine,  
Sweetly said; I true love in her should find.  
I joy, but strait thus watered was my wine:  
That love she did, but with a love not blind.  
Which would not let me, whom she loved decline,  
From Nobler course, fit for my birth and mind.  
And therefore by her loves Authority;  
Wild me these Tempests of vain love to flee:  
And Anchor fast myself on virtues shore.  
Alas if this the only metal be,  
Of love new coined to help my beggary:  
Deer, love me not, that you may love me more.   

OH Grammar rules, oh now your virtues show,  
So Children still read you with awful eyes,  
As my young Dove may in your precepts wise,  
Her grant to me by her own virtue know.  
For late with heart most high, with eyes most low;  
I craved the thing which ever she denies.  
She lightning Love, displaying Venus' skies,  
Lest one should not be heard twice, said no no.  
hearken Envy not at my high triumphing:  
But Grammars force with sweet success confirm,  
For Grammar says ah (this dear Stella way)  
For Grammar says (to Grammar who says nay)  
That in one speech, two negatives affirm.   

NO more my dear, no more these Counsels try,  
O give my passions leave to run their race:  
Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace.  
Let folk orechargde with brain against me cry,  
Let Clouds be dim, my fate bereaves mine eyes,  
Let me no steps but of lost labour try,  
Let all the earth in scorn recount my race;  
But do not will me from my love to fly.  
I do not envy Aristotle's wit,  
Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame:  
Nor ought to care though some above me sit;  
Nor hope nor wish an other course to frame:  
But that which once may win thy cruel heart,  
Thou art my wit; and thou my virtue art.   

Love, by sure proof I may call thee unkind,  
That gives no better ears to my just cries:  
Thou whom to me, such my good turns shouldst bind,  
As I may well account, but cannot prize.  
For when naked boy, thou couldst no harbour find  
In this old world, (grown now so too too wise)  
I lodg'de thee in my heart; and being blind  
By nature borne, I gave to thee my eyes.  
Mine eyes, my light, my life, my heart alas,  
If so great services may scorned be:  
Yet let this thought thy Tygirsh courage pass,  
That I perhaps am somewhat kin to thee,  
Since in thine arms, of Fame most truly spread,  
Thou bear'st the Arrow, I the Arrowhed.   

AND do I see some cause of hope to find?  
Or doth the tedious burden of long woe  
In weakened minds, quick apprehension breed  
Of every Image which may comfort show.  
I cannot brag of word, much less of deed,  
Fortune's winds still with me in one sort blow:  
My wealth no more, and no whit less my need,  
Desire, still on stilts of fear doth go.  
And yet amids all fears, a hope there is  
Stolen to my heart: since last fair night (nay day)  
Stellas eyes sent to me the beams of bliss,  
Looking on me, I look an other way:  
But when mine eyes black to their heaven did move:  
They fled with blush, which guilty seemed of love.   

HOpe art thou true or dost thou flatter me?  
Doth Stella now begin, with piteous eye  
The reign of this her conquest to espy?  
Will she take time before all wracked be?  
Her eye speech is translated thus by thee.  
But failste thou not in phrase so heavenly high?  
Look over again, the fair text better pry;  
What blushing notes dost thou in Margin see?  
What sighs stolen out, or killed before full borne  
Hast thou found such and such like arguments?  
Or art thou else to comfort me forsworn?  
Well how so ere thou dost interpret my contents,  
I am resolved thy error to maintain:  
Rather than by more truth to get more pain.   

STella, the only Planet of my light,  
Light of my life, and life of my desire,  
Chief good, whereto my hope doth sole aspire;  
World of my wealth and heaven of my delight.  
Why dost thou spend the Treasure of thy spirit  
With voice more fit to wed Amphion's Lyre?  
Seeking to quench in me the noble fire,  
Set by thy wrath and kindled by thy sight.  
And all in vain, for while thy breath so sweet  
With choicest words; thy words with reasons rare:  
Thy reasons firmly set, are virtues feet,  
Labour to kill in me this kill care  
Oh think I then, what Paradise of joy  
It is, so fair a virtue to annoy.   

OH joy, too high for my Love still to show,  
Oh bliss, fit for a nobler seat than me,  
Envy put out thine eyes, lest thou do see  
What Ouans of delight, in me doth flow.  
My friend that oft saw'st through all masks, my woe,  
Come, come, and let me pour myself in thee:  
Gone is the winter of my misery.  
My Spring appears, lo see what here doth grow,  
For Stella hath with words (where faith doth shine)  
Of her high heart given me the Monarchy:  
And Io, I may say that she is mine.  
And though she give but this conditionally,  
This Realm of bliss, while virtues course I take;  
No Kings be Crowned, but they some covenant make.   

MY Muse may well grudge at my heavenly joy,  
If still I force her thus in woe to weep:  
She oft hath drunk my tears, now hopes t'enjoy  
Nectar of mirth; since I Ioues Cupid keep.  
Sonnets be not bound Apprentice to annoy,  
Trebles sing high, so well as bases deep:  
Grief but loves winter livery, the boy  
Hath cheeks to smile, so well as eyes to weep.  
Come then my Muse, show the force of delight  
In well raised notes; my pen the best it may  
Shall paint out joy, though but in black and white.  
Cease eager Muse, peace pen, for my sake stay.  
I give you here my hand, for truth of this:  
Wise silence is best Music unto bliss.   

WHo will in fairest book of nature know,  
How Virtue may best lodged in Beauty be,  
Let him but learn of love to read in thee  
Stella those fair lines which true Beauty show.  
There shall he find all vices overthrow;  
Not by rude force, but sweetest sovereignty  
Of reason, from whose light, the night birds fly;  
That inward Sun in thine eyes shineth so.  
And not content to be perfections heir,  
Thyself dost strive all minds that way to move:  
Who marking thee, which art indeed most fair,  
See while thy beauty drives my heart to love,  
As fast thy virtue bends that love to good:  
But ah, Desire still cries, give me some food.   

DEsire, though thou my old companion art,  
And oft so clinges to my pure Love; that I  
One from the other scarcely can descry:  
While each do blow the fire of my heart;  
Now from thy fellowship I needs must part.  
Venus is taught with Diane's wings to fly,  
I must no more in thy sweet passions lie:  
Virtues gold now, must head my Cupid's dart,  
Service and honour wonder with delight,  
Fear to offend, well worthy to appear:  
Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my sprite,  
These things are left me by my only dear.  
But thou Desire, because thou wouldst have all:  
Now banished art, but yet within my call.   

Love still a Boy, and oft a wanton is,  
Schooled only by his Mother's tender eye:  
What wonder then if he his lesson miss,  
When for so soft a rod dear play he try.  
And yet my star, because a sugared kiss,  
In sport I suck, while she a sleep doth lie:  
Doth lower, nay chide, nay threat for only this:  
Sweet it was saucy love, that priest so nigh.  
But no excuse serves, she makes her wrath appear  
In Beauty's throne, see now who dares come near  
Those scarlet judges, threatening bloody pain.  
O heavenly Fool, thy most kiss worthy face  
Anger invests with such a lovely grace,  
That Angers self I needs must kiss again.   

I Never drank of Aganippe well,  
Nor never did in shade of Tempe sit:  
And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell,  
Poor Lay-man I, for sarcred rites unfit.  
Some do I hear of Poet's fury tell,  
But God wots, wots not what they mean by it:  
And this I swear by blackest brook of hell,  
I am no Pickpurse of an others wit.  
How falls it than, that with so smooth an ease  
My thoughts I speak? And what I speak I show  
In verse; and that my verse best wits doth please,  
Guess we the cause. What is it this? fie no.  
Or so? much less. How then? sure thus it is;  
My Lips are sure inspired with Stellas kiss.   

OF all the Kings that ever here did reign,  
Edward named fourth, as first in praise I name:  
Not for his fair outside, nor well lined brain,  
Although less gift, are feathers of high fame.  
Nor that he could young wise, wise valiant frame  
His Sires revenge, joined with a kingdoms gain:  
And gained by Mars, could yet make Mars so tame,  
That balance weighed what sword did late obtain.  
Nor that he made the Flower deluce so frayed,  
Though strongly hedged of bloody lions paws:  
That witty Lewes to him a tribuite paid;  
Nor this nor that, nor any such small cause,  
But only, for this worthy King durst prove,  
To lose his Crown, rather than lose his love.   

She comes, and strait therewith her shining twins do move  
Their rays to me: who in her tedious absence lay  
Bathed in cold woe; but now appears my shining day,  
The only light of joy, the only warmth of love.  
She comes with light and warmth, which like Aurora prove;  
Of gentle face, so that my eyes dare gladly play  
With such a rosy Morn: whose beams both fresh and gay  
Scorch not; but only do dark chilling spirits remove.  
But lo, while I do speak it groweth noon with me,  
Her flamy glittering lights increase with time and place:  
My heart cries oh it burns, mine eyes now dazzled be:  
No wind, no shade, no cool: what help then in my case?  
But with short breath, long looks, staid feet, and waking head,  
Pray that my Sun go down with meeker beams to bed.   

Those looks, whose beams my joy, whose motion is delight,  
That face whose lecture shows what perfect Beauty is:  
That presence which doth give dark hearts a living light,  
That grace, which Venus weeps that she herself did miss.  
That hand, which without touch, holds more than Atlas might,  
Those lips, which makes deaths pay a mean prize for a kiss:  
That skin, whose passing hue scorns this poor term of white,  
Those words that do sublime the quintessence of bliss.  
That voice which makes the soul plant himself in the ears,  
That conversation sweet, where such high comforts be:  
As construed in true speech, the name of heaven it bears.  
Makes me in my best thoughts, and quiet judgements see,  
That in no more but this I mightt be fully blest:  
Yet ah, my maiden Muse doth blush to tell the best.   

OH how the pleasant airs, of true Love be  
Infected by those vapours, which arise  
From out that noisome gulf: which gaping lies  
Between the jaws of hellish jelousey.  
A Monster, others harms, self misery.  
Beauty's plague, virtues scourge, succour of lies:  
Who his own joy to his own heart applies,  
And only cherish doth with injuries:  
Who since he hath by nature's special grace,  
So piercing paws as spoil when they embrace,  
So nimble feet as stir though still on thorns,  
So many eyes as seeking their own woe.  
So ample ears, that never good news know,  
Is it not ill that such a beast wants horns?   

Sweet kiss, thy sweets I feign would sweetly indite,  
Which even of sweetness, sweetell sweeter art;  
Pleasing consort, where each sense holdeth part,  
With coupling Doves guides Venus' chariot right,  
Best charge and brav'st retreat in Cupid's sight,  
A double key which openeth to the hearts,  
Most rich when most his riches it imparts.  
Nest of young joys, Schoolmaster of delight,  
Teaching the means at once to take and give,  
The friendly fray where blows do wound and heal,  
The pretty death while each in other live,  
Poor haps first wealth a pledge of promised weal,  
Breakfast of love, but lo, lo where she is,  
Cease we to praise, now pray we for a kiss.   

SWeet swelling lip well mayst thou swell in pride,  
Since best wits think it best thee to admire,  
Nature's praise, virtues stall, Cupid's cold fire,  
Whence words, not words but heavenly graces slide,  
The new Parnassus where the Graces bide:  
Sweetness of Music, wisdoms beautifier,  
Breather of life, and fastness of desire,  
Where Beauties blush in honours grain is died.  
Thus much my heart my mouth compelled to say:  
But now, spite of my heart my tongue will stay,  
Loathing all lies, doubting this flattery is,  
And no spur can this resty race refrain;  
Wherefore to try if that I said be true,  
How can I better prove then with a kiss?   

O Kiss which doth those ruddy gems impart,  
Or joys or fruits of new found paradise,  
Breathing all bliss and sweetness to the heart,  
Teaching dumb lips a nobler exercise.  
O kiss which souls even souls together ties  
By links of love, and only nature's Art,  
How feign would I paint thee to all men's eyes,  
Or of thy gifts at least set out some part?  
But she forbids, with blushing words she says,  
She builds her fame on higher seated praise:  
But my heart burns, I cannot silent be,  
Then since dear kiss you feign would have me peace,  
And I (mad with delight) want wit to cease,  
Stop you my mouth with still still kissing me.   

NYmph of the garden where all beauties be,  
Beauties which do in excellence surpass,  
His whose till death locked in a watery glass,  
Or her whom naked the Trojan boy did see.  
Sweet garden Nymph which keeps the Cherry tree,  
Whose fruit doth far the Hesperian taste surpass,  
Most sweet fair, most fair sweet, do not alas  
From coming near these Cherries banish me,  
For though full of desire, empty of wit,  
Admitted late by your best graced grace,  
I caught at one of them a hungry bit,  
Pardon that fault, once more grant me the place,  
And so I swear by the self same delight,  
I will but kiss, I never more will bite,   

GOod brother Philip I have for borne you long,  
I was content you should in favour creep,  
While craftily you seemed your Cut to keep,  
As though that fair soft hand did you great wrong,  
I bear with envy, yet I hear your song,  
When in her neck you did love ditties peep,  
Nay, (more fool I) oft suffered you to sleep,  
In lilies nest where loves self lies along,  
What? doth high place ambitious thoughts augment?  
Is sauciness reward of courtesy?  
Cannot such grace your silly self content,  
But you must needs with those lips billing be?  
And through those lips drink Nectar from that tongue,  
Leave that Sir Philip lest your neck be wrung.   

HIgh way since you my chief Parnassus be,  
And that my Muse to some ears not unmeet,  
Tempers her words to trampling horses feet,  
More often than a Chamber melody,  
Now blessed you bear onwards blessed me,  
To her where my heart safeliest shall meet,  
My Muse and I must you of duty greet,  
With thanks and wishes wishing thankfully;  
Be you still careful kept by public heed,  
By no encrochment wronged, nor time forgot,  
Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed,  
And that you know I envy you no whit,  
Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,  
Hundreds of years you Stellas feet may kiss.   

BEhold my heart the house that thee contains,  
Beware full Sails drown not thy tottering Barge,  
Lest joy by nature apt (spirits to colarge)  
Thee to thy wrack beyond thy limits strains,  
Nor do like Lords whose weak confused brains,  
Not pointing to fit folks each undercharge,  
Strive in themselves each office to discharge,  
With doing all leave nothing done but pain,  
But give apt servants their due place; let eyes  
See beauties total sum found in their face,  
Let ears hear speech which will to wonder ties,  
Let breath suck up those sweets, let arms embrace.   

ALas whence comes this change of looks? If I  
have changed deserts, let mine own conscience be  
a still felt plague to self condemning me.  
Let woe gripe on my heart, shame load mine eyes:  
But if all faith like spotless Ermine lie  
Safe in my soul (which only doth to thee  
As his sole object to felicity  
With wings of Love in air of wonder fly.)  
Cease your hard hand, threat not so hard your slave,  
In justice, pains come not till faults do call:  
Or if I needs (sweet judge) must torments have,  
Seek some thing else to chasten me withal,  
Than those blessed eyes where all my hopes do dwell,  
No doom shall make one's Heaven become his Hell.   

WHen I was forced from Stella ever dear,  
Stella, food of my thoughts, hurt of my heart:  
Stella, whose eyes make all my temples clear,  
By stella's laws, of duty to impart,  
Alas I found that she with me did smart:  
I saw that tears did in her eyes appear:  
I saw that sighs her sweetest lips did part:  
And her sad words my sad dear sense did hear.  
For me, I weep to see Pearls scattered so:  
I sighed her sighs, and wailed for her woe:  
Yet swam in joy such love in her was seen.  
Thus while the effect most bitter was to me,  
And than the cause nothing more sweet could be,  
I had been vexed, if vexed I had not been.   

Out Traitor absence darest thou counsel me  
From my dear Conqueror to run away,  
Because in brave array here marcheth she  
That to entice me proffers present pay.  
Is Faith so weak, or is such force in thee?  
When Sun is hid, can Stars such beams display?  
Cannot heavens food once felt keep stomachs free  
From base desire on earthly cates to pray?  
When absence with her mists obscures her light,  
My Orphan sense slides to the inward sight:  
Where memory feeds forth the beams of Love,  
That where before heart loved and eyes did see,  
In heart my sight and Love both coupled be,  
United powers make each the stronger prove.   

NOw that of absence the most irksome night,  
With darkest shade doth overcome the day:  
Since stella's eyes that want give me my day,  
Leaving my Hemisphere overcast with night,  
Each day seems long, and longs for long stayed night,  
The night as tedious, woos th'approach of day:  
Toiled with dusty toils of busy day,  
Languished with horrors of the silent night,  
Suffering the evils both of day and night,  
While no night is more dark than is my day,  
Nor no day hath less quiet than my night:  
With such bad mixture of my night and day,  
That living thus in blackest Winter night,  
I feel the gleams of hottest summers day.   

STella, think not that I by verse seek fame,  
Who seek, who hope, who love, who like, but thee:  
Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my history,  
If thou praise me, all other praise is shame.  
Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame  
A nest for my young praise in Laurel tree,  
In truth I swear, I wish not there should be  
graved in my Epitaph a Poet's name.  
Nor if I would could I just title make  
That any laud thereof to me should grow  
Without my Pains from others wings I take;  
For nothing from my wit or will doth flow:  
Since all my words thy beauty doth indite,  
And Love doth hold my hand, & makes me write.   

STella, while now by honours cruel might,  
I am from you (light of my light) misled,  
And whiles fair you, my Sun thus overspread  
With absence vale I live in sorrows night.  
If this dark place yet show by candle light  
Some Beauty's piece, as amber collourd head,  
Milk hands, rose cheeks, or lips more sweet more red,  
Or seeming jet black, yet in blackness bright.  
They please I do confess, they please mine eyes,  
But why? because of you they models be;  
Models such be wood globes of glistering skies:  
Dear therefore be not jealous over me,  
If you hear that they seem my heart to move,  
Not them, no no, but you in them I love.   

BE your words made (good sir) of Indian ware,  
That you allow them me by so small rate,  
Or do you the Caconians imitate,  
Or do you mean my tender ears to spare,  
That to my questions you so total are?  
When I demand of Phoenix stella's state,  
You say (forsooth) you left her well too late.  
O God, think you that satisfies my care?  
I would know whether she did sit or walk:  
How clothed: how waited on: sighed she or smiled:  
Whereof: with whom: how often did she talk:  
With what pastimes, times journeys she be gild?  
If her lips deign to sweeten my poor name?  
Say all: and all well said: say still the same.   

O Fate or fault, O cursed child of my bliss,  
What sobs can give words grace my grief to show?  
What ink is black enough to paint my woe?  
Through me, wretch me, even Stella vexed is:  
Yet Truth, if Caitiffs brath might call thee his,  
Witness with me, that I fool stumbling fell:  
For carelessness did in no manner grow,  
But wit confused with too much care did miss.  
And do I then myself this vain excuse give:  
I do sweet Love, and know this harmed thee.  
The world quit me, shall I myself forgive?  
Only with pains thy pains thus eased be:  
That all thy hurts in my heart's wrack I read  
I cry thy sighs (my dear) thy tears I bleed.   

Grief find the words, for thou hast made my vain  
So dark with misty vapours which arise  
From out thy heavy mould, that even mine eyes  
Can scarce discern the shape of mine own pain:  
Do thou then (for thou canst) do thou complain  
For my poor soul which wit that sickness tries,  
Which even to sense, sense of itself denies.  
Though harbingers of death and of his train,  
The execution of my fate forbears,  
As of a Caitiff not vouchsafed to die:  
Yet show thy hate of life in living tears:  
That though in wretchedness thy life doth lie,  
Thou mayst more wretched be than nature bears,  
As being placed in such a wretch as I   

YEt sighs, dear sighs, indeed true friends you are,  
That do not leave your best friend at the worst;  
But as you with my breast I oft have nursed:  
So grateful now you wait upon my care.  
Faint coward joy, no longer tarry dare,  
Seeing hope did yield when this woe struck him first,  
Delight exclaims is for my fault cursed,  
Although my mate in Arms himself he swore,  
Nay Sorrow in as great a rage as he,  
Kills his own children Tears, finding that they  
By Love were made apt to consort with me,  
Only true Sighs, you do not go away:  
Thank may you have for such a thankful part:  
Thank worthiest yet, when you shall break my heart.   

THough with good cause thou lik'st so well the night,  
Since kind or chance gives both one liberty,  
Both sadly black, both blackly darkened be:  
Night bard from Sun, thou from thine own Suns light  
Silence in both displays his sullen might:  
Slow Heavens in both do hold the one degree,  
That full of doubts, thou of perplexity:  
Thy tears express nights native moisture right,  
In both a woeful solitariness:  
In night of Spirits the ghastly power stir,  
And in our spirits are Spirits gastlines:  
But but (alas) night's sights the odds hath fur.  
For that at length invites us to some rest,  
Thou though still tired, yet still dost it detest.   

DIan that feign would cheer her friend the Night,  
Doth show her oft at full her fairest face,  
Bringing with her those starry Nymphs, whose chase  
From heavenly standing hurts each mortal wight.  
But ah poor Night in love with Phoebus' light,  
And endlessly despairing of his grace,  
Herself to show no other joy hath place,  
Silent and sad in morning weeds doth dight:  
Even so (alas) a Lady Diane's peer,  
With choice delight and rarest company,  
Would feign drive clouds from out my heavy cheer:  
But woe is me, though joy herself were she,  
She could not show my blind brain ways of joy  
While I despair my suns light to enjoy.   

AH bed the field where joys peace some do see:  
The field where all my thoughts to war be trained,  
How is thy grace by my strange fortune stained?  
How thy low shrouds by my sighs stormed be?  
With sweet soft shades thou oft invitest me  
To steal some rest, but wretch I am constrained,  
Spurred with loves spur, this held & shortly reigned  
With Cares hard hand, to turn and toss in thee,  
While the black horrors of the silent night,  
Paint Woes black face so lively in my sight,  
That tedious leisure marks each wrinkled line:  
But when Aurora leads out Phoebus' dance,  
Mine eyes then only wink for spite perchance,  
That worms should have their Sun & I want mine.   

WHen far spent night persuades each mortal eye  
To whom nor Art nor Nature granted light:  
To lay his then mark wanting shafts of sight,  
Closed with their quivers in Sleeps armory;  
With windows open then most my heart doth lie  
Viewing the shape of darkness and delight,  
And takes that sad hue, with which inward might  
Of his amazed powers he keeps just harmony:  
But when birds chirp air, and sweet air which is  
Morn's messenger with rose enameled skies  
Calls each wight to salute the heaven of bliss;  
Entombed of lids then buried are mine eyes,  
Forced by their Lord who is ashamed to find  
Such light in sense with such a darkened mind.   

OH tears, no tears, but showers from beauties skies,  
Making those Lilies and those Roses grow,  
Which aye most fair now fairer needs must show,  
While grateful pity Beauty beautifies,  
Oh minded sighs that from that breast do rise,  
Whose pants do make unspilling Cream to slow,  
Winged with woes breath so doth Zephir blow  
As might refresh the hell where my soul fries,  
Oh plaints conserved in such a sugared phrase,  
That eloquence envies, and yet doth praise,  
While sightd out words a perfect music give:  
Such tears, sighs, plaints, no sorrow is, but joy:  
Or if such heavenly sighs must prove annoy,  
All mirth farewell, let me in sorrow live.   

STella is sick, and in that sickbed lies  
Sweetness, that breathes and pants as oft as she:  
And Grace sick too, such fine conclusions tries,  
That Sickness brings itself best graced to be.  
Beauty is sick, but sick in such fair guise,  
That in that paleness Beauties white we see,  
And joy which is unsevered from those eyes.  
Stella now learns, (strange case) to weep with me,  
Love moves thy pain and like a faithful page,  
As thy looks stir, runs up and down to make  
All folks priest at thy will thy pain to suage,  
Nature with care seeks for her darlings sake,  
Knowing worlds pass, ere she enough can find  
Of such heaven stuff to clothe so heavenly mind.   

WHere be those Roses, which so sweetened erst our eyes?  
Where be those red cheeks, which fair increase did frame  
No height of honour in the kindly badge of shame,  
Who hath the crimson weeds stolen from the morning skies?  
How doth the colour fade of those vermilion eyes,  
Which Nature self did make and self engrave the same?  
I would know by what right this paleness overcame  
That hue, whose force my heart in so great thraldom ties?  
Gallen adopted sons, who by a beaten way  
Their judgements hackney on, the fault of sickness lay:  
But feeling proof makes me say, they mistake it sure,  
It is but love that makes this paper perfect white,  
To write therein more fresh the story of Delight,  
While Beauty's reddest ink Venus for him doth stir.   

O Happy Thames that didst my Stella bear,  
I saw thee with full many a smiling line  
Upon thy cheerful face Ioues Livery wear:  
While those fair Planets on thy streams did shine,  
The boat for joy could not to dance forbear,  
While wanton winds with beauty so divine  
Ravished, stayed not, till in her golden hair  
They did themselves (o sweetest prison) twine.  
But feign those friendly winds there would their stay  
Have made, but forced by Nature still to fly,  
First did with puffing kiss those Locks display:  
She so discovered, blushed. From window I  
with sight thereof cried out; Ah fair disgrace,  
Let honour's self to thee grant highest place.   

Envious wits what hath been mine offence,  
That with such poisoned care my wits you mark,  
That to each word, nay sigh of mine you hark,  
As grudging me my sorrows eloquence?  
Ah, is it not enough, that I am thence:  
Thence, so far thence, that scantly any spark  
Of comfort dare come to this dungeon dark  
Where rigorous exile locks up all my sense:  
But if I by a happy window pass,  
If I but Stars upon mine Armour bear,  
Sick, thirsty, glad (though but of empty glass)  
Your morals note strait my hid meaning there,  
From out my ribs a whirlwind proves that I  
Do Stella love fools, who doth it deny?   

Unhappy sight and hath she vanished by,  
So near, in so good time so free a place,  
Dead glass dost thou thine object so embrace,  
As what my heart still sees thou canst not spy,  
I swear by her Love and my lack, that I  
Was not in fault that bent my dazzling race  
Only unto the heaven of stella's face,  
Counting but dust that in her way did lie:  
But cease mine eyes, your tears do witness well,  
That you guiltless therefore your necklace mist,  
Cursed be the Page from whom the bad torch fell,  
Cursed be the night which did your will resist,  
Cursed be the Cochman that did drive so fast,  
With no less curse than absence makes me taste.   

O Absent presence Stella is not here,  
False flattering hope that with so fair a face,  
Bore me in hand that in this Orphan place,  
Stella I saw, my Stella should appear,  
What sayst thou now, where is that dainty clear  
Thou wouldst mine eyes should help their famished case:  
But how art thou? now that self felt disgrace  
Doth make me most to wish thy comfort near.  
But here I do store of fair Ladies meet,  
Who may with charm of conversation sweet  
Make in my heavy mould new thoughts to grow:  
Sure they prevail as much with me, as he  
That bade his friend but then new maimed to be  
Merry with him, and so his forget woe.   

STella since thou so right a Princess art  
Of all the Powers which life bestow on me,  
That ere by them aught undertaken be,  
They first resort unto that sovereign part;  
Sweet for a time give respite to my heart,  
Which pants as though it still should leap to thee:  
And on my thought give the Lievetenancie  
To this great cause, which needs both wit and Art,  
And as a Queen who from her presence sends  
Whom she emploies, dismiss from thee my wit,  
Still to have wrought that thy own will attends,  
For servants shame of masters blame doth sit.  
O let not Fools in me thy works approve,  
And scorning say, see what it is to love.   

When sorrow (using my own Siers might)  
Melts down his lead into my boiling breast,  
Through that dark Furnace of my heart oppressed,  
There shines a joy from thee my only light:  
But soon as thought of thee breeds my delight,  
And my young soul once flutters to her nest,  
Most dead despair my daily unbidden guest  
Ecclipse straight my wings, straight wraps me in his night,  
And makes me then bow down my head and say,  
Ah what doth Phoebus' gold that wretch avail  
Whom Iron darts doth keep from use of day,  
So strangely (alas) thy works on me prevail,  
That in my woes for thee, thou art my joy;  
And in my joys for thee, my onel'anoy.    

Other Sonnets of variable verse.  

First Sonnet.  

DOubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,  
Which now my breast surcharged with music dareth?  
To you, to you all song of praise is due,  
Only in you my song gins and endeth.   

2  
Who hath the eyes which marry state with pleasure,  
Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest treasure:  
To you, to you all song of praise be due,  
Only for you the heavens forget all measure.   

3  
Who hath the lips where wit with fairness reigneth,  
Who womankind at once both decks and staineth:  
To you, to you all song of praise is due,  
Only by you Cupid his crown maintaineth.   

4  
Who hath the feet whose steps all sweetness planteth,  
Who else for whom Fame worthy trumpets wanteth:  
To you, to you all song of praise be due,  
Only to you her sceptre Venus granteth.   

5  
Who hath the breast whose milk doth patience nourish,  
Whose grace is such, that when it chides doth cherish:  
To you, to you all song of praise be due,  
Only through you the tree of life doth flourish.   

6  
Who hath the hand which without stroke subdueth  
Who long hid beauty with increase reneweth:  
To you, to you all song of praise is due,  
Only at you all envy hopeless endeth.   

7  
Who hath the hair which most lose most fast toeth,  
Who makes a man live then glad when he dieth:  
To you, to you all song of praise is due,  
Only of you the flattrer never lieth.   

8  
Who hath the voice which soul from senses sunders,  
Whose force but yours the bolt of beauty thunders?  
To you, to you all song of praise is due,  
Only with you no miracles are wonders.   

9  
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,  
Which now my breast o'ercharged with music dareth?  
To you, to you all song of praise is due,  
Only in you my song gins and endeth.    

Second Sonnet.  

Have I caught my heavenly jewel  
Teaching Sleep most fair to be:  
Now will I teach her, that she  
When she wakes is too too cruel.   

2  
Since sweet Sleep her eyes hath charmed,  
The two only darts of Love:  
Now will I with that Boy prove  
Some play while he is disarmed.   

3  
Her tongue waking still refuseth,  
Giving frankly niggard no:  
Now will I attempt to know,  
What no her tongue sleeping useth.   

4  
See the hand that waking guardeth,  
Sleeping grants a free resort:  
Now I will invade the fort,  
Coward's Love with loss rewardeth.   

5  
But (O fool) think of the danger  
Of her just and high disdain,  
Now will I (alas) refrain  
Love fears nothing else but anger.   

6  
Yet those lips so sweetly swelling,  
Do invite a stealing kiss;  
Now but venture will I this,  
Who will read must first learn spelling.   

7  
Oh sweet kiss, but ah she is waking,  
Lowering beauty chastens me.  
Now will I for fear hence flee,  
Fool, more Fool for no more taking.    

Third Sonnet.  

IF Orpheus voice had force to breath such musics Love  
Through pores of senseless trees, as it could make them move;  
If stones good measure danced the Theban walls to build,  
To cadence of the tunes which Amphion's Lyre did yield,  
More cause a like effect at least wise bringeth.  
O stones, o trees, learn hearing, Stella singeth,   

2  
If Love might sweeten so a boy of shepherds brood,  
To make a Lizard dull to taste loves food:  
If Eagle fierce could so in Grecian maid delight,  
As her eyes were his light, her death his endless night:  
Earth gave that Love, heaven (I trow) Love refineth.  
O Beasts, o Birds, look Love; for Stella shineth.   

3  
The beasts, birds, stones & trees feel this, & feeling love:  
And if the trees, nor stones stir not the same to prove,  
Nor beasts, nor birds do come unto this blessed gaze;  
Know that small Love is quick, and great Love doth amaze;  
They are amazed, but you with reason armed,  
O eyes O ears of men, how are you charmed?    

Fourth Sonnet.  

Only joy, now here you are,  
Fit to hear and ease my care;  
Let my whispering voice obtain  
Sweet rewards for sharpest pain:  
Take me to thee, and thee to me.  
No no no no, my dear let be.   

2  
Night hath closed all in her cloak,  
Twinkling stars love thoughts provoke,  
Danger hence good care doth keep,  
jealousy himself doth sleep:  
Take me to thee, and thee to me.  
No no no no, my dear let be.   

3  
Better place no wit can find  
Cupid's knot to lose or bind,  
These sweet flowers, our fine bed too,  
Us in their best language woo:  
Take me to thee, and thee to me:  
No no no no, my dear let be.   

4  
This small light the Moon bestoes,  
Serves thy beams for to disclose,  
So to raise my heart more high;  
Fear not, else none can us spy:  
Take me to thee and thee to me.  
No no no no, my dear let be.   

5  
That you heard was but a mouse,  
Dumb Sleep holdeth all the house,  
Yet a sleep (me thinks) they say,  
Young fools, take time while you may:  
Take me to thee, and thee to me.  
No no no no, my dear let be.   

6  
Niggard time threats if we miss  
This large offer of our bliss,  
Long stay ere she grant the same:  
Sweet then, while each thing doth frame  
Take me to thee and thee to me.  
No no no no, my dear let be.   

7  
Your fair Mother is a bed,  
Candles out, and curtains spread;  
She thinks you do letters write:  
Writ, but first let me indite.  
Take me to thee, and thee to me:  
No no no no, my dear let be.   

8  
Sweet, alas why strive you thus?  
Concord better fitteth us;  
Leave to Mars the force of hands,  
Your power in your beauty stands.  
Take me to thee, and thee to me.  
No no no no, my dear let be.   

9  
Woe to me, and do you swear  
Me to hate but I forbear?  
Cursed be my destinies all,  
That brought me so high to fall:  
Soon with my death I'll please thee.  
No no no no, my dear let be.    

The fifth Sonnet.  

WHile favour fed my hope, delight with hope was brought,  
Thought waited on delight, & speech did follow thought,  
Then drew my tongue and pen records unto thy glory;  
I thought all words were lost that were not spent of thee,  
I thought each place was dark but where thy lights would be,  
And all ears worse than deaf, that hard not out thy story.   

2  
I said thou wert most fair, and so indeed thou art;  
I said thou wert most sweet, sweet poison to my heart;  
I said my soul was thine, o would I then had lied;  
I said thy eyes were stars, thy breasts the milken way,  
Thy fingers Cupid's shafts, thy voice the Angels lay:  
And all is said so well, that no man it denied.   

3  
But now that hope is lost, unkindness kills delight,  
Yet thought and speech do live, thought metamorphisde quite,  
For rage's now rules the reins, which guided were by pleasure,  
I think now of thy faults, who late wrote of thy praise,  
That speech falls now to blame which did thy honour raise:  
The same key open can, which can lock up a treasure.   

4  
Then thou whom partial heavens conspired in one to frame  
The proof of beauty's work, the inheritance of fame,  
The mansion state of bliss, and just excuse of lovers:  
See now those feathers plucked wherewith thou flewst most high,  
See what clouds of reproach shall dark thy honour's sky;  
Whom fault once casteth down, hardly high state recovers.   

5  
And o my Muse, though oft you lulled her in your lap,  
And then a heavenly Child gave her Ambrosian pap,  
And to that brain of hers your highest gifts infused;  
Since she disdaining me, doth you in me disdain,  
Suffer not her to laugh, and both we suffer pain:  
Princes in subjects wrongs must deem themselves abused.   

6  
Your client poor, myself, shall Stella handle so,  
Revenge, revenge, my Muse defiance trumpet blow,  
threat, threat, what may be done; yet do no more but threaten:  
Ah, my suit granted is, I feel my breast doth swell;  
Now Child, a lesson new you shall begin to spell,  
Sweet babes must babies have, but shrewd girls must be beaten.   

7  
Think now no more to hear of warm fine shining snow,  
Nor blushing lilies, nor pearls Ruby hidden row,  
Nor of that golden sea, whose waves in curls are broken:  
But of thy soul fraught with such ungratefulness,  
As where thou soon mightst help, most there thou dost oppress  
Ungrateful who is called, the worst of ills is spoken.   

8  
Yet worse than worse, I say thou art a Thief. A thief?  
Now God forbidden: a thief, and of worst thieves a thief;  
thieves steal for need, & steal for goods, which pain recovers  
But thou, rich in all joys, dost rob my goods from me,  
Which cannot be restored by time nor industry:  
Of foes the spoil is evil, far more of constant lovers.   

9  
Yet gentle English thieves do rob, and will not slay;  
Thou English murdering thief, wilt have hearts for thy prey.  
The name of murderer now on thy fair forehead sitteth,  
And even while I do speak my death wounds bleeding be,  
Which I protest proceed from only cruel thee,  
Who may and will not save, murder in truth committeth.   

10  
But murders private fault seems but a toy to thee.  
I lay then to thy charge unjustice Tyranny,  
If rule by force without all claim, a Tyrant showeth;  
For thou art my heart's Lord, who am not borne thy slave,  
And which is worse makes me most guiltless torments have,  
A rightful Prince by unrightful deeds a Tyrant groweth.   

11  
Lo you grow proud with this, for Tyrants makes folk bow:  
Of foul rebellion than I do appeach thee now,  
Rebels by Nature's laws rebel by way of reason;  
Thou sweetest subject wert borne in the Realm of Love,  
And yet against thy Prince, thy force dost daily prove,  
No virtue merits praise, once touched with blot of Treason.   

12  
But valiant Rebels oft in fools mouths purchase fame,  
I now then stain thy white with blackest blot of shame,  
Both Rebel to the Son, and vagrant from the Mother;  
For wearing Venus' badge, in every part of thee,  
Unto Diana's train thou runaway didst fly:  
Who faileth one is false, though trusty to another.   

13  
What is not this enough, nay far worse cometh here:  
A Witch I say thou art, though thou so fair appear.  
For I protest, mine eyes never thy sight enjoyeth,  
But In me am changed, I am alive and dead.  
My feet are turned to roots, my heart becometh lead,  
No witchcraft is so ill, as which man's mind destroyeth,   

14  
Yet Witches may repent, thou art far worse than they:  
Alas, that I am forced such evil of thee to say:  
I say thou art a Devil though clothed in Angels shining:  
For thy face tempts my soul to leave the heavens for thee,  
And thy words of refuse do power even hell on me:  
Who tempts, and tempted plagues are Devils in true defining.   

15  
You then ungrateful thief, you murdering Tyrant you,  
You Rebel runaway to Lord and Lady untrue,  
You witch, you Devil (alas) you still of me beloved,  
You see what I can say; mend yet your froward mind,  
And such skill in my Muse you reconciled shall find,  
That by these cruel words your praises shallbe proved.    

The sixth Sonnet.  

O You that hear this voice,  
O you that see this face,  
Say whether of the choice,  
Deserves the better place,  
Fear not to judge this bate,  
For it is void of hate.   

2  
This side doth Beauty take,  
For that doth Music speak,  
Fit Orators to make,  
The strongest judgements weak,  
The bar to plead the right,  
Is only true delight.   

3  
Thus doth the voice and face,  
The gentle lawyers wage,  
Like loving brother's case,  
For Father's heritage,  
That each while each contends,  
Itself to other lends.   

4  
For Beauty beautifies  
With heavenly view and grace,  
The heavenly harmonies;  
And in this faultless face  
The perfect beauties be,  
A perfect harmony.   

5  
Music more lusty swells  
In speeches nobly placed,  
Beauty as far excels  
In actions aptly graced.  
A friend each party draws,  
To countenance his cause.   

6  
Love more affected seems  
To Beauties lovely light,  
And Wonder more esteems  
Of musics wondrous might;  
But both to both so bend,  
As both in both are spent.   

7  
Music doth witness call  
The ear, his truth to try:  
Beauty brings to the hall  
The judgement of the eye:  
Both in their objects such,  
As no exceptions touch.   

8  
The common Sense which might  
Be arbitrer of this,  
To be forsooth upright,  
To both sides partial is:  
He lays on this chief praise,  
Chief praise on that he lays.   

9  
Then reason Princess high,  
Whose throne is in the mind;  
Which Music can in sky,  
And hidden Beauties find:  
Say, whether thou wilt crown  
With limitless renown.    

The seventh Sonnet.  

WHose senses in so evil comfort their step dame Nature lays,  
That ravishing delight in them most sweet tunes doth not raise,  
Or if they do delight therein yet are so cloyed with wit,  
As with sententious lips to set a little vain on it:  
O let them hear these sacred tunes, & learn in wonders schools,  
To be (in things past bounds of wit) fools, if they be not fools.   

Who have so leaden eyes, as not to see sweet Beauties show:  
Or seeing, have so wooden wits as not that worth to know;  
Or knowing, have so muddy minds, as not to be in love;  
Or loving, have so frothy hearts, as easy thence to move:  
O, let them see these heavenly beams, and in fair letters read  
A lesson, fit both sight and skill, Love & firm Love to breed.   

3  
Hear then, but then with wonder hear; see, but admiring see;  
No mortal gifts, no earthly fruits now here discerned be:  
See, do you see this face: a face, nay image of the skies,  
Of which, the two life-giving lights are figured in her eyes:  
Hear you this soule-inuading voice, & count it but a voice,  
The very essence of their tunes, when Angels do reoyce.    

The eighth.  

IN a grove most rich of shade;  
Where birds wanton Music made:  
May then young his pied weeds showing,  
New perfumes with flowers fresh growing.   

2  
Astrophel with Stella sweet,  
Did for mutual comfort meet:  
Both within themselves oppressed,  
But either in each other blessed.   

3  
Him great harms had taught much care,  
Her fair neck a foul yoke bare:  
But her sight his cares did banish,  
In his sight her yoke did vanish.   

4  
Wept they had, alas the while:  
But now tears themselves did smile,  
While their eyes by Love directed,  
interchangeably reflected.   

5  
Sighed they had: but now betwixt  
Sighs of woe were glad sighs mixed:  
With arms crossed, yet testifying  
Restless rest, and living dying.   

6  
Their ears hungry of each word  
Which the dear tongue would afford,  
But their tongues restrained from walking,  
Till their hearts had ended talking.   

7  
But when their tongues could not speak,  
Love itself did silence break:  
Love did set his lips asunder  
Thus to speak in love and wonder.   

8  
Stella, Sovereign of my joy,  
Fair Triumphres in annoy:  
Stella, Star of heavenly fire,  
Stella, lodestar of desire.   

9  
Stella, in whose shining eyes  
Are the lights of Cupid's skies,  
Whose beams where they are once darted  
Love there with is strait imparted.   

10  
Stella, whose voice when it speaks,  
Senses all asunder breaks:  
Stella, whose voice when it singeth,  
Angels to acquaintance bringeth.   

11  
Stella, in whose body is  
Writ the characters of bliss:  
Whose sweet face all beauty passeth,  
Save the mind which it surpasseth.   

12  
Grant, o grant, but speech (alas)  
Fails me, fearing on to pass:  
Grant to me, what am I saying?  
But no sin there is in praying.   

13  
Grant (o Dear) on knees I pray  
(Knees on ground he then did stay)  
That not I, but since I prove you,  
Time and place from me near move you.   

14  
Never season was more fit,  
Never room more apt for it:  
Smiling air allows my reason:  
These birds sing; now use the season.   

15  
This small wind which so sweet is,  
See how it the leaves doth kiss;  
Each tree in his best attiring,  
Sense of Love to Love inspiring.   

16  
Love makes earth the water drink,  
Love to earth makes water sink:  
And if dumb things be so witty,  
Shall a heavenly Grace want pity?   

17  
There his hands (in their speech) feign  
Would have made tongues language plain:  
But her hands his hands compelling,  
Gave repulse, all grace expelling.   

18  
Therewithal, away she went,  
Leaving him with passion rend,  
With what she had done and spoken,  
That therewith my song is broken.    

The ninth Sonnet.  

Go my Flock, go get you hence,  
Seek a better place of feeding,  
Where you may have some defence  
From the storms in my breast bleeding,  
And showers from mine eyes porceeding.   

2  
Leave a wretch in whom all woe,  
Can abide to keep no measure;  
Merry Flock, such one forego  
Unto whom mirth is displeasure,  
Only rich in measures treasure.   

3  
Yet alas before you go,  
Hear your woeful Master's story,  
Which to stones I else would show;  
Sorrow only then hath glory,  
When 'tis excellently sorry.   

4  
Stella, fairest Shepherdess,  
Fairest, but yet cruelest ever;  
Stella, whom the heavens still bless,  
Though against me she persever,  
Though I bliss inherit never.   

5  
Stella hath refused me,  
Stella, who more love hath proved  
In this caitiff heart to be,  
Than can in good to us be moved  
Towards Lambkin's best beloved,   

6  
Stella hath refused me  
Astrophel that so well served.  
In this pleasant Spring (Muse) see,  
While in pride flowers be preserved,  
Himself only, winter starved.   

7  
Why (alas) then doth she swear  
That she loveth me so dearly;  
Seeing me so long to bear  
Coals of love that burn so clearly:  
And yet leave me hopeless merely.   

8  
Is that love? forsooth I trow,  
If I saw my good dog grieved,  
And a help for him did know,  
My love should not be believed,  
But he were by me relieved.   

9  
No, she hates me (wellaway)  
Feigning love, somewhat to please me;  
Knowing, if she should display  
All her hate, death soon would seize me,  
And of hideous torments ease me.   

10  
Then my dear Flock now adieu:  
But alas, if in your straying  
Heavenly Stella meet with you,  
Tell her in your piteous blaying  
Her poor Slaves just decaying.    

The tenth Sonnet.  

O Dear Life, when shall it be,  
That mine eyes thine eyes shall see,  
And in them thy mind discover,  
Whether absence have had force  
Thy remembrance to divorce  
From the image of thy Lover?   

2  
O if I myself find not  
By thine absence oft forgot,  
Nor debarred from Beauty's treasure,  
Let no tongue aspire to tell  
In what high joys I shall dwell,  
Only thought aims at the pleasure.   

3  
Thought therefore will I send thee  
To take up the place for me,  
Long I will not after tarry:  
There unseen, thou mayst be bold  
Those fair wonders to behold,  
Which in them my hopes do carry.   

4  
Thought, see thou no place forbear,  
Enter bravely every where,  
Seize on all to her belonging:  
But if thou wouldst guarded be,  
Fearing her beams, take with thee  
Strength of liking, rage of longing.   

5  
O my Thoughts, my Thoughts sure ease,  
Your delights my woes increase,  
My life fleets with too much thinking:  
Think no more, but die in me,  
Till thou shalt received be,  
At her lips my Nectar drinking.    
Finis  Sir P.S.  

Poems and Sonnets of sundry other Noble men and Gentlemen.  

The Author of this Poem, S. D.  

GO wailing verse the infant of my love,  
Minorua like, brought forth without a mother:  
That bears the image of the cares I prove;  
Witness your father's grief exceeds all other.   

Sigh out a Story of her cruel deeds  
With interrupted accents of despair,  
A monument that whosoever reeds,  
May justly praise and blame my loveles Fair.   

Say her disdain hath dried up my blood,  
And starved you in succours still denying,  
Press to her eyes, importune me some good,  
Waken her sleeping cruelty with crying,  
Knock at her hard heart: say, I perish for her,  
And fear this deed will make the world abhor her.    

Sonnet 1.  

IF so it hap the Offspring of my care,  
These fatal anthems and afflicted songs  
Come to their view who like to me do fare,  
May move them sigh there at and moon my wrongs.   

But untouched hearts with unaffected eye,  
Approach not to behold my soul's distress,  
Clear sighted you will note what is awry,  
Whilst blind ones see no error in my verse.   

You blinded souls whom hap and error leads,  
You outcast Eaglets dazzled with the Sun,  
Ah you and none but you my sorrow reads,  
You best can judge the wrong that she hath done;  
That she hath done, the motive of my pain,  
Who whilst I love doth kill me with disdain.    

Sonnet, 2.  

THese sorrowing sighs, the smokes of mine annoy;  
These tears, which heat of sacred fire distilleth:  
These are the tributes that my faith doth pay,  
And these my tyrants cruel mind fulfils.   

I sacrifice my youth and blooming years  
At her proud feet, that yet respects no whit  
My youth, untimely withered with my tears  
By winter woes, for spring of youth unfit.   

She thinks, a look may recompense my care;  
And so with looks prolongs my long looked ease:  
As short the bliss, so is the comfort rare;  
Yet must that bliss my hungry thoughts appease:  
Thus she returns my hopes to fruitless ever;  
Once let her love indeed, or eye me never.    

Sonnet 3.  

THe only bird alone that Nature frames,  
When weary of the tedious life she lives,  
By fire dies, yet finds new life in flames,  
Her ashes to her shape new essence gives.   

When only I the only wretched wight,  
Weary of life that breathes but sorrows blasts,  
Pursues the flame of such a beauty bright,  
That burns my heart, and yet my life still lasts.   

O Sovereign light that with thy sacred flame  
Consumes my life, revive me after this,  
And make me (with the happy bird) the same  
That dies to live, by favour of thy bliss.  
This deed of thine shall show a Goddess power,  
In so long death, to grant one living hour.    

Sonnet, 4.  

Tears, vows and prayers gains the hardest hearts,  
Tears, vows and prayers, have I spent in vain,  
Tears cannot soften flint, nor vows convert,  
Prayers prevail not with a acquaint disdain.   

I lose my tears, where I have lost my love,  
I vow my faith, where faith is not regarded,  
I pray in vain a merciless to move,  
So rare a faith ought better be rewarded.   

Though frozen will may not be thawed with tears,  
Though my soul's Idol scorneth all my vows,  
Though all my prayers be made to deafened ears,  
No favour though, the cruel fair allows,  
Yet will I weep, vow, pray to cruel she,  
Flint, frost, disdain, wears, melts and yields we see.    

Sonnet, 5.  

WHy doth my Mistress credit so her glass,  
Gazing her beauty deined her by the skies,  
And doth not rather look on him (alas)  
Whose state best shows the force of murdering eyes.   

The broken tops of lofty trees declare  
The fury of a mercie-wanting storm;  
And of what force your wounding graces are,  
Upon myself you best may find the form.   

Then leave your glass, and gaze yourself on me,  
That mirror shows the power of your face;  
To admire your form too much may danger be,  
Narcissus changed to flower in such a case:  
I fear your change not flower nor Hiacynth,  
Medusa's eye may turn your heart to flint.    

Sonnet 6.  

THese amber locks are those same nets (my Dear)  
Wherewith my liberty thou didst surprise,  
Love was the flame that fired me so near,  
The darts transpersing were these Crystal eyes.   

Strong is the net, and fervent is the flame.  
Deep is the stroke, my sighs can well report,  
Yet do I love, adore and praise the same,  
That holds, that burns, that wounds me in that sort.   

I list not seek to break, to quench, to heal,  
This bond, this flame, this wound that festereth so,  
By knife, by liquor, or by salve to deal;  
So much I please to perish in my woe:  
Yet, least long travels be above my strength;  
Good Lady, lose, quench, heal me now at length.    

Sonnet 71.  

BEhold what hap Pygmalion had to frame,  
And carve his grief himself upon a stone;  
My heavy fortune is much like the same,  
I work on flint and that's the cause I moon.   

For hapless lo even with mine own desires,  
I figured on the table of my heart  
The goodliest shape that the world's eye admires,  
And so did perish by my proper art.   

And still I toil to change the Marble breast  
Of her, whose sweet Idea I addore,  
Yet cannot find her breath unto my rest,  
Hard is her heart, and woe is me therefore.  
O blessed he that joys his stone and art,  
Unhappy I to love a stony heart.    

Sonnet 8.  

OFt and in vain my rebels thoughts have ventured,  
to stop the passage of my vanquished heart,  
And close the way, my friendly foe first entered,  
Striving thereby to free my better part.   

Whilst guarding thus the windows of my thought,  
Where my harts-thiefe to vex me made her choice,  
And thither all my forces to transport,  
Another passage opens at her voice.   

Her voice betrays me to her hand and eye,  
My freedomes-tyrant glorying in her art:  
But (ah) sweet foe, small is the victory  
With three such powers to plague one silly heart.  
Yet my souls sovereign, since I must resign,  
Reign in my thoughts, my love and life are thine.    

Sonnet 9  

Reign in my thoughts, fair hand, sweet eye, rare voice,  
Possess me whole, my heart's triumvirate:  
Yet heavy heart to make so hard a choice,  
Of such as spoil thy whole afflicted state.   

For whilst they strive which shall be Lord of all,  
All my poor life by them is trodden down;  
They all erect their triumphs on my fall,  
And yields me nought: who gains them there renown.   

When back I look, and sigh my freedom past,  
And wail the state wherein I present stand,  
And see my fortune ever like to last;  
Finding me reynd with such a cruel hand,  
What can I do but yield, and yield I do,  
And serve them all, and yet they spoil me too.    

Sonnet 10.  

THe sly Enchanter, when to work his will  
And secret wrong on some forespoken wight,  
Frames wax, in form to represent a right  
The poor unwitting wretch he means to kill,  
And pricks the image, framed by Magic's skill;  
Whereby to vex the party day and night:  
Like hath she done, whose show bewitched my sight  
To beauty's charms, her lovers blood to spill.   

For first, like wax she framed me by her eyes,  
Whose nays sharp pointed set upon my breast,  
Martyrs my life, and plagues me in this wise  
With lingering pain to perish in unrest;  
nought could (save this) my sweetest fair suffice  
To try her art on him that loves her best.    

Sonnet 11.  

REstore thy treasure to the golden ore,  
Yield Cytherea's son those arckes of love,  
Bequeath the heavens the stars that I adore,  
And to the Orient do thy pearls remove.   

Yield thy hands pride unto the ivory white,  
To Arabian odor give thy breathing sweet,  
Restore thy blush unto Aurora bright,  
To Thetis give the honour of thy feet.   

Let Venus have the graces her resigned,  
And thy sweet voice yield to Hermonius spheres:  
But yet restore thy fierce and cruel mind  
To Hircan Tigers, and to ruthless Bears;  
Yield to the Marble thy hard heart again:  
So shalt thou cease to plague, and I to pain.    

Sonnet 12.  

THe tablet of my heavy fortunes here  
Upon thine Altar (Paphian Power) I place;  
The grievous shipwreck of my travels dear  
In bulged bark, all perished in disgrace.   

That traitor Love, was Pilot to my woe,  
My Sails were hope, spread with my sighs of grief,  
The twinelights which my hapless course did show,  
Hard by th'inconstant sands of false relief,   

Where two bright stars which led my view apart,  
A Sirens voice allured me come so near,  
To perish on the marble of her heart,  
A danger which my soul did never fear:  
Lo thus he fares that trusts a calm too much;  
And thus far I whose credit hath been such.    

Sonnet, 13.  

MY Cynthia hath the waters of mine eyes,  
The ready handmaids on her grace attending,  
That never falls to ebb nor ever dies,  
For to their flow she never grants an ending.   

The Ocean never doth attend more duly  
Upon his sovereign, the night wandering Queen;  
Nor ever hath his impost paid more truly,  
Than mine to my soul's Queen hath ever been.   

Yet her hard rock firm fixed for ay removing,  
No comfort to my cares she ever giveth;  
Yet had I rather languish in her loving,  
Than to embrace the fairest she that liveth.  
I fear to find such pleasure in my reigning,  
As now I taste in compass of complaining.    

Sonnet, 14.  

IF a true heart and faith unfeigned,  
If a sweet languish with a chaste desire,  
If hunger-steruen thoughts so long retained,  
Fed but with smoke, and cherished but with fire.   

And if a brow with Cares characters painted,  
bewrays my Love with broken words half spoken,  
To her which sits in my thoughts temple sainted,  
And lays to view my vulture-gnawen heart open.   

If I have wept the day, and sigthd the night,  
Whilst thrice the Sun approached this northern bound:  
If such a faith hath ever wrought aright,  
And well deserved, and yet no favour found:  
Let this suffice, the wholeworld it may see  
The fault is hers, though mine the most hurt be.    

Sonnet 15.  

SInce the first look that led me to this error,  
To this thoughts-maze to my confusion tending;  
Still have I lived in grief, in hope, in terror,  
The circle of my sorrows never ending.   

Yet cannot have her Love that holds me hateful,  
Her eyes exacts it, though her heart disdains me,  
See what reward he hath that serves th'ungrateful,  
So long and pure a faith no favour gains me.   

Still must I whet my young desires abated,  
Upon the flint of such a heart rebelling,  
And all in vain her pride is so imated,  
She yields no place at all for pities dwelling,  
Oft have I told her that my Soul did love her,  
And that with tears; yet all this will not move her.    

Sonnet, 16.  

Weigh but the cause, and give me leave to plain me,  
For all my hurt, that my heart's Queen hath wrought it,  
She whom I love so dear, the more to pain me,  
Withholds my right, where I have dearly bought it.   

dearly I bought that was so highly rated,  
Even with the price of blood and bodies wasting,  
She would not yield that aught might be abated,  
For all she saw my Love was pure and lasting.   

And yet now scorns performance of the passion,  
And with her presence justice overruleth,  
She tells me flat her beauty bears no action,  
And so my plea and process she excludeth:  
What wrong she doth, the world may well perceive it,  
To accept my faith at first, and then to leave it.    

Sonnet, 17.  

WHilst by her eyes pursued, my poor heart slew it  
Into the sacred bosom of my dearest,  
She there in that sweet Sanctuary slew it,  
When it had hoped his safety to be nearest.   

My faith of privilege could no whit protect it,  
That was with blood, and three years witness signed,  
Whereby she had no cause once to suspect it:  
For well she saw my love, and how I pined.   

Yet no hopes letter would her brow reveal me,  
No comforts hue, which falling spirits erecteth;  
What boots to laws of succour to appeal me?  
Ladies and tyrants never laws respecteth.  
Then there I die, where I had hope to liven;  
And by her hand that better might have given.    

Sonnet 18.  

Look in my griefs, & blame me not to mourn,  
From thought to thought that lead a life so bad:  
Fortune's Orphan, hers and the world's scorn,  
Whose clouded brow doth make my days so bad.   

Long are their nights, whose cares do never sleep;  
Loathsome their days, whom never sun yet joyed;  
A pleasing grief impressed hath so deep,  
That thus I live both day and night annoyed.   

Yet since the sweetest root doth yield thus much,  
Her praise from my complaint I must not part:  
I love the effect, because the cause is such;  
I praise her face, and blame her flinty heart:  
Whilst that we make the world admire at us,  
Her for disdain, and me for loving thus.    

Sonnet 19  

Happy in sleep, waking content to languish,  
Embracing clouds by night, in day time mourn:  
All things I loath save her and mine own anguish,  
Pleased in my heart moved to live forlorn.   

Nought do I crave but love, death, or my Lady,  
Horse with crying mercy, (mercy yet my merit)  
So many vows and prayers ever made I,  
That now at length to yield mere pity were it.   

Yet since the Hydra of my cares renewing,  
Revives still sorrows of her fresh disdaining,  
Still must I go the Summer winds pursuing,  
And nothing but her love and my heart's paining.  
Weep hours, grieve days, sigh months, & still mourn yearly,  
Thus must I do because I love her dearly:    

Sonnet, 20.  

IF Beauty bright be doubled with a frown,  
That Pity cannot shine through to my bliss,  
And Disdains vapours are thus overgrown,  
That my lives light to me quite darkened is.   

Why trouble I the world then with my cries,  
The air with sighs, the earth below with tears,  
Since I live hateful to those ruthful eyes,  
Vexing with my vntuned moan her dainty ears.   

If I have loved her dearer than my breath,  
My breath, that calls the heavens to witness it.  
And still hold her most dear until my death:  
And if that all this cannot move one whit;  
Yet let her say that she hath done me wrong,  
To use me thus and know I loved so long.    

Sonnet, 2.  

COme Death the Anchor hold of all my thoughts,  
My last resort whereto my Soul appealeth:  
For all too long on earth my fancy dotes,  
Whiles dearest blood my fiery passions sealeth.   

That heart is now the prospective of horror,  
That honoured hath the cruelest Fair that liveth,  
The cruelest Fair, that knows I languish for her.  
And never mercy to my merit giveth.   

This is the Laurel and her triumphs prize.  
To tread me down with foot of her disgrace,  
Whilst I did build my fortune in her eyes,  
And laid my soul's rest on so fair a face:  
That rest I lost, my Love, my life and all,  
Thus high attempts to low disgrace do fall.    

Sonnet, 22.  

IF this be Love to draw a weary breath,  
To paint on floods till the shore cry to the air,  
With prone aspect still treading on the earth,  
Sad horror, pale grief, prostrate despair:   

If this be Love, to war against my soul,  
Rise up to wail, lie down to sigh, to grieve me,  
With ceaseless toil Cares restless stones to roll,  
Still to complain and moon, whilst none relieve me:   

If this be Love, to languish in such care,  
Loathing the light, the world, myself, and all.  
With interrupted sleeps fresh griefs repair,  
And breath out horror in perplexed thrall:  
If this be Love, to live a living death;  
Lo then love I, and draw this weary breath.    

Sonnet 23.  

MY cares draws on my everlasting night,  
And horrors sable clouds dims my lives sun;  
That my lives sun, and thou my worldly light,  
Shall rise no more to me, my days are done.   

I'll go before unto the myrtle shades,  
To attend the presence of my worlds dear,  
And dress a bed of flowers that never fades,  
And all things fit against her coming there.   

If any ask, why that so soon I came?  
I'll hide her fault, and say, it was my lot,  
In life and death I'll tender her good name,  
My life and death shall never be her blot:  
Although the world this deed of hers may blame,  
The Elysian ghosts shall never know the same.    

Sonnet 24.  

THe Star of my mishap imposed my paining  
To spend the April of my years in crying,  
That never found my fortune but in waning,  
With still fresh cares my blood and body trying.   

Yet her I blame not, though she might have blest me  
But my desires wings so high aspiring;  
Now melted with the Sun that hath possessed me,  
Down do I fall from of my high desiring.   

And in my fall do cry for mercy speedy,  
No piteous eye looks back upon my mourning;  
No help I find, when now most favour need I;  
My Ocean tears drown me, and quench my burning,  
And this my death must christian her anew,  
Whiles faith doth bid my cruel Fair adieu.    

Sonnet 25.  

TO hear the impost of a faith not feigning,  
That duty pays, and her disdain extorteth:  
These bear the message of my woeful paining,  
These Olive branches mercy still exhorteth.   

These tributary plaints with chaste desires,  
I send those eyes, the cabinets of love,  
The paradise where to my soul aspires  
From out this hell, which my afflictions prove:   

Wherein (poor soul) I live exiled from mirth,  
Pensive alone, none but despair about me,  
My joys liberties perished in their birth,  
My care's long lived, and will not die without me:  
What shall I do but sigh and wail, the while  
My martyrdom exceeds the highest style.    

Sonnet 26.  

I Once may I see when years may wreck my wrong,  
And golden hairs may change to silver wire,  
And those bright rays (that kindle all this fire)  
Shall fail in force, their power not so strong.   

Her beauty, now the burden of my song,  
Whose glorious blaze the world's eye doth admire,  
Must yield her praise to tyrant times desire,  
Then fades the flower which fed her pride so long.   

When if she grieve to gaze her in her glass,  
Which then presents her winter withered hieu,  
Go you my verse, go tell her what she was:  
For what she was, she best may find in you.  
Your fiery heat lets not her glory pass,  
But Phoenix like to make her live anew.    

Sonnet 27.  

RAising my hope on hills of high desire,  
Thinking to scale the heaven of her heart,  
My slender mean presumes too high a part:  
For disdains thunderbolt made me retire,   

And threw me down to pain in all this fire.  
Where lo I languish in so heavy smart,  
Because th'attempt was far above my Art,  
Her state brooks not poor souls should come so nigh her.   

Yet I protest my high aspiring will,  
Was not to dispossess her of her right,  
Her Sovereignty should have remained still,  
I only sought the bliss, to have her sight:  
Her sight contented thus to see me spill,  
Framed my desires fit for her eyes to kill.    
Finis,  Daniel.  


Canto primo.  

Hark all you Ladies that do sleep,  
The Fairy Queen Proserpina  
Bids you awake, and pity them that weep.  
You may do in the dark  
What the day doth forbid;  
Fear not the dogs that bark,  
Night will have all hid.   

But if you let your lovers moan,  
The Fairy Queen Proserpina  
Will send abroad her Fairies every one:  
That shall pinch black and blue  
Your white hands and fair arms,  
That did not kindly rue  
Your Paramours harms.   

In myrtle arbours on the downs,  
The Fairy Queen Proserpina  
This night by Moon shine leading merry rounds,  
Holds a watch with sweet Love,  
Down the dale, up the hill,  
No plaints nor grieves may move,  
Their holy vigil.   

All you that will hold watch with Love,  
The Fairy Queen Proserpina  
Will make you fairer than Diana's Dove,  
Roses red, Lilies white,  
And the clear damask hue  
Shall on your cheeks alight:  
Love will adorn you.   

All you that love, or loved before,  
The Fairy Queen Proserpina  
Bids you increase that loving humour more:  
They that have not yet fed  
On delight amorous,  
She vows that they shall lead  
Apes in Avernus.    

Canto Secundo.  

WHat fair pomp have I spied of glittering Ladies,  
With locks sparkled abroad, and rosy Coronet  
On their ivory brows, tracked to the dainty thighs  
With robes like Amazons, blue as Violet:  
With gold Aglets adorned, some in a changeable  
Pale, with spangs wavering taught to be movable.   

2  
Then those Knights that a far off with dolorous viewing,  
Cast their eyes hitherward: lo in an agony  
All unbraced, cry aloud, their heavy state ruing;  
Moist cheeks with blubbering painted as Ebony  
Black, their feltered hair torn with wrathful hand,  
And whiles astonished, stark in a maze they stand.   

3  
But hark what merry sound; what sudden harmony  
Look, look near the grove where the Ladies do tread  
With their knights the measures weighed by the melody,  
Wantoness whose travesing make men enamoured,  
Now they feign an honour, now by the slender waist  
He must lift her aloft, and seal a kiss in haste.   

4  
Straight down under a shadow for weariness they lie,  
With pleasant dalliance, hand knit with arm in arm,  
Now close, now set aloof they gaze with an equal eye,  
Changing kisses alike, straight with a false alarm,  
Mocking kisses alike, pout with a lovely lip,  
Thus drowned with jollities, their merry days do slip.   

5  
But stay now I discern they go on a Pilgrimage:  
Toward loves holy land fair Paphos or Cyprus,  
Such devotion is meet for a blithesome age,  
With sweet youth it agrees well to be amorous,  
Let old angry fathers lurk in an Hermitage,  
Come we'll associate this jolly Pilgrimage.    

Canto Tertio.  
MY Love bound me with a kiss  
That I should no longer stay;  
When I felt so sweet a bliss,  
I had less power to pass away:  
Alas that women do no not know  
Kisses make men loath to go.   

Canto Quarto.  
Love whets the dullest wits, his plagues be such,  
But makes the wise by pleasing dote as much.  
So wit is purchased by this dire disease,  
Oh let me dote, so Love be bend to please.   

Canto Quinto.  

A Day, a night, an hour of sweet content,  
Is worth a world consumed in fretful care,  
Unequal Gods in your Arbitrement  
To sort us days whose sorrows endless are,  
And yet what were it? as a fading flower;  
To swim in bliss, a day, a night an hour.   

2  
What plague is greater than the grief of mind,  
The grief of mind that eats in every vain,  
In every vain that leaves such clods behind  
Such clods behind as breed such bitter pain,  
So bitter pain that none shall ever find,  
What plague is greater than the grief of mind.   

3  
Doth sorrow fret thy soul? o direful spirit,  
Doth pleasure feed thy heart? o blessed man:  
Hast thou been happy once? o heavy plight:  
Are thy mishaps forepast? o happy than:  
Or hast thou bliss in eld? o bliss too late:  
But hast thou bliss in youth? o sweet estate.  
Finis. CONTENT. Megliora spero.    


FAction that ever dwells, in Court where wit excels,  
hath set defiance.  
Fortune and Love have sworn, that they were never borne,  
of one alliance.   

Cupid which doth aspire, to be God of Desire,  
Swears he gives laws;  
That where his arrows hit, some joy, some sorrow it,  
Fortune no cause.   

Fortune swears weakest hearts (the books of Cupid's Arts)  
turned with her wheel,  
Senseless themselves shall prove: venture hath place in Love,  
ask them that feel.   

This discord it be got Atheists, that honour not.  
Nature thought good,  
Fortune should ever dwell in Court where wits excel,  
Love keep the wood.   

So to the wood went I, with Love to live and die,  
Fortune's forlorn:  
Experience of my youth, made me think humble Truth  
In deserts borne.   

My Saint I keep to me, and joane herself is she,  
joane fair and true:  
She that doth only move passions of love with Love:  
Fortune adieu.  
Finis  E. O.   


If floods of tears could cleanse my follies past,  
And smokes of sighs might sacrifice for sin,  
If groaning cries might salve my fault at last,  
Or endless moan for error pardon win;  
Then would I cry, weep, sigh, and ever moon  
Mine error, fault, sins, follies past and gone.   

I see my hopes must whither in their bud,  
I see my favours are no lasting flowers,  
I see that words will breathe no better good  
Than loss of time, and lightning but at hours:  
Then when I see, than this I say therefore,  
That favours, hopes, and words, can blind no more.   
FINIS.