Indeed, I well did hope, Though hope were mixed with fear, No other shepherd should have scope Once to approach this hair.

Ah hair! how many days My Dian made me show, With thousand pretty childish plays, If I ware you or no: Alas, how oft with tears, - O tears of guileful breast! - She seemed full of jealous fears, Whereat I did but jest.

Tell me, O hair of gold, If I then faulty be, That trust those killing eyes I would, Since they did warrant me?

Have you not seen her mood, What streams of tears she spent, 'Till that I sware my faith so stood, As her words had it bent?

Who hath such beauty seen In one that changeth so?

Or where one's love so constant been, Who ever saw such woe?

Ah, hair! are you not grieved To come from whence you be, Seeing how once you saw I lived, To see me as you see?

On sandy bank of late, I saw this woman sit; Where, "Sooner die than change my state,"

She with her finger writ: Thus my belief was staid, Behold Love's mighty hand On things were by a woman said, And written in the sand.

The same Sireno in "Monte-Mayor," holding his mistress's gla.s.s before her, and looking upon her while she viewed herself, thus sang:-

Of this high grace, with bliss conjoined, No farther debt on me is laid, Since that in self-same metal coined, Sweet lady, you remain well paid;

For if my place give me great pleasure, Having before my nature's treasure, In face and eyes unmatched being, You have the same in my hands, seeing What in your face mine eyes do measure.

Nor think the match unevenly made, That of those beams in you do tarry, The gla.s.s to you but gives a shade, To me mine eyes the true shape carry; For such a thought most highly prized, Which ever hath Love's yoke despised, Better than one captived perceiveth, Though he the lively form receiveth, The other sees it but disguised.

POEM: SONNETS

The dart, the beams, the sting, so strong I prove, Which my chief part doth pa.s.s through, parch, and tie, That of the stroke, the heat, and knot of love, Wounded, inflamed, knit to the death, I die.

Hardened and cold, far from affection's snare Was once my mind, my temper, and my life; While I that sight, desire, and vow forbare, Which to avoid, quench, lose, nought boasted strife.

Yet will not I grief, ashes, thraldom change For others' ease, their fruit, or free estate; So brave a shot, dear fire, and beauty strange, Bid me pierce, burn, and bind, long time and late, And in my wounds, my flames, and bonds, I find A salve, fresh air, and bright contented mind.

Virtue, beauty, and speech, did strike, wound, charm, My heart, eyes, ears, with wonder, love, delight, First, second, last, did bind, enforce, and arm, His works, shows, suits, with wit, grace, and vows' might,

Thus honour, liking, trust, much, far, and deep, Held, pierced, possessed, my judgment, sense, and will, Till wrongs, contempt, deceit, did grow, steal, creep, Bands, favour, faith, to break, defile, and kill,

Then grief, unkindness, proof, took, kindled, taught, Well-grounded, n.o.ble, due, spite, rage, disdain: But ah, alas! in vain my mind, sight, thought, Doth him, his face, his words, leave, shun, refrain.

For nothing, time, nor place, can loose, quench, ease Mine own embraced, sought, knot, fire, disease.

POEM: WOOING-STUFF

Faint amorist, what, dost thou think To taste Love's honey, and not drink One dram of gall? or to devour A world of sweet, and taste no sour?

Dost thou ever think to enter Th' Elysian fields, that dar'st not venture In Charon's barge? a lover's mind Must use to sail with every wind.

He that loves and fears to try, Learns his mistress to deny.

Doth she chide thee? 'tis to show it, That thy coldness makes her do it: Is she silent? is she mute?

Silence fully grants thy suit: Doth she pout, and leave the room?

Then she goes to bid thee come: Is she sick? why then be sure, She invites thee to the cure: Doth she cross thy suit with "No?"

Tush, she loves to hear thee woo: Doth she call the faith of man In question? Nay, she loves thee than; And if e'er she makes a blot, She's lost if that thou hit'st her not.

He that after ten denials, Dares attempt no farther trials, Hath no warrant to acquire The dainties of his chaste desire.

POEM: SONNETS

Since shunning pain, I ease can never find; Since bashful dread seeks where he knows me harmed; Since will is won, and stopped ears are charmed; Since force doth faint, and sight doth make me blind; Since loosing long, the faster still I bind; Since naked sense can conquer reason armed; Since heart, in chilling fear, with ice is warmed; In fine, since strife of thought but mars the mind, I yield, O Love, unto thy loathed yoke, Yet craving law of arms, whose rule doth teach, That, hardly used, who ever prison broke, In justice quit, of honour made no breach: Whereas, if I a grateful guardian have, Thou art my lord, and I thy vowed slave.

When Love puffed up with rage of high disdain, Resolved to make me pattern of his might, Like foe, whose wits inclined to deadly spite, Would often kill, to breed more feeling pain; He would not, armed with beauty, only reign On those affects which easily yield to sight; But virtue sets so high, that reason's light, For all his strife can only bondage gain: So that I live to pay a mortal fee, Dead palsy-sick of all my chiefest parts, Like those whom dreams make ugly monsters see, And can cry help with naught but groans and starts: Longing to have, having no wit to wish, To starving minds such is G.o.d Cupid's dish.

POEM: SONG

To the tune of "Non credo gia che piu infelice amante."

The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making; And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth, For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.

O Philomela fair! O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

II.

Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish, But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken, Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish, Full womanlike, complains her will was broken, But I, who daily craving, Cannot have to content me, Have more cause to lament me, Since wanting is more woe than too much having.

O Philomela fair! O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

POEM: SONG

To the tune of "Basciami vita mia."

Sleep, baby mine, Desire's nurse, Beauty, singeth; Thy cries, O baby, set mine head on aching: The babe cries, "'Way, thy love doth keep me waking."

Lully, lully, my babe, Hope cradle bringeth Unto my children alway good rest taking: The babe cries, "Way, thy love doth keep me waking."

Since, baby mine, from me thy watching springeth, Sleep then a little, pap Content is making; The babe cries, "Nay, for that abide I waking."