I.

The scourge of life, and death's extreme disgrace; The smoke of h.e.l.l, the monster called Pain: Long shamed to be accursed in every place, By them who of his rude resort complain; Like crafty wretch, by time and travel taught, His ugly evil in others' good to hide; Late harbours in her face, whom Nature wrought As treasure-house where her best gifts do bide; And so by privilege of sacred seat, A seat where beauty shines and virtue reigns, He hopes for some small praise, since she hath great, Within her beams wrapping his cruel stains.

Ah, saucy Pain, let not thy terror last, More loving eyes she draws, more hate thou hast.

II.

Woe! woe to me, on me return the smart: My burning tongue hath bred my mistress pain?

For oft in pain, to pain my painful heart, With her due praise did of my state complain.

I praised her eyes, whom never chance doth move; Her breath, which makes a sour answer sweet; Her milken b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the nurse of child-like love; Her legs, O legs! her aye well-stepping feet: Pain heard her praise, and full of inward fire, (First sealing up my heart as prey of his) He flies to her, and, boldened with desire, Her face, this age's praise, the thief doth kiss.

O Pain! I now recant the praise I gave, And swear she is not worthy thee to have.

III.

Thou pain, the only guest of loathed Constraint; The child of Curse, man's weakness foster-child; Brother to Woe, and father of Complaint: Thou Pain, thou hated Pain, from heaven exiled, How hold'st thou her whose eyes constraint doth fear, Whom cursed do bless; whose weakness virtues arm; Who others' woes and plaints can chastely bear: In whose sweet heaven angels of high thoughts swarm?

What courage strange hath caught thy caitiff heart?

Fear'st not a face that oft whole hearts devours?

Or art thou from above bid play this part, And so no help 'gainst envy of those powers?

If thus, alas, yet while those parts have woe; So stay her tongue, that she no more say, "O."

IV.

And have I heard her say, "O cruel pain!"

And doth she know what mould her beauty bears?

Mourns she in truth, and thinks that others feign?

Fears she to feel, and feels not others' fears?

Or doth she think all pain the mind forbears?

That heavy earth, not fiery spirits, may plain?

That eyes weep worse than heart in b.l.o.o.d.y tears?

That sense feels more than what doth sense contain?

No, no, she is too wise, she knows her face Hath not such pain as it makes others have: She knows the sickness of that perfect place Hath yet such health, as it my life can save.

But this, she thinks, our pain high cause excuseth, Where her, who should rule pain, false pain abuseth.

Like as the dove, which seeled up doth fly, Is neither freed, nor yet to service bound; But hopes to gain some help by mounting high, Till want of force do force her fall to ground: Right so my mind, caught by his guiding eye, And thence cast off where his sweet hurt he found, Hath neither leave to live, nor doom to die; Nor held in evil, nor suffered to be sound.

But with his wings of fancies up he goes, To high conceits, whose fruits are oft but small; Till wounded, blind, and wearied spirit, lose Both force to fly, and knowledge where to fall: O happy dove, if she no bondage tried!

More happy I, might I in bondage bide!

In wonted walks, since wonted fancies change, Some cause there is, which of strange cause doth rise: For in each thing whereto mine eye doth range, Part of my pain, me-seems, engraved lies.

The rocks, which were of constant mind the mark, In climbing steep, now hard refusal show; The shading woods seem now my sun to dark, And stately hills disdain to look so low.

The restful caves now restless visions give; In dales I see each way a hard ascent: Like late-mown meads, late cut from joy I live; Alas, sweet brooks do in my tears augment: Rocks, woods, hills, caves, dales, meads, brooks, answer me; Infected minds infect each thing they see.

If I could think how these my thoughts to leave, Or thinking still, my thoughts might have good end; If rebel sense would reason's law receive; Or reason foiled, would not in vain contend: Then might I think what thoughts were best to think: Then might I wisely swim, or gladly sink.

If either you would change your cruel heart, Or, cruel still, time did your beauties stain: If from my soul this love would once depart, Or for my love some love I might obtain; Then might I hope a change, or ease of mind, By your good help, or in myself, to find.

But since my thoughts in thinking still are spent.

With reason's strife, by senses overthrown; You fairer still, and still more cruel bent, I loving still a love that loveth none: I yield and strive, I kiss and curse the pain, Thought, reason, sense, time, You, and I, maintain.

POEM: A FAREWELL

Oft have I mused, but now at length I find Why those that die, men say, they do depart: Depart: a word so gentle to my mind, Weakly did seem to paint Death's ugly dart.

But now the stars, with their strange course, do bind Me one to leave, with whom I leave my heart; I hear a cry of spirits faint and blind, That parting thus, my chiefest part I part.

Part of my life, the loathed part to me, Lives to impart my weary clay some breath; But that good part wherein all comforts be, Now dead, doth show departure is a death:

Yea, worse than death, death parts both woe and joy, From joy I part, still living in annoy.

Finding those beams, which I must ever love, To mar my mind, and with my hurt to please, I deemed it best, some absence for to prove, If farther place might further me to ease.

My eyes thence drawn, where lived all their light, Blinded forthwith in dark despair did lie, Like to the mole, with want of guiding sight, Deep plunged in earth, deprived of the sky.

In absence blind, and wearied with that woe, To greater woes, by presence, I return; Even as the fly, which to the flame doth go, Pleased with the light, that his small corse doth burn:

Fair choice I have, either to live or die A blinded mole, or else a burned fly.

POEM: THE SEVEN WONDERS OF ENGLAND

I.

Near Wilton sweet, huge heaps of stones are found, But so confused, that neither any eye Can count them just, nor Reason reason try, What force brought them to so unlikely ground.

To stranger weights my mind's waste soil is bound, Of pa.s.sion-hills, reaching to Reason's sky, From Fancy's earth, pa.s.sing all number's bound, Pa.s.sing all guess, whence into me should fly So mazed a ma.s.s; or, if in me it grows, A simple soul should breed so mixed woes.

II.

The Bruertons have a lake, which, when the sun Approaching warms, not else, dead logs up sends From hideous depth; which tribute, when it ends, Sore sign it is the lord's last thread is spun.

My lake is Sense, whose still streams never run But when my sun her shining twins there bends; Then from his depth with force in her begun, Long drowned hopes to watery eyes it lends; But when that fails my dead hopes up to take, Their master is fair warned his will to make.

III.

We have a fish, by strangers much admired, Which caught, to cruel search yields his chief part: With gall cut out, closed up again by art, Yet lives until his life be new required.

A stranger fish myself, not yet expired, Tho', rapt with Beauty's hook, I did impart Myself unto th' anatomy desired, Instead of gall, leaving to her my heart: Yet live with thoughts closed up, 'till that she will, By conquest's right, instead of searching, kill.

IV.