It is most true that eyes are formed to serve
The inward light; and that the heavenly part
Ought to be king, from whose rules who do swerve
(Rebels to Nature) strive for their own smart:
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 churchman starve:
True that true beauty virtue is indeed,
Whereof this beauty can be but 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 yet true that I must Stella love.
Whether the Turkish new moon minded be
To fill his horns this year on Christian coast;
How Poles' right king means, without leave of host,
To warm with ill-made fire cold Muscovy;
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 be lost,
Trust in the shade of pleasing Orange tree;
How Ulster likes of that same golden bit
Wherewith my father once made it half tame;
If in the Scotch court be no welt'ring yet:
These questions busy wits to me do frame.
I, cumbered with good manners, answer do,
But know not how, for still I think of you.
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!→
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What! may it be that even in heav'nly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case:
I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace,
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?
I might—unhappy word, O me!—I might,
And then would not, or could not, see my bliss;
Till now, wrapt in a most infernal night,
I find how heav'nly day, wretch! I did miss.
Heart, rent 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 yet could not by rising morn foresee
How fair a day was near. O punished eyes!
That I had been more foolish or more wise!
Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low!
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
Of those 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 elsewhere, Stella's image see.
Soul's joy, bend not those morning stars from me,
Where Virtue is made strong by Beauty's might,
Where Love is Chasteness, Pain doth learn Delight,
And Humbleness grows one with Majesty:
Whatever may ensue, O let me be
Co-partner of the riches of that sight!
Let not mine eyes be hell-driv'n from that light!
O look! O 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-wound is already got,
Dear killer, spare not thy sweet cruel shot!
A kind of grace it is to slay with speed.
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 o'ercharged with brain against me cry;
Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye;
Let me no steps but of lost labour trace;
Let all the earth with scorn recount my case;
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 aught do care though some above me sit,
Nor hope nor wish another course to frame
But that which once may win thy cruel heart:
Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art.
O joy too high for my low style to show!
O bliss fit for a nobler state than me!
Envy, put out thine eyes, lest thou do see
What oceans of delight in me do flow!
My friend, that oft saw, through all masks, my woe,
Come, come, and let me pour myself on thee!
Gone is the winter of my misery;
My spring appears! O see what here doth grow!
For Stella hath, with words where faith doth shine,
Of her high heart giv'n me the monarchy:
I, I, oh I may say that she is mine!
And though she give but thus conditionly
This realm of bliss-while virtuous course I take,-
No kings be crowned but they some covenants make.
Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be,
And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,
Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet
More oft than to a chamber-melody,
Now, blessed you, bear onward blessed me
To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet.
My Muse and I must you of duty greet
With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully:
Be you still fair, honoured by public heed,
By no encroachment wronged, nor time forgot,
Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;
And that you know I envy you no lot
Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss-
Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss!
When I was forced from Stella ever dear,
Stella, food of my thoughts, heart of my heart,
Stella, whose eyes make all my tempests clear,
By Stella's laws of duty to depart,
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 saddest sense did hear.
For me, I wept to see pearls scattered so;
I sighed her sighs, and wailèd for her woe;
Yet swam in joy, such love in her was seen.
Thus while th' effect most bitter was to me,
And nothing than the cause more sweet could be,
I had been vext if vext I had not been.
When Sorrow, using mine own fire's might,
Melts down his lead into my boiling breast,
Through that dark furnace to my heart opprest,
There shines a joy from thee, my only light!
But soon as thought of thee breeds my delight,
And my young soul flutters to thee, his nest,
Most rude Despair, my daily unbidden guest,
Clips 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 doors do keep from use of day?"
So strangely, alas, thy works in me prevail
That in my woes for thee thou art my joy,
And in my joys for thee my only annoy.
THOU BLIND MAN'S MARK, THOU FOOL'S SELF-CHOSEN
Thou blind man's mark, thou fool's self-chosen snare,
Fond fancy's scum, and dregs of scattered thought,
Band of all evils, cradle of causeless care,
Thou web of will whose end is never wrought;
Desire! Desire! I have too dearly bought,
With price of mangled mind, thy worthless ware;
Too long, too long, asleep thou hast me brought,
Who should my mind to higher things prepare.
But yet in vain thou hast my ruin sought,
In vain thou mad'st me to vain things aspire,
In vain thou kindlest all thy smoky fire,
For Virtue hath this better lesson taught-
Within myself to seek my only hire,
Desiring naught but how to kill Desire.
LEAVE ME, O LOVE WHICH REACHEST BUT TO DUST
Leave me, O love which reachest but to dust,
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust:
Whatever fades but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be,
Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light
That doth both shine and give us sight to see.
O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth draws out to death,
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