I never drank of Aganippe well,
Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit,
And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell;
Poor layman I, for sacred rites unfit.
Some do I hear of poets' fury tell,
But, God wot, wot not what they mean by it;
And this I swear by blackest brook of hell,
I am no pick-purse of another's wit.
How falls it then, that with so smooth an ease
My thoughts I speak; and what I speak doth flow
In verse, and that my
Guess we the cause!
Or so? Much less.
verse best wits doth please? What, is it thus? Fie, no. How then? Sure thus it is, My lips are sweet, inspired with Stella's kiss.
High way, 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 wrong'd, nor time forgot;
Nor blam'd for blood, nor sham'd 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 sadded 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 then the cause more sweet could be,
I had been vexed, if vexed I had not been.
Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame,
Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee;
Thine eyes my pride, thy lips mine history:
If thou praise not, 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 plumes from others' wings I take:
For nothing from my wit or will doth flow,
Since all my words thy beauty doth endite,
And Love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.
Be your words made, good Sir, of Indian ware,
That you allow me them by so small rate?
Or do you curted Spartans 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 of 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 Time's journey she beguiled;
If her lips deigned to sweeten my poor name :
Say all; and all well said, still say the same.
O fate, O fault, O curse, 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 vexèd is.
Yet, truth-if caitif's breath may call thee-this
Witness with me, that my foul stumbling so,
From carelessness did in no manner grow;
But wit, confused with too much care, did miss.
And do I, then, myself this vain 'scuse give?
I have live I, and know this-harmèd thee:
Though worlds 'quit me, shall I myself forgive?
Only with pains my pains thus easèd be,
That all thy hurts in my heart's wrack I read;
I cry thy sighs, my dear, thy tears I bleed.
Stella, since thou so right a princess art
Of all the powers which life bestows on me,
That ere by them ought undertaken be,
They first resort unto that sovereign part;
Sweet, for a while give respite to my heart,
Which pants as though it still should leap to thee:
And on my thoughts give thy lieutenancy
To this great cause, which needs both use and art.
And as a queen, who from her presence sends
Whom she employs, dismiss from thee my wit,
Till it have wrought what thy own will attends,
On servants' shame oft masters' blame doth sit:
O let not fools in me thy works reprove,
And scorning say, 'See what it is to love!'
SONGS FROM ASTROPHEL AND STELLA.
Seventh Song. Stella singing.
Whose senses in so ill consort their step-dame Nature lays,
That ravishing delight in them most sweet tunes do not raise;
Or if they do delight therein, yet are so closed with wit,
As with sententious lips to set a title vain on it;
O let them hear these sacred tunes, and learn in Wonder's 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 Beauty's 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 thoughts, as eas'ly thence to move;
O let them see these heavenly beams, and in fair letters read
A lesson fit, both sight and skill, love and firm love to breed.
Hear then, but then with wonder hear, see, but adoring, see, No mortal gifts, no earthly fruits, now here descended 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 soul-invading voice, and count it but a voice? The very essence of their tunes, when angels do rejoice!
Tenth Song. Absence.
O dear life, when shall it be
That mine eyes thine eyes shall see, a
And in them thy mind discover
Whether absence have had force
After parting, aught forgot,
Nor debarred from Beauty's treasure,b
Let not tongue aspire to tell
In what high joys I shall dwell;
Only thought aims at the pleasure.
Thought, therefore, I will 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.
Thought, see thou no place forbear,
Enter bravely everywhere,
Seize on all to her belonging;
But if thou wouldst guarded be,
Fearing her beams, take with thee
Strength of liking, rage of longing.
Think of that most grateful time
When my leaping heart will climb,
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