King Pandion, he is dead ;
All thy friends are lapp'd in lead;
All thy fellow-birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing :
Whilst as fickle fortune smil'd,
Thou and I were both beguil'd;
Every one, that flatters thee,
Is no friend in misery.
Words are easy, like the wind,
Faithful friends are hard to find;
Every man will be thy friend,
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend ;
But if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call;
And with such like flattering
Pity but he was a king.
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will intice.
If to women he be bent,
They have him at commandment.
Bat if fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown;
They that fawn'd on him before,
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need;
If thou sorrow he will weep;
If thou wake, he cannot sleep.
Thus of every grief in heart,
He with thee doth bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flattering foe.

When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy side against thyself I'll fight,
And prove thee virtuous, tho' thou art forsworn.
With mine own weakness being best acquainted,
Upon thy part I can set down a story
Of faults conceal'd wherein I am attainted;
That thou in losing me shalt win much glory.

And I by this will be a gainer too ;
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to myself I do,
Doing thee 'vantage, double 'vantage me.

Such is my love, to thee I so belong,

That for thy right, myself will bear all wrong.
Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence:
Speak of my lameness, and I strait will halt;
Against thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst not (love) disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desired change,
As I'll myself disgrace; knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange ;
Be absent from thy walks, and on my tongue
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,
Lest I (too much profane) should do it wrong,
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.

For thee, against myself I'll vow debate ;

For I must ne'er love him, whom thou dost hate. Then hate me when thou wilt ; if ever, now, Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross, Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, And do not drop in for an after loss : Ah ! do not, when my heart hath 'scap'd this sorrow, Come in the rereward of a conquer'd woe! Give not a windy niglit a rainy morrow, To linger out a purpos'd overthrow. If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, When other petty griefs have done their spite ; But in the onset come, so shall I taste At first the very worst of fortune's might.

And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,

Compard with loss of thee, will not seem so. Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, Some in their wealth, some in their bodies' force, Some in their garments, tho' new-fangled ill; Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse : And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, Wherein it finds a joy above the rest. But these particulars are not my measure ; Aų these I better, in one general best.

Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments cost ;
Of more delight than hawks or horses be:
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast.

Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take
All this away, and me most wretched make.


But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art assured mine ;
And life no longer than my love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end ;
I see a better state to me belongs,
Than that which on my humour doth depend.
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie;
Oh! what a happy title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die !

But what's so blessed fair that fears no blot?

Thou may'st be false, and yet I know it not. So shall I live, supposing thou art true, Like a deceived husband ; so love's face May still seem to love me, though alter'd new; Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place. For there can live no hatred in thine eye, Therefore in that I cannot know thy change, In many's look the false heart's history Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange :: But heaven in thy creation did decree, That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell; What e'er thy thoughts, or thy heart's working bez Thy looks shall nothing thence but sweetness tell.

How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,

If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!
They that have power to hurt, and will do none;.
That do not do the thing they must do, show;
Who others, are themselves as stone
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow :
They rightly inherit heaven's graces,
And husband nature's riches from expense ::

They are the lords and owners of their faces.
Others but stewards of their excellence,
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Tho' to itself it only live and die ;
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed out-braves his dignity:

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds ;

Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds. How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame, Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name! Oh! in what sweets dost thou thy sins inclose! That tongue that tells the story of thy days, (Making lascivious comments on thy sport) Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise ; Naming thy name, blesses an ill report. Oh! what a mansion have those vices got, Which for their habitation choose out thee : Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot, And all things turn to fair that eyes can see !

Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege ; The hardest knife, ill us’d, doth lose his edge.

COMPLAINT FOR HIS LOVE'S ABSENCE. How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! What old December's barrenness every where ! And yet this time remov'd was summer's time; The teeming autumn big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, Like widow'd wombs after their lord's decease. Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me, But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit; For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And thou away, the very birds are mute :

Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,

That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near. From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud pied April (drest in all his trim) Hath put a spirit of youth in every ing, That heary Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.

Yet not the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell ;
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew.
Nor did I wonder at the lilies white,
Nor praise the deep vermillion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those :

You seem'd it winter still, and you away,

As with your shadow I with these did play. The forward violet thus did I chide ;

Sweet thief! whence didst thou steal thy sweet that
If not from my love's breath? The purple pride,
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells,
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd :
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol’n thy hair ;
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair ;
A third not red, nor white, had stol'n of both,
And to his robböry has annex'd thy breath ;
But for his theft, in pride of all his growth,
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.


Where art thou, muse, that thou forget’st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Dark’ning thy power to lend base subjects light.?!
Return, forgetful muse, and strait redeem,
In gentle numbers, time so idly spent ;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem,
And give thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, resty muse, my love's sweet face survey,
If time hath any wrinkle graven there ;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make time's spoils despised every where.

Give my love fame, faster than time wastes life,

So thou prevent'st his scythe, and crooked knife.
Oh ! truant muse! what shall be thy amends,
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy'd ?

« VorigeDoorgaan »