Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will,
And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in overplus;
More than enough am I that vex thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in will, add to thy will
One will of mine, to make thy large will more.
Let no unkind no fair beseechers kill;
Think all but one, and me in that one 'Will.'
If thy soul check thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy 'Will,'
And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
Thus far for love my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.
In things of great receipt with ease we prove
Among a number one is reckon'd none:
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Though in thy store's account I one must be;
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing me, a something, sweet, to thee:
Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lov'st me, for my name is Will.'
Quod cupiunt aliae, tu felix ipsa potiris,
Quippe duos uno nomine nacta viros!
Me sentis superesse, velutque incommodus adsum
Delicias optans amplificare tuas.
Tune igitur, virgo, tam multis larga placensque,
Tu mihi non unam morigerere vicem?
Quodne alii cupiunt gratum fatearis id esse,
Sitque cupidinibus gratia nulla meis?
Pontus plenus aquis imbres capit, ille repletus
Immensis opibus, plus tamen addit opum;
Et tibi, si placeat tot amoribus addere nostrum,
Copia amatorum maxima maior erit.
Crede tuos unum-dum pars unius habebor—,
Nullius at iustas reice dura preces.
Si, prope quod veni, mussant, tua pectora caeca
Corripe, meque tuum finge fuisse virum.
Ille quidem, agnoscunt, recipi consuevit eodem;
O facias igitur quod meus orat amor.
Sic tua vota Venus felix impleverit, opto,
Plurimaque immiscens, inter et illa meum.
Grandis ubi numerus, sententia cuique probatur,
'Vnus homo in turba vix numerandus erit.'
Tuque meum in multis patiare latescere nomen,
Non nihilum dum me vis retinere loci.
Me nihilum credas, nihili si voce notatur
Quod fieri exoptat dulce, puella, tibi.
Denique me sat ames si nomen amaveris ipsum, Nam penitus quod eo significatur amas.
Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is take the worst to be.
If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks
Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgement of my heart is tied?
Why should my heart think that a several plot
Which my heart knows the wide world's common place?
Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not,
To put fair truth upon so foul a face?
In things right true my heart and eyes have erred, And to this false plague are they now transferr'd.
When my
love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor❜d youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.
Heu, quid in his oculis egisti, o caece Cupido,
Vnde videre, at non noscere visa, queunt?
Quid sit forma decens, et ubi, discernere callent,
Par tamen in pravis cernitur inque bonis.
Si specie blanda capto mihi devenit illum
Cymba sinum, qua iam navigat omnis homo,
Cur oculorum error velut hamo traxit adunco
Non minus et mentem iudiciumque meum?
Mens mea cur, inquam, quod apertum repperit orbi
Hospitium, id septo censeat esse loco?
Curve oculus spectans id dissimulaverit omne,
Detur ut impuris gratia ficta genis?
O procul a veris oculus pectusque vagati
Servitio falsae se dare pestis amant.
Veriloquam sese iurat dum Cynthia, falsam
Qui scio iuranti credere nempe volo.
Scilicet ut puerum credat facilemque regenti
Me sibi, et in fictis artibus illa rudem.
Sic puerum fingens ab ea me virgine credi,
Quae vegetos mihi iam sentit iisse dies,
Ipse quoque accipio falsae periuria linguae
Virginis, ac verum sentit uterque premi.
Et negat iniustam sese cur illa? vicissim
Cur ego diffiteor dissimuloque senem?
O in amore bonum est species fidentis, et annos
Dinumerat nemo sponte senilis amans.
Sic ego cum domina fingo, mecum illa, suisque
Amborum vitiis ficta levamen habent.
O, call not me to justify the wrong
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;
Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue;
Use power with power and slay me not by art.
Tell me thou lov'st elsewhere; but in my sight,
Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:
What need'st thou wound with cunning when thy might
Is more than my o'er-press'd defence can bide?
Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies,
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:
Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,
Kill me outright with looks and rid my pain.
Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;
Lest sorrow lend me words and words express
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were,
Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so;
As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know;
For if I should despair, I should grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee:
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,
Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be.
That I may not be so, nor thou belied,
Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.
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