« VorigeDoorgaan »
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing their sins more than their sins are;
For to my sensual fault I bring incense,
Thy adverse party is thy advocate ;
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence,
Such civil war is in my love and bate,
That I an accessary needs must be
To that sweet thief which sorely robs from me.
LET me confess, that we two must be twain,
Altho' our undivided loves are one :
So shall those blots, that do with me remain
Without thy help, by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Tho' in our lives a separable spite;
Which tho'it alter not love's soul effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
I may not ever more acknowledge thee,
my bewailed guilt should do thee shame, Nor thou with publick kindness honour me, Unless thou take that honour from thy name.
But do not so, I love thee in such sort,
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report
Is a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth ;
So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Intitled in their part, do crowned sit,
I make my love engrafted to this store :
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis'd,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give,
That I in thy abundance am suffic'd,
And by a part of all thy glory live.
Look what is best, that best I wish in thee;
This wish I have, then ten times happy me.
GOOD night, good rest; ah! neither by my share :
She bade good night, that kept my rest away;
And daft me to a cabbin hang'd with care,
To descant on the doubts of my decay.
Farewell (quoth she) and come again to-morrow;
Fare well I could not, for I supt with sorrow,
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,
In scorn, or friendship, nill I construe whether :
be she joy'd to jest at my exile;
It may be again to make me wander thither,
Wander (a word) for shadows like myself,
And take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.
Lord! how mine eyes throw gazes to the east !
My heart doth charge the watch ; the morning rise
Duth cite each moving sense from idle rest,
Not daring trust the office of mine eyes.
While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,
And wish her lays were tuned like the lark.
For she doth welcome day-light with her ditty,
And drives away dark dreaming night :
The night so packt, I post unto my pretty ;
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight;
Sorrow chang'd to solace, and solace mixt with sorrow;
For why? she sigh’d, and bade me come to-morrow,
Were I with her, the night would post too soon,
But now are minutes added to the hours :
To spite me now, each minute seems an hour,
Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers.
Pack night, peep day, good day of night now borrow;
Short night, to-night, and length thyself to-morrow.
A MASTER-PIECE.HAPPINESS IN CONTENT.
eye hath played the painter, and hath steeld
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart :
My body is the same whereiir ’tis held,
And perspective it is best painter's art.
For thro' the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictur'd lies,
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done ;
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where thro’ the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee.
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
LET those who are in favour with their stars,
Of public honour and proud titles boast :
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlook’d-for joy in that I honour most.
Great prince's favorites their fair leaves spread,
But as the marigold at the sun's eye;
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for worth,
After a thousand victories, once foil'd,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot, for which he toil'd.
Then happy 1, that love and am beloved,
Where I may not remove, nor be removed.
LORD of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit;
To thee I send this written embassage,
To witness duty, not to shew my wit.
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bear, in wanting words to shew it;
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In my soul's thought (all naked) will bestow it.
Till whatsoever star, that guides my moving,
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
To show me worthy of their sweet respect.
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee:
Till then, not show my head, where thou may'st prove