Thomas Watson, The Teares of Fancie, published 1593.
THE TEARS OF FANCIE 1593
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Taken from Elizabethan Sonnets by Sidney Lee, 1904. The text is as printed by Lee, with a few minor corrections to punctuation. Apart from that 'i' has been replaced by 'j', 'u' by 'v' and 'v' by 'u' in all places where modern practice requires it.
THE TEARS OF FANCIE or
Goe idle lines unpolisht rude and base,
Unworthy words to blason beauties glory:
(Beauty that hath my restless hart in chase,
Beauty the subject of my ruefull story.)
I warne thee shunne the bower of her abiding,
Be not so bold ne hardy as to view her:
Least shee inragèd with thee fall a chiding,
And so her anger prove thy woes renewer.
Yet if she daigne to rew thy dreadfull smart,
And reading laugh, and laughing so mislike thee:
Bid her desist, and looke within my hart,
Where shee may see how ruthles shee did strike mee.
If shee be pleasde though shee reward thee not,
What others say of me regard it not.
In prime of youthly yeares as then not wounded,
With Loves impoisoned dart or bitter gall:
Nor minde nor thoughts on fickle Fancie grounded
But carelesse hunting after pleasures ball.
I tooke delight to laugh at Lovers follie,
Accounting beautie but a fading blossome:
What I esteemed prophane, they deemed holie,
Joying the thraldome which I counted loathsome.
Their plaintes were such as no thing might relieve them,
Their harts did wellnie breake loves paine induring:
Yet still I smild to see hoe love did grieve them,
Unwise they were their sorrowes selfe procuring.
Thus while they honoured Cupid for a God,
I held him as a boy not past the rod.
Long time I fought, and fiercely waged warre,
Against the God of amarous Desire:
Who sets the senses mongst themselves at jarre,
The harts inflaming with his lustful fire.
The winged boy upon his mothers knee,
Wantonlie playing neere to Paphos shrine:
Scorning that I should check his Deitie,
Whose dreaded power tam'd the gods divine.
From forth his quiver drew the keenest dart,
Wherewith high Jove he oftentimes had wounded:
And fiercely aimd it at my stubborne hart,
But backe againe the idle shaft rebounded.
Love saw and frownd, that he was so beguiled,
I laught outright, and Venus sweetly smiled.
Shee smild to see her sonne in such a rage,
I laught to thinke how I had Loue prevented:
He frownd and vowd nought should his ire asswage,
Till I had stoopt to Love, and love repented.
The more he rag'd the greater grew our laughter,
The more we laught the fiercer was his ire:
And in his anger sware my poore harts slaughter,
Which in my breast beautie should set on fire.
Faire Venus seeing her deere sonne in chollar,
Fearing mishap by his too hasty anger:
Perswaded him that she should work my dollor,
And by her meanes procure my endles langor.
So Love and loves Queene (Love having consented,)
Agreed that I by Love should be tormented.
Tho taking in her lap the God of love
Shee lightly mounted through the Christall aire:
And in her Coach ydrawne with silver Doves,
To Vulcans smokie Forge shee did repaire.
Where having wonne the Ciclops to her will,
Loves quiver fraught with arrowes of the best:
His bended bow in hand all armed to kill,
He vowd revenge and threatned my unrest.
And to be sure that he would deadly strike me,
His blindfold eies he did a while uncover:
Choosing an arrow that should much mislike me,
He bad wound him that scornes to be a Lover.
But when he saw his bootles arrow shiver,
He brake his bow, and cast away his quiver.
Hopeles and helples too, poore love amated,
To see himselfe affronted with disdaine:
And all his skill and power spent in vaine,
At me the onely object that he hated.
Now Cytherea from Olimpus mount,
Descending from the sphere with her deere sonne:
With dovelike wings to Alcidalyon,
Love on her knee, she by the Christall fount;
Advisde the boy what scandall it would bee,
If Fame should to the open world discover
How I surviv'd and scornd Loves sacred power.
Then Cupid lightly leaping from her knee,
Unto his mother vowd my discontenting:
Unhappy vowe the ground of my lamenting.
Then on the sodaine fast away he fled,
He fled apace as from pursuing foe:
Ne ever lookt he backe, ne turnd his head
Untill he came whereas he wrought my woe.
Tho casting from his backe his bended bow.
He quickly clad himselfe in strange disguise:
In strange disguise that no man might him know,
So coucht himself within my Ladies eies.
But in here eies such glorious beames did shine,
That welnigh burnt loves party coloured wings,
Whilst I stood gazing on her sunne-bright eien,
The wanton boy shee in my bosome flings.
He built his pleasant bower in my brest,
So I in love, and love in me doth rest.
Now love triumphed having got the day,
Proudly insulting, tyrannizing still:
As Hawke that ceazeth on the yeelding pray,
So am I made the scorne of Victors will.
Now eies with teares, now hart with sorrow fraught,
Hart sorrowes at my watry teares lamenting:
Eyes shed salt teares to see harts pining thought,
And both that then love scornd are now repenting.
But all in vaine too late I plead repentance,
For teares in eies and sighs in hart must weeld me :
The feathered boy hath doomd my fatal sentence,
That I to tyrannizing love must yeeld me.
And bow my necke erst subject to no yoke,
To Loves false lure (such force hath beauties stroke).
O what a life is it that Lovers joy,
Wherein both paine and pleasure shrouded is:
Both heavenly pleasures and eke hells annoy,
Hells fowle annoyance and eke heavenly blisse.
Wherein vaine hope doth feede the Lovers hart,
And brittle joy sustaine a pining thought:
When blacke dispaire renewes a Lovers smart,
And quite extirps what first content had wrought.
Where faire resemblance eke the mind allureth,
To wanton lewd lust giving pleasure scope:
And late repentance endles paines procureth,
But none of these afflict me save vaine hope.
And sad dispaire, dispaire and hope perplexing,
Vaine hope my hart, dispaire my fancie vexing.
Two leaves containing eight sonnets
(IX - XVI) are missing
from the only known copy of this volume. (Note of S. Lee).
Then from her fled my hart in sorrow wrapped.
Like unto one that shund pursuing slaughter:
All welnigh breathles told me what had happed,
How both in Court and countrie he had fought her.
The drerie teares of many love repenting,
Corrivals in my love whom fancie stroked;
Partners in love and partners in lamenting,
My fellow thralls whose necks as mine were yoked.
The shepheards praises and their harts amis,
Urged by my Mistres overweening pride;
For none but sees her but captived is,
And last he told which to my hart did glide;
How all the teares I spent were vaine and forceles,
For shee in hart had vowd to be remorceles.
Tho with a showre of teares I entertained,
My wounded hart into my breast accloied:
With thousand sundrie cares and griefes unfained,
Unfained griefes and cares my hart annoied.
Annoying sorrowes at my harts returning,
Assailed my thoughts with never ceasing horror:
That even my hart, hart like to Aetna burning,
Did often times conspire for to abhorre her.
But envious love still bent to eke my morning,
A grievous penance for my fault inflicted:
That eies should weepe and hart be ever groaning;
So love to worke my sorrowes was addicted.
But earths sole wonder whose eies my sense appalled,
The fault was loves, then pardon me, for love is franticke called.
My Hart impos'd this penance on mine eies,
(Eies the first causers of my harts lamenting) :
That they should weepe till love and fancie dies,
Fond love the last cause of my harts repenting.
Mine eies upon my hart inflict this paine,
(Bold hart that dard to harbour thoughts of love)
That it should love and purchase fell disdaine,
A grievous penance which my hart doth prove.
Mine eies did weepe as hart had them imposed,
My hart did pine as eies had it constrained:
Eies in their teares my paled face disclosed,
Hart in his sighs did show it was disdained.
So th'one did weepe th'other sighed, both grieved,
For both must live and love, both unrelieved.
My hart accused mine eies and was offended,
Vowing the cause was in mine eies aspiring:
Mine eies affirmed my hart might well amend it,
If he at first had banisht loves desiring.
Hart said that love did enter at the eies,
And from the eies descended to the hart:
Eies said that in the hart did sparkes arise,
Which kindled flame that wrought the inward smart,
Hart said eies tears might soone have quencht that fl[ame,]
Eies said harts sighs at first might love exile:
So hart the eies and eies the hart did blame,
Whilst both did pine while both the paine did feele.
Hart sighed and bled, eies wept and gaz'd too much,
Yet must I gaze because I see none such.
Fortune outwearied with my bitter mone,
Did pittie seldome seene my wretched fate:
And brought to passe that I my love alone
Unwares attacht to plead my hard estate.
Some say that love makes lovers eloquent,
And with divinest wit doth them inspire:
But beautie my tongues office did prevent,
And quite extinguished my first desire.
As if her eies had power to strike me dead,
So was I dased at her crimson die:
As one that had beheld Medusaes head,
All senses failed their Master but the eie.
Had that sense failed and from me eke beene taken,
Then I had love and love had me forsaken.
I saw the object of my pining thought,
Within a garden of sweete natures placing:
Where in an arbour artificiall wrought,
By workeman's wondrous skill the garden gracing,
Did boast his glorie, glorie farre renowned,
For in his shadie boughs my Mistres slept:
And with a garden of his branches crowned,
Her daintie forehead from the sunne ykept.
Imperious love upon her eielids tending,
Playing his wanton sports at every becke,
And into everie finest limbe descending,
From eies to lips from lips to yvorie necke.
And everie limbe supplide and t'everie part
Had free accesse but durst not touch her hart.
Aye me that love wants power to pierce the hart,
Of my harts object beauties rarest wonder:
What is become of that hart-thrilling dart,
Whose power brought the heavenly powers under.
Ah gentle love if empty be thy quiver,
Unmaske thy selfe and looke within my brest:
Where thou shalt find the dart that made me shiver,
But can I live and see my love distrest.
Ah no that dart was cause of sorrow endles,
And paine perpetuall should my lady prove:
If hart were pierst, the deare love be not friendles,
Although I never found a friend of love,
If not without her hart, her love be gained,
Let me live still forlorne and die disdained.
Still let me live forlorne and die disdained,
My hart consenting to continuall languish:
If love (my harts sore) may not be obtained,
But with the danger of my Ladies anguish.
Let me oppose myself gainst sorrowes force,
And arme my hart to bear woes heavy load:
Unpittied let me die without remorce,
Rather than monster fame shall blase abroad;
That I was causer of her woes induring,
Or brought fair beauty to so foul a domage:
If life or death might be her joyes procuring,
Both life, love, death, and all should do her homage.
But shee lives safe in freedomes liberty,
I live and die in loves extremitie.
The private place which I did choose to waile,
And deere lament my loves pride was a grove;
Plac'd twixt two hills within a lowlie dale,
Which now by fame was cald the vale of love.
The vale of love for there I spent my plainings,
Plaints that bewraid my sicke harts bitter wounding:
Love sicke harts deepe wounds with dispaire me paining,
The bordering hills my sorrowing plaints resounding.
Each tree did bear the figure of her name,
Which my faint hand uppon their backs ingraved:
And every tree did seeme her sore to blame,
Calling her proud that mee of joyes depraved.
But vaine for shee had vowed to forsake mee,
And I to endles anguish must betake me.
It pleased my Mistris once to take the aire,
Amid the vale of love for her disporting.
The birds perceaving one so heavenly faire,
With other Ladies to the grove resorting,
Gan dolefully report my sorrowes endles,
But shee nil listen to my woes repeating:
But did protest that I should sorrow friendle
So live I now and looke for joys defeating.
But joyfull birds melodious harmonie,
Whose silver tuned songs might well have moved her:
Inforst the rest to rewe my miserie,
Though shee denyd to pittie him that lov'd her.
For shee had vowd her faire should never please me,
Yet nothing but her love can once appease me.
The banke whereon I leand my rstles head,
Placd at the bottom of a mirtle tree;
I oft had watered with the teares I shed,
Sad teares did with the fallen earth agree.
Since when the flocks that grase upon the plaine,
Doe in their kind lament my woes though dumbe:
And every one as faithful doth refraine
To eate that grasse which sacred is become.
And everie tree forbeareth to let fall
Their dewie drops mongst any brinish teares:
Onelie the mirth whose hart as mine is thrall,
To melt in sorrowes sourse no whit forbeare.
So franticke love with griefe our paind harts wringing,
That still we wept and still the grasse was springing.
Fast flowing teares from watery eies abounding,
In tract of time by sorrow so constrained:
And framd a fountaine in which Eccho founding,
The'nd of my plaints (vaine plaints of Love disdained).
When to the wel of mine owne eies weeping,
I gan repair renewing former greeving:
And endles moane Eccho me companie keeping,
Her unrevealed woe my woe revealing.
My sorrowes ground was on her sorrow grounded,
The Lad was faire but proud that her perplexed:
Her harts deepe wound was in my hart deepe wounded,
Faire and too proud is she that my hart vexed.
But faire and too proud must release harts pining,
Or hart must sigh and burst with joyes declining.
Taking a truce with teares sweete pleasures
I thus began hard by the fountayne side:
O deere copartner of my wretched woe,
No sooner saide but woe poore eccho cride.
Then I againe what woe did thee betide,
That can be greater than disdayne, disdayne:
Quoth eccho. Then said I O womens pride,
Pride answered eccho. O inflicting payne,
When wofull eccho payne agayne repeated,
Redoubling sorrow with a sorrowing sound:
For both of us were now in sorrow seated,
Pride and disdaine disdainefull pride the ground.
That forst poore Eccho mourne ay sorrowing ever,
And me lament in teares ay joyning never.
About the well which from mine eies did flow,
The woefull witnes of harts desolation:
Yet teares nor woe nor ought could worke compassion,
Did divers trees of sundry natures growe.
The mirrhe sweet bleeding in the latter wound,
Into the christall waves her teares did power:
As pittying me on whome blind love did lower,
Upon whose backe I wrote my sorrows ground,
And on her rugged rind I wrote forlorne,
Forlorne I wrote for sorrowe me oppressed :
Oppressing sorrowe had my hart distressed,
And made the abject outcast of loves scorne,
The leaves conspiring with the winds sweet sounding,
With gentle murmor playnd my harts deep wounding.
I wrote upon their sides to eke their plaining,
If sad laments might multiply their sorrowe:
My loves fair lookes and eke my loves disdaining,
My loves coy lookes constraines me pine for woe.
My loves disdaine which was her lovers dolour:
My loves proud hart which my harts blisse did banish:
My loves transparent beames and rosy colour,
The pride of which did cause my joyes to vanish.
My loves bright shining beeautie like the starre,
That early riseth fore the sunnes appearance:
A guide unto my thoughts that wandering arre,
Doth force me breath abroad my woes indurance.
O life forlorne, O love unkindly frowning,
Thy eies my heart dispaire my sad hope drowning.
Those whose kinf harts sweet pittie did attaint,
With ruthfull teares bemond my misiries:
Those which had heard my never ceasing plaint,
Or read my woes ingraven on the trees.
At last did win my Ladie to consort them,
Unto the fountaine of my flowing anguish:
Where she unkinde and they might boldly sport them,
Whilst I meanewhile in sorrows lap did languish,
Their meaning was that she some teares should shed,
Into the well in pitty of my pining:
She gave consent and putting forth her head,
Did in the well perceave her beautie shining.
Which seeing she withdrew her head puft up with prid
And would not shed a teare should I have died.
Some say that women love for to be praised,
But droope when as they thinke their faire must die:
Joying to have their beauties glorie raised,
By fames shrill trompe above the starrie skie.
I then whome want of skill might be with drawing
Extold her beautie not as yet deserved:
She said my words were flatterie and fayning,
For good event to bad intent soon swerved.
Some say againe they will denie and take it,
I gave my hart, my hart that dearly cost me:
No sooner offerd but she did forsake it,
Scorning my proffered gift so still she crost me.
But were I (alas I am not) false and truthles:
Then had she reason to be sterne and ruthles.
Why live I wretch and see my joyes decay,
Why live I and no hope of loves advancing:
Why doe mine eies behold the sunnie day,
Why live I wretch in hope of better chancing.
O wherefore tells my toung this dolefull tale,
That every eare may hear my bitter plaint:
Was never hart that yet bemond my bale,
Why live I wretch my pangs in vaine to paint.
Why strive I gainst the stream or gainst the hill,
Why are my sorrowes buried in the dust:
Why doe I toile and loose my labour still,
Why doe I feed on hope or build on trust.
Since hope had never hap and trust finds treason,
Why live I wretch disdainde and see no reason?
Amongst the idle toyes that tosse my brayne,
And reave my troubled mynd from quiet rest:
Vyle cruell love I find doth still remayne,
To breed debate within my grieved brest.
When weary woe doth worke to wound my will,
And hart surchargd with sorrow lives opressed:
My sowlen eyes then cannot wayle there fill,
Sorrow is so far spent and I distressed.
My toung hath not the cunning skill to tell,
The smallest griefe that gripes my throbbing hart:
Myne eies have not the secret power to swell,
Into such hugie seas of wounding smart.
That will might melt to waves of bitter woe,
And I might swelt or drowne in sorrowes so.
My waterie eies let fall no trickling teares,
But flouds that over flow abundantly:
Whose spring and fountaine first inforst by feares,
Doth drowne my hart in waves of misery.
My voice is like unto the raging wind,
Which roareth still and never is at rest:
The divers thoughts that tumble in my minde,
Are restlesse like the wheele that wherles alway.
The smokie sighes that boyle out of my brest,
Are farre unlike to those which others use:
For Lovers sighes sometimes doe take their rest,
And lends their minds a little space to muse.
But mine are like unto the surging seas,
Whom tempest calme nor quiet can appease.
Where may I now my carefull corps convay,
From company the worker of my woe:
How may I winke or hide mine eies alwaies,
Which gase on that whereof my grief doth grow,
How shall I seeme my sighes for to suppresse,
Which helpe the hart which else would swelt in sunder,
Which hurts the helpe that makes my torment lesse:
Which helps and hurts, O woefull wearie wonder,
How now, but this in solitarie wise:
To step aside and make hie waie to moane,
To make two fountaines of my dasled eies,
To sigh my fill till breath and all be gone.
To die in sorrow and in woe repent me,
That love at last would though too late lament me.
O would my love although too late lament mee,
And pitty take of teares from eies distilling:
To beare these sorrowes well I would content me,
And ten times more to suffer would be willing.
If she would daine to grace me with her favour,
The thought thereof sustained grief should banish:
And in beholding of her rare behaviour,
A smyle of her should force dispaire to vanishe:
But she is bent to tiran[i]ze upon me,
Dispaire perswades there is no hope to have her:
My hart doth whisper I am wor begone me,
Then cease my vaine plaints and desist to crave her.
Here end my sorrowes, here my salt teares stint I,
For shes obdurate, sterne, remorseles, flintie.
Here end my sorrow, no here my sorrow springeth,
Here end my woe, no here begins my wailing:
Here cease my griefe, no here my griefe deepe wringeth
Sorrow, woe grief, nor ought else is availing.
Here cease my teares, no here begins eies weeping,
Here end my plaints, no here begins my pining:
Here hart be free, no sighes in hart still keeping,
Teares, plaints, and sighes, all cause of joyes declining.
Here end my love, no here doth love inspire me,
Here end my life, no let not death desire me,
Love, hope, and life, and all with me must perish.
For sorrow, woe, griefe, teares, and plaints oft plained,
Sighes, love, hope, life, and I, must die disdained.
The common joye, the cheere of companie,
Twixt myrth and mone doth plague me evermore:
For pleasant talk, or musicks melodie,
Yields no such salve unto my secret sore.
For still I live in spight of cruell death,
And die againe in spight of lingring life:
Feede still with hope which doth prolong my breath,
But choackt with feare and strangled still with strife,
Witnes the daies which I in dole consume,
And weary nights beare record of my woe:
O wronge full world which makst my fancie fume,
Fie fickle Fortune fie, thou art my foe.
O heavie hap so froward is my chance,
No daies nor nights nor worlds can me advance.
Imperious love who in the prime of youth,
I light esteemed as an idle toy;
Though late thy fierie dart hath causd my ruth,
And turned sweet happines to dark annoy.
Why hath thou pleasure in my harts deepe groning,
And dost not rew and pittie my vexations?
Why hast thou joy at my laments and moning,
And art not moved at my imprecations?
Why hast thou stroke my hart with swift desire,
And perst my Ladies eies with fell disdaine?
Why hath fond fancie set my thoughts on fire,
And pent my hart in prison of sad paine?
Why am I drownd in dolors never ceasing,
My joyes still fading, and my woes increasing.
O thou that rulest in Ramnis golden gate,
Let pittie pierce the unrelenting mind:
Unlade me of the burden cruell fate,
(Fell envious fates too cruell and unkind)
Have heapt upon me by too froward love,
Too froward love the enemie of fortune:
Whose fierce assaults my hart (too late) did prove,
My sillie hart which sorrow did importune.
Yet in thy power is my harts redeeming,
My harts redeeming from vile thraldomes force:
Vile thrall to one my sorrowes not esteeming,
Though shee be cruell yet have thou remorce.
Be thou to me no more inconstant variable,
But let thy fickle wheel rest firme and stable.
Long have I swome against the wished wave,
But now constrained by a lothsome life:
I greedilie doe seeke the greedie grave,
To make an end of all these stormes and strife.
Sweete death give end to my tormenting woes,
And let my passions penetrate thy brest:
Suffer my heart which doth such griefes inclose
By timelie fates injoie eternall rest.
Let me not dwell in dole sith thou maist ease me,
Let me not languish in such endles durance:
One happie stroke of thy sad hand will please me,
Please me good death, it is thy procurance.
To end my harts griefe (heart shee did abhorre thee)
O hast thee gentle death I linger for thee.
Long have I sued to fortune death and love,
But fortune, love, nor death will daine to hear me:
I fortunes frowne, deaths spight, loves horror prove,
And must in love dispairing live I feare me.
Love wounded me, yet nill recure my wounding,
And yet my plaints have often him invoked:
Fortune hath often heard my sorrowes sounding,
Sorrowes which my poore hart have welnigh choked.
Death well might have beene moved when I lamented,
But cruell death was deafe when I complained:
Deat, love, and fortune all might have relented,
But fortune, love, and death, and all disdained.
To pittie me or ease my restles minde,
How can they choose since they are bold and blinde.
When neither sighs nor sorrowes were of force
I let my Mistres see my naked breat:
Where view of wounded hart might worke remorce,
And move her mind to pittie my unrest.
With stedfast eie shee gazed on my hart,
Wherein shee saw the picture of her beautie:
Which having seene as one aghast shee start,
Accusing all my thoughts with breach of duetie.
As if my hart had robd her of her faire,
No, no, her faire bereaved my hart of joy:
And fates disdaine hath kild me with dispaire,
Dispaire the fountaine of my sad annoy.
And more, alas, a cruell one I served,
Lest loved of her whose love I most deserved.
My Mistres seeing her fair counterfet
So sweetelie framed in my bleeding brest
On it her fancie she so firmelie set,
Thinking her selfe for want of it distrest.
Envying that anie should injoy her Image
Since all unworthie were of such an honor:
Tho gan shee me command to leave my gage,
The first end of my joy, last cause of dolor.
But it so fast was fixed to my hart,
Joind with unseparable sweet commixture,
That nought had force or power them to part:
Here take my hart quoth I, with it the picture.
But oh coy Dame intollerable smart,
Rather than touch my hart or come about it,
She turnd her face and chose to goe without it.
Behold dear Mistres how each pleasant greene,
Will now renew his sommers liverie:
The fragrant flowers which have not long beene seene,
Will flourish now ere long in braverie.
But I ala within whose mourning mind,
The grafts of griefe are onelie given to grow:
Cannot enjoy the spring which others find,
But still my will must wither all in woe.
The lustie ver that whilome might exchange,
My griefe to joy, and my delight increase:
Springs now elsewhere and showes to me but strange,
My winters woe therefore can never cease.
In other coasts his sunne doth clearly shine,
And comfort lend to every mould but mine.
The tender buds whom cold hath long kept in,
And winters rage inforst to hide their head:
Will spring and sprowt as they doe now begin,
That everie one will joy to see them spread.
But cold of care so nips my joies at roote,
There is no hope to recover what is lost:
No sunne doth shine that well can doe it boote,
Yet still I strive but lose both toile and cost.
For what can spring that feels no force of ver,
What flower can flourish where no sunne doth shine:
These balles dear love, within my brest I beare,
To breake my barke and make my pith to pine.
Needs must I fall, I fade both root and rinde,
My branches bowe at blast of everie winde.
her nimphs in silvane brooke,
Did wash themselves in secret farre apart:
But bold Acteon dard on them to looke,
For which faire Phoebe turned him to a Hart.
His hounds unweeting of his sodaine change,
Did hale and pull him down with open crie:
He then repenting that he so did range,
Woulde speake but could not, so did sigh and die.
But my Diana fairer and more cruel,
Bereft me of my hart and in disdaine
Hath turnd it out to feede on fancies fuel,
And live in bondage and eternal paine.
So hartles doe I live yet cannot die,
Desire the dog, doth chase it to and fro:
Unto her brest for succour it doth flie,
If shee debarre it whither shall it go.
Now lives my hart in danger to be slaine,
Unlesse her hart my hart wil entertaine.
Hand, hart and eie, tucht thought and did behold,
The onelie glorie that on earth doth grow:
Hand quakt, hart sighed, but eie was foolish bold,
To gaze til gazing wrought harts grounded woe.
The object of these senses heavenlie saint,
With such a majestie did me appall:
As hand to write her praise did feare and faint,
And heart did bleede to think me Beauties thrall.
But eie more hardie than the hand or hart,
Did glorie in her eies reflecting light:
And yet that light did breede my endles smart.
And yet mine eies nil leave there former sight.
But gazing pine, which eie, hand, hart doth trie,
And what I love, is but hand, hart, and eie.
Each tree did boast the wished spring times
When solitarie in the vale of love,
I hid my selfe, so from the world to hide
The uncouth passions which my hart did prove.
No tree whose branches did not bravelie spring,
No branch whereon a fine bird did not sit:
No bird but did her shrill notes sweetelie sing,
No song but did contain a lovelie dit.
Trees, branches, birds, and songs were framed faire,
Fit to allure fraile minde to careles ease:
But carefull was my thought, yet in dispaire,
I dwelt, for brittle hope me cannot please.
For when I view my loves faire eies reflecting,
I entertaine dispaire, vaine hope rejecting.
Each Creature joyes Appollos happie sight,
And feede them selves with his fayre beames reflecting.
Nyght wandering travelers at Cinthias sight,
Clere up their clowdy thoughts fond fere rejecting.
But darke disdayne eclipsed hath my sun,
Whose shining beames my wandering thought were guiding,
For want whereof my little worlde is done
That I unneath can stay my mind from sliding:
O happie birds that at your pleasure maie
Behold the glorious light of sols a raies:
Most wretched I borne in some dismall daie,
That cannot see the beames my sun displaies,
My glorious sun in whome all vertue shrowds,
That light the world but shines to me in clowds.
In clowdes she shines and so obscurely shineth,
That like a mastles shipe at seas I wander:
For want of her to guide my hart that pineth,
Yet can I not entreat yet ne yet command her.
So I am tied in Laborinths of fancy,
In darke and obscure Laborinths of love:
That everie one may plaine behold that can see,
How I am fetterd and what paines I prove.
The Lampe whose light should lead my ship about,
Is placed upon my Mistres heavenlie face.
Her hand doth hold the clew must lead me out,
And free my hart from thraldomes lothed place.
But cleave to lead me out or Lampe to light me,
She scornefullie denide, the more to spight me.
Blame me not deere love though I talke at randon
Terming thee scornefull, proud, unkind, disdaineful,
Since all I doe cannot my woes abandon,
Or ridde me of the yoake I feel so painefull.
If I doe paint thy pride or want of pittie,
Consider likewise how I blase thy beautie:
Inforced to the first in mournefull dittie,
Constrained to the last by servile dutie:
And take thou no offence if I misdeemed,
Thy beauties glorie quencheth thy prides blemish:
Better it is of all to be esteemed
Faire and too proud than not faire and too squemishe.
And seeing thou must scorne and tis approoved,
Scorne to be ruthles since thou art beloved.
My love more bright than Cinthias horned
That spreads her wings to beautifie the heavens
When Titan coucheth in his purple bed,
Thou livest by Titan and enjoyest his beames.
Shee flies when he begins to run his race,
And hides her head, his beautie staines her brightnes:
Thou staiest, thy beautie yeelds the sunne no place,
For thou excelst his beames in glories sweetnes.
Shee hath eclips, thou nevr doest eclips,
Shee sometimes wanes, thy glorie still doth waxe:
None but Endymyon hangeth at her lips,
Thy beautie burnes the world as fire doth flaxe.
Shee shines by months, thou houres, months, yeares
Oh that such beautie should inforce such teares.
Were words dissolved to sighs, sighs into teares,
And evrie teare to torments of the mind:
The minds distresse into those deadly feares,
That find more death than death itself can find
Were all the woes of all the world in one,
Sorrow and death set downe in all their pride:
Yet were they insufficient to bemone,
The restless horror that my hart doth hide.
Where blacke dispaire doth feed on everie thought,
And deepe dispaire is cause of endles griefe:
Where every sense with sorrowes over-wrought,
Lives but in death dispairing of reliefe.
Whilst thus my heart with loves plague torn asunder,
May of the world be called the wofull wonder.
The hunted Hare sometime doth leave the Hound,
My Hart alas is never out of chace:
The live-hounds life sometime is yet unbound,
My bands are hopeles of so high a grace.
For natures sickenes sometimes may have ease,
Fortune though fickle sometime is a friend:
The minds affliction patience may appease,
And death is cause that many torments end.
Yet I am sicke, but shee that should restore me,
Withholds the sacred flame that should recure me:
And fortune eke (though many eyes deplore me,)
Nill lend such chance that might to joy procure me.
Patience wants power to appease my weeping,
And death denies what I have long been seeking.
When as I marke the joy of every wight,
Howe in their mindes deepe throbbing sorrow ceaseth
And by what meanes they nourish their delight,
Their sweet delight my paine the more increaseth.
For as the Deare that sees his fellow feede,
Amid the lusty heard, himself sore brused:
Or as the bird that feeles her selfe to bleede,
And lies aloofe of all her pheeres refused.
So have I found and now too deerely trie,
That pleasure doubleth paine and blisse annoy:
Yet will I twit my selfe of Surcuidrie,
As one that am unworthy to injoy
The lasting frute of such a heavenly love,
For whom these endles sorrowes I approve.
Oft have I raild against love many waies,
But pardon love I honour now thy power:
For were my Pallace Greece Pyramides,
Cupid should there erect a stately bower.
And in my Pallace sing his sugred songs,
And Venus doves my selfe will finely feede:
And nurce her sparrowes and her milke white Swans.
Yea, in my restles bosome should they breede.
And thou deare Ladie sacred and divine,
Shalt have thy place within my hart assigned:
Thy picture yea thy fiery darting eien,
Ile carrie painted in my grieved mind.
The chiefest coullers shall be scarlet blood,
Which Cupid pricketh from my wofull hart:
And teares commixt shall further forth my good,
To paint thy glories cording their desart.
I now am changed from what I woont to be,
Cupid is God, And there is none but he.
Who taught thee first to sigh Alasse sweet heart?
FINIS. T. W.
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