Oh voice, oh face! Dear, why make you more of a dog than me? If he do love, I burn, I burn in love; If he wait well, I never thence would move; If he be fair, yet but a dog can be. Little he is, so little worth is he; He barks, my songs thine own voice oft doth prove: Bidden perhaps he fetcheth thee a glove, But I unbid, fetch ev'n my soul to thee. Yet while I languish, him that bosom clips, That lap doth lap, nay lets in spite of spite This sour-breath'd mate taste of those sugar'd lips. Alas, if you grant only such delight To witless thngs, then Love I hope since wit Becomes a clog will soon ease me of it.
When my good angel guides me to the place, Where all my good I do in Stella see, That heav'n of joys throws only down on me Thunder'd disdains and lightnings of disgrace: But when the rugg'st step of Fortune's race Makes me fall from her sight, then sweetly she With words, wherein the Muses' treasures be, Shows love and pity to my absent case. Now I, wit-beaten long by hardest Fate, So dull am, that I cannot look into The ground of this fierce Love and lovely hate: Then some good body tell me how I do, Whose presence absence, absence presence is; Blist in my curse, and cursed in my bliss.
Oft with true sighs, oft with uncalled tears, Now with slow words, now with dumb eloquence I Stella's eyes assail, invade her ears; But this at last is her sweet breath'd defense: That who indeed infelt affection bears, So captives to his saint both soul and sense, That wholly hers, all selfness he forbears, Thence his desires he learns, his life's course thence.
Now since her chaste mind hates this love in me, With chasten'd mind, I straight must show that she Shall quickly me from what she hates remove. Oh Doctor Cupid, thou for me reply, Driv'n else to grant by angel's sophistry, That I love not, without I leave to love. Late tir'd with woe, ev'n ready for to pine, With rage of love, I call'd my love unkind; She is whose eyes Love, though unfelt, doth shine, Sweet said that I true love in her should find.
I joy'd, but straight thus water'd was my wine, That love she did, but lov'd a Love not blind, Which would not let me, whem she lov'd, decline From nobler course, fit for my birth and mind: And therefore by her love's authority, Will'd me these tempests of vain love to flee, And anchor fast myself on Virtue's shore. Alas, if this the only metal be Of Love, new-coin'd to help my beggary, Dear, love me not, that you may love me more.
Oh grammar rules, oh now your virtues show So children still read you with awefull eyes, As my young dove may in your precepts wise Her grant to me, by her own virtue know. For late, with heart most high, with eyes most low, I crav'd the thing which ever she denies: She, lightning Love, displaying Venus' skies, Lest once should not be heard, twice said, "No, No. That in one speech two negatives affirm. Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth, Which now my breast o'ercharged to music lendeth? To you, to you.
Who hath the eyes which marry state with pleasure, Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest treasure? To you, to you, all song of praise is due; Only for you the heav'n forgat all measure. Who hath the lips, where wit in fairness reigneth, Who womankind at once both decks and staineth? To you, to you, all song of praise is due; Only by you Cupid his crown maintaineth. Who hath the feet, whose step all sweetness planteth, Who else for whom Fame worthy trumpets wanteth? To you, to you, all song of praise is due; Only to you her scepter Venus granteth.
Who hath the breast, whose milk doth passions nourish, Whose grace is such, that when it chides doth cherish? To you, to you, all song of praise is due; Only through you the tree of life doth flourish. Who hath the hand which without stroke subdueth, Who long dead beauty with increase reneweth? To you, to you, all song of praise is due; Only to you all envy hopeless rueth. Who hath the hair which, loosest, fastest tieth, Who makes a man live, then glad when he dieth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due; Only of you the flatterer never lieth. Who hath the voice, which soul from senses sunders, Whose force but yours the bolts of beauty thunders?https://en.susahaputihe.ml
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To you, to you, all song of praise is due; Only with you are miracles not wonders. Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth, Which now my breast o'ercharg'd to music lendeth? To you, to you, all song of praise is due; Only in you my song begins and endeth. No more, my dear, no more these counsels try, Oh give my passions leave to run their race: Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace, Let folk o'ercharg'd with brain against me cry, Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye, Let me no steps but of lost labor trace, Let all the earth with scorn recount my case, But do not will me from my love to fly.
I do not envy Aristotle's wit, Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame; Nor aught do care, though some above me sit; Nor hope, nor wish another course to frame, But that which once may win thy cruel heart: Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art. Love by sure proof I may call thee unkind, That giv'st no better ear to my just cries: Thou whom to me such my good turns should bind, As I may well recount, but none can prize: For when, nak'd boy, thou couldst no harbor find In this old world, grown now so too too wise, I lodg'd thee in my heart, and being blind Bu nature born, I gave to thee mine eyes.
Mine eyes, my light, my heart, my life alas, If so great services may scorned be, Yet let this thought thy tigrish courage pass: That I perhaps am somewhat kin to thee, Since in thine arms, if learn'd fame truth hath spread, Thou bear'st the arrow, I the arrowhead.
And do I see some cause a hope to feed, Or doth the tedious burden of long woe In weaken'd minds, quick apprehension breed, Of every image which may comfort show? I cannot brag of word, much less of deed; Fortune wheels still with me in one sort slow: My wealth no more, and no whit less my need, Desire still on the stilts of Fear doth go. And yet amid all fears a hope there is Stol'n to my heart, since last fair night, nay day, Stella's eyes sent to me the beams of bliss, Looking on me, while I look'd other way: But when mine eyes back to their heav'n did move, They fled with blush, which guilty seem'd of love.
Hope, art thou true, or dost thou flatter me? Doth Stella now begin with piteous eye The ruins of her conquest to espy: Will she take time, before all wracked be? Her eye's speech is translated thus by thee.
But failst thou not in phrase so heav'nly high? Look on again, the fair text better try: What blushing notes dost thou in margin see? What sighs stol'n out, or kill'd before full born? Hast thou found such and such like arguments? Or art thou else to comfort me foresworn?
Well, how so thou interpret the contents, I am resolv'd thy error to maintain, Rather than by more truth to get more pain. Stella, the only planet of my light, Light of my life, and life of my desire, Chief good, whereto my hope doth only aspire, World of my wealth, and heav'n of my delight: Why dost thou spend the treasure of thy sprite, With voice more fit to wed Amphion's lyre, Seeking to quench in me the noble fire Fed by thy worth, and kindled by thy sight? And all in vain, for while thy breath most sweet, With choicest words, thy words with reasons rare, Thy reasons firmly set on Virtue's feet, Labor to kill in me this killing care: Oh, think I then, what paradise of joy It is, so fair a Virtue to enjoy.
Oh joy, too high for my low style to show: Oh bliss, fit for a nobler state than me: Envy, put out thine eyes, lest thou do see What oceans of delight in me do flow.
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My friend, that oft saw through all masks my woe, Come, come, and let me pour myself on thee; Gone is the winter of my misery, My spring appears, oh see what here doth grow. For Stella hath with words where faith doth shine, Of her high heart giv'n me the monarchy: I, I, oh I may say that she is mine, And though she give but thus condition'ly This realm of bliss, while virtuous course I take, No kings be crown'd, but they some covenants make. My Muse may well grudge at my heav'nly joy, If still I force her in sad rimes to creep: She oft hath drunk my tears, now hopes t'enjoy Nectar of mirth, since I Jove's cup do keep.
Sonnets be not bound prentice to annoy: Trebles sing high, as well as basses deep: Grief but Love's winter livery is, the boy Hath cheeks to smile, as well as eyes to weep.
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Come then, my Muse, show thou height of delight In well-rais'd notes, my pen the best it may Shall paint out joy, though but in black and white. Cease, eager Muse; peace, pen, for my sake stay; I give you here my hand for truth of this: Wise silence is best music unto bliss. Who will in fairest book of Nature know How Virtue may best lodg'd in beauty be; Let him but learn of Love to read in thee, Stella, those fair lines which true goodness show.
There shall he find all vices' overthrow, Not by rude force, but sweetest sovereignty Of Reason, from whose light those night birds flee; That inward sun in thine eyes shineth so. And no content to be Perfection's heir Thyself, dost strive all minds that way to move, Who mark in thee what is in thee most fair. So while thy beauty draws the heart to love, As fast thy virtue bends that love to good: "But ah," Desire still cries, "give me some food.
Desire, though thou my old companion art, And oft so clings to my pure love, that I One from the other scarcely can descry, While each doth blow the fire of my heart; Now from thy felloswhip I needs must part, Venus is taught with Dian's wings to fly: I must no more in thy sweet passions lie; Virtue's gold now must head my Cupid's dart. Service and honor, wonder with delight, Fear to offend, will worthy to appear, Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my sprite: These things are left me by my only dear; But thou, Desire, because thou wouldst have all, Now banish'd art.
But yet alas how shall? Have I caught my heav'nly jewel, Teaching sleep most fair to be? Now will I teach her that she, When she wakes, is too, too cruel. Since sweet sleep her eyes hath charm'd, The two only darts of Love: Now will I with that boy prove Some play, whle he is disarm'd. Her tongue waking still refuseth, Giving frankly niggard "No": Now will I attempt to know What "No" her tongue sleeping useth.
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See, the hand which waking guardeth, Sleeping, grants a free resort: Now will I invade the fort; Cowards Love with loss rewardeth. But, oh, fool, think of the danger Of her just and high disdain: Now will I alas refreain, Love fears nothing else but anger. Yet those lips so sweetly swelling Do invite a stealing kiss: Now will I but venture this, Who will read must first learn spelling. Oh sweet kiss. But ah, she is waking.
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Lowering beauty chastens me: Now will I away hence flee. More fool for no more taking. Love still a boy, and oft a wanton is, School'd only by his mother's tender eye: What wonder then if he his lesson miss, When for so soft a rod dear play he try? And yet my Star, because a sugar'd kiss In sport I suck'd, while she asleep did lie, Doth low'r, nay chide; nay, threat for only this: Sweet, it was saucy Love, not humble I.
But no 'scuse serves, she makes her wrath appear In Beauty's throne; see now who dares come near Those scarlet judges, threat'ning bloody pain? Oh heav'nly fool, thy most kiss-worthy face Anger invests with such a lovely grace, That Anger's self I needs must kiss again. I never drank of Aganippe well, Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit, And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to swell; 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 fall it then, that with so smooth an ease My thoughts I speak, and what I speak doth flow In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please? Guess we the cause. Of all the kings that ever here did reign, Edward nam'd Fourth, as first in praise I name; Not for his fair outside, nor well-lin'd brain, Although less gifts imp feathers oft on Fame: Nor that he could young-wise, wise-valiant frame His sire's revenge, join'd with a kingdom's gain; And, gain'd by Mars, could yet mad Mars so tame, That balance weigh'd what sword did late obtain; Nor that he made the Flow'r-de-luce so 'fraid, Though strongly hedg'd of bloody Lion's paws, That witty Lewis to him a tribute paid; Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause, But only for this worthy knight durst prove To lose his crown, rather than fail his love.
She comes, and straight therewith her shining twins do move Their rays to me, who in her tedious absence lay Benighted in cold woe; but now appears my day, The only light of joy, the only warmth of love. She comes with light and warmth, which like Aurora prove Of gentle force, so that mine eyes dare gladly play With such a rosy morn, whose beams most freshly gay Scorch not, but only do dark chilling sprites remove. But lo, while I do speak, it groweth noon with me, Her flamy glist'ring lights increase with time and place; My heart cries, Ah, it burns; mine eyes now dazzl'd be: No wind, no shade can cool, what help then in my case, But with short breath, long looks, staid feet and walking head, Pray that my sun go down with meeker beams to bed.
Those looks, whose beams be joy, whose motion is delight, That face, whose lecture shows what perfect beauty is: That presence, which doth give dark hearts a living light: That grace, which Venus weeps that she herself doth miss: That hand, which without touch holds more than Atlas might: Those lips, which make death's pay a mean price for a kiss: That skin, skin, whose passe-praise hue scorns this poor term of white: Those words, which do sublime the quintessence of bliss: That voice, which makes the soul plant himself in the ears: That conversation sweet, where such high comforts be, As constru'd in true speech, the name of heav'n it bears, Makes me in my best thought and quiet'st judgment see, That in no more but these I might be fully blest: Yet ah, my maiden Muse doth blush to tell the rest.
Oh how the pleasnat airs of true love be Infect'd by those vapors, which arise From out that noisome gulf, which gaping lies Between the jaws of hellish Jealousy: A monster, others' harm, self-misery, Beauty's plague, Virtue's scourge, succour of lies; Who his own joy to his own hurt applies, And only cherish doth with injury; Who since he hath, by Nature's special grace, So piercing paws as spoil when they embrace, So nimble feet as stir still, though on thorns, So many eyes ay seeking their own woe, So ample ears as never good news know: Is it not evil that such a Devil want horns?
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Sweet kiss, thy sweets I fain would sweetly endite, Which even of sweetness sweetest sweet'ner art: Pleasing'st consort, where each sense holds a part; Which, coupling doves, guides Venus' chariot right; Best charge, and bravest retreat in Cupid's fight, A double key, which opens to the heart, Most rich, when most his riches it impart; Nest of young joys, schoolmaster of delight, Teaching the mean at once to take and give; The friendly fray, where blows both wound and heal, The pretty death, while each in other live; Poor hope's first wealth, hostage of promis'd weal, Breakfast of love.
But lo! Cease we to praise; now pray we for a kiss. Sweet swelling lip, well may'st thou swell in pride, Since best wits think it wit thee to admire; Nature's praise, Virtue's stall, Cupid's cold fire, Whence words, not words but heav'nly graces, slide; The new Parnassus, where the Muses bide, Sweet'ner of music, wisdom's baeautifier: Breather of life, and fast'ner of desire, Where Beauty's blush in Honor's grain is dyed. Thus much my heart compell'd my mouth to say, But now, spite of my heart, my mouth will stay, Loathing all lies, doubting this flattery is: And no spur can his resty race renew, Without how far this praise is short of you, Sweet lip, you teach my mouth with one sweet kiss.
Oh kiss, which dost those ruddy gems impart, Or gems, or fruits of new-found Paradise, Breathing all bliss and sweet'ning to the heart, Teaching dumb lips a nobler exercise; Oh kiss, which souls, even souls, together ties By links of Love, and only Nature's art: How fain would I paint thee to all men's eyes, Or of thy gifts at least shade out some part; But she forbids, with blushing words, she says She builds her fame on higher-seated praise; But my heart burns, I cannot silent be.
Then since dear life you fain would have me peace, And I, mad with delight, want wit to cease, Stop you my mouth with still, still kissing me.
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