O IF thou knew'st how thou thy selfe dost harme,
And dost preiudge thy blisse, and spoile my rest:
Then thou would'st melt the yce out of thy brest,
And thy relenting heart would kindly warme.
O if thy pride did not our ioyes controule,
What world of louing wonders should'st thou see!
For if I saw thee once transform'd in me,
Then in thy bosome I would poure my soule,
Then all thy thoughts should in my visage shine.
And if that aught mischanc'd, thou should'st not
mone,
Nor beare the burthen of thy griefes alone;
No, I would haue my share in what were thine.
And whilst we thus should make our sorrowes one,
This happie harmonie would make them none.
WHAT Vncouth motion makes my mirth decay!
Is this the thing poore martyr'd men call loue?
And whil'st their torment doth their wits dismay,
As those that raue, do for a god approue?
Although he bring his greatnesse from aboue,
And rule the world according to his will,
Yet doth he euen from those all rest remoue,
That were deuoted to his deitie still.
Can that which is th' originall of ill,
From which doth flow an ocean of mischiefe,
Whose poysnous waues doth many thousands kill, Can that be loue? no, 'tis the source of griefe. And all those erre that hold this vaine conceit; Then I erre too, one in this same estate.
WHEN as I come to thy respected sight,
Thy lookes are all so chaste, thy words so graue,
That my affections do the foile receaue,
And like to darknes yeeld vnto the light;
Still vertue holds the ballance of thy wit,
In which great reason ponders euery thought,
And thou, deare ladie, neuer staind in ought,
Thus ore thy selfe dost as an empresse sit.
O what is beautie if not free from blame,
It hath the soule as white as is the skinne,
The froth of vanitie, the dregs of sinne,
A wracke to others, to it selfe a shame;
And as it is most precious if kept pure,
It is as much abhorr'd if once impure.
Lo now reuiuing my disast'rous stile,
I prosecute the tenour of my fate,
And follow forth at danger's highest rate,
In forraine realmes my fortune for a while :
I might haue learn'd this by my last exile,
That change of countries cannot change my state:
Where euer that my bodie seeke a seate,
I leaue my heart in Albion's glorious yle ;
And since then banisht from a louely sight,
I maried haue my mind to sad conceits,
Though to the furthest part that fame dilates,
I might on Pegasus addresse my flight;
Yet should I still whilst I might breath or moue,
Remaine the monster of mishap and loue.
OFT haue I heard, which now I must deny,
That nought can last if that it be extreame;
Times dayly change, and we likewise in them,
Things out of sight do straight forgotten die :
There nothing is more vehement than loue,
And yet I burne, and burne still with one flame.
Times oft haue chang'd, yet I remaine the same,
Nought from my mind her image can remoue:
The greatnesse of my loue aspires to ruth,
Time vowes to crowne my constancie in th' end,
And absence doth my fancies but extend;
Thus I perceiue the poet spake the truth,
That who to see strange countries were inclin'd,
Might change the aire, but neuer change the mind.
I wor not what strange things I haue design'd,
But all my gestures do presage no good;
My lookes are gastly-like, thoughts are my food,
A silent pausing showes my troubled mind:
Huge hosts of thoughts are mustring in my brest,
Whose strongest are conducted by despaire,
Which haue inuolu'd my hopes in such a snare,
That I by death would seeke an endles rest,
What furie in my brest strange cares enroules
And in the same would reare sterne Plutoe's seate!
Go get you hence to the Tartarian gate,
And breed such terrours in the damned soules:
Too many grieuous plagues my state extorse,
Though apprehended horrours bost not worse.
I HOPE, I feare, resolu'd, and yet I doubt,
I'm cold as yce, and yet I burne as fire;
I wot not what, and yet I much desire,
And trembling too, am desperately stout:
Though melancholious wonders I deuise,
And compare much, yet nothing can embrace;
And walke ore all, yet stand still in one place,
And bound on th' Earth, do soare aboue the skies:
I beg for life, and yet I bray for death,
And haue a mightie courage, yet dispaire;
I euer muse, yet am without all care,
And shout aloud, yet neuer straine my breath :
I change as oft as any wind can do,
Yet for all this am euer constant too.
FOR eyes that are deliuer'd of their birth,
And hearts that can complaine, none needs to care:
pitie not their sighes that pierce the ayre,
To weepe at will were a degree of mirth:
But he (ay me) is to be pitied most,
Whose sorrowes haue attain'd to that degree,
That they are past expressing, and can be
Onely imagin❜d by a man that's lost.
The teares that would burst out yet are restrain’d, Th' imprison'd plaints that perish without fame, Sighs form'd and smoother'd ere they get a name, /Those to be pitied are (ô griefe vnfain'd)
Whilst sighes the voice, the voice the sighs confounds,
Then teares marre both, and all are out of bounds.
THE most refreshing waters come from rockes, Some bitter rootes oft send foorth daintie flowres, The growing greenes are cherished with showres, And pleasant stemmes spring from deformed stockes:
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