SUCH as retired from sight of men, like thee,
By penance seek the joys of heaven to win,
In deserts make their paradise begin,
And even amongst wild beasts do angels see ;
In such a place my soul doth seem to be,
When in my body she laments her sin,
And none but brutal passions finds therein,
Except they be sent down from heaven to me.
Yet if these praises God to me impart,
Which He inspired thy blessèd heart withal,
find heaven in my retired heart !
And if thou change the object of my love,
The wing'd Affection, which men Cupid call,
May get his sight, and like an angel prove.
BECAUSE thou wast the daughter of a King,
Whose beauty did all Nature's works exceed,
And wisdom wonder to the world did breed,
A muse might rouse itself on Cupid's wing ;
But, sith (the graces] which from nature spring
Were graced by those which from grace did proceed,
And glory [have] deserved, my Muse doth need
An angel's feathers when thy praise I sing.
For all in thee became angelical :
An angel's face had angels' purity,
And thou an angel's tongue didst speak withal ;
Lo! why thy soul, set free by martyrdom,
Was crowned by God in angels company,
And angels' hands thy body did entomb.
To Sir Philip Sidney's Soul
Give pardon, blessèd soul, to my bold cries,
If they, importune, interrupt thy song,
Which now with joyful notes thou sing'st among
The angel-quiristers of th' heavenly skies.
Give pardon eke, sweet soul, to my slow eyes
That since I saw thee now it is so long,
And yet the tears that unto thee belong
To thee as yet they did not sacrifice.
I did not know that thou wert dead before ;
I did not feel the grief I did sustain ;
The greater stroke astonisheth the more ;
Astonishment takes from us sense of pain ;
I stood amazed when others' tears begun,
And now begin to weep when they have done.
IT autumn was, and on our hemisphere
Fair Erycine 1 began bright to appear;
Night westward did her gemmy world decline,
And hide her lights, that greater light might shine ;
The crested bird had given alarum twice
To lazy mortals, to unlock their eyes ;
The owl had left to plain, and from each thorn
The wing'd musicians did salute the morn,
Who, while she glass'd her locks in Ganges' streams,
Set open wide the crystal port of dreams;
When I, whose eyes no drowsy night could close,
In sleep's soft arms did quietly repose,
And, for that heavens to die me did deny,
Death's image kissed, and as dead did lie.
I lay as dead, but scarce charm'd were my cares,
And slaked scarce my sighs, scarce dried my tears,
Sleep scarce the ugly figures of the day
Had with his sable pencil put away,
And left me in a still and calmy mood,
When by my bed methought a virgin stood,
A virgin in the blooming of her prime,
If such rare beauty measur'd be by time.
Her head a garland wore of opals bright,
About her flow'd a gown as pure as light,
Dear amber locks gave umbrage to her face.
Where modesty high majesty did grace ;
Her eyes such beams sent forth, that but with pain
Here weaker sights their sparkling could sustain.
No deity feign'd which haunts the silent woods
Is like to her, nor syren of the floods :
Such is the golden planet of the year,
When blushing in the east he doth appear.
Her grace did beauty, voice yet grace did pass,
Which thus through pearls and rubies broken was.
How long wilt thou, said she, estrang'd from joy,
Paint shadows to thyself of false annoy?
How long thy mind with horrid shapes affright,
And in imaginary evils delight;
Esteem that loss which, well when view'd, is gain,
Or if a loss, yet not a loss to plain ?
O leave thy tired soul more to molest,
And think that woe when shortest then is best.
If she for whom thou deafʼnest thus the sky
Be dead, what then ? was she not born to die?
Was she not mortal born ? If thou dost grieve
That times should be in which she should not live,
Ere e'er she was weep that day's wheel was rolld,
Weep that she liv'd not in the age of gold;
For that she was not then, thou may'st deplore
As duly as that now she is no more.
If only she had died, thou sure hadst cause
To blame the destines, and heaven's iron laws;
But look how many millions her advance,
What numbers with her enter in this dance,
With those which are to come : shall heavens them
stay,
And All's fair order break, thee to obey ?
Even as thy birth, death, which doth thee appal,
A piece is of the life of this great All.
Strong cities die, die do high palmy reigns,
And, weakling, thou thus to be handled plains.
If she be dead, then she of loathsome days
Hath past the line, whose length but loss bewrays;
Then she hath left this filthy stage of care,
Where pleasure seldom, woe doth still repair :
For all the pleasures which it doth contain,
Not countervail the smallest minute's pain.
And tell me, thou who dost so much admire
This little vapour, smoke, this spark, or fire,
Which life is calld, what doth it thee bequeath
But some few years which birth draws out to death ?
Which if thou paragon with lustres run,
And them whose career is but now begun,
In day's great vast they shall far less appear,
Than with the sea when matched is a tear.
But why wouldst thou here longer wish to be?
One year doth serve all nature's pomp to see,
Nay, even one day and night: this moon, that
sun,
Those lesser fires about this round which run,
Be but the same which, under Saturn's reign,
Did the serpenting seasons interchain.
How oft doth life grow less by living long?
And what excelleth but what dieth young ?
For age which all abhor, yet would embrace,
Whiles makes the mind as wrinkled as the face ;
And when that destinies conspire with worth,
That years not glory wrong, life soon goes forth.
Leave then laments, and think thou didst not live,
Laws to that first eternal cause to give,
But to obey those laws which he hath given,
And bow unto the just decrees of Heaven,
Which can not err, whatever foggy mists
Do blind men in these sublunary lists.
But what if she for whom thou spend'st those groans,
And wastest life's dear torch in ruthful moans,
She for whose sake thou hat'st the joyful light,
Court'st solitary shades, and irksome night,
Doth live? O! if thou canst, through tears, a space
Lift thy dimm'd lights, and look upon this face,
Look if those eyes which, fool, thou didst adore,
Shine not more bright than they were wont before ;
Look if those roses death could aught impair,
Those roses to thee once which seem'd so fair ;
And if these locks have lost aught of that gold,
Which erst they had when thou them didst behold.
I live, and happy live, but thou art dead,
And still shalt be, till thou be like me made.
Alas! whilst we are wrapt in gowns of earth,
And blind, here suck the air of woe beneath,
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