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SIR PHILIP SYDNEY.
FAINT amorist! what, dost thou think
To taste love's honey, and not drink One dram of gall? or to devour
A world of sweet, and taste no sour?
Th' Elysian fields, that darest not venture
He that loves, and fears to try,
Doth she chide thee? 'tis to shew it
Doth she pout and leave the room?
Is she sick? why then be sure,
In question? nay, she loves thee then;
He that, after ten denials,
Dares attempt no farther trials,
The dainties of his chaste desire.
N a grove most rich of shade, Where birds wanton music made, May, then young, his pied weeds showing, New perfum'd, with flow'rs fresh growing, Astrophel, with Stella sweet,
Did for mutual comfort meet;
Him great harms had taught much care,
"Stella! whose voice, when it singeth,
(Knees on ground he then did stay)
Never room more apt for it!
Smiling air allows my reason,
And, if dumb things be so witty,
There, his hands, in their speech, fain Would have made tongue's language plain; But her hands, his hands repelling, Gave repulse all grace excelling. Then she spake; her speech was such As not ears but heart did touch; While in suchwise she love denied As yet love she signified.
Astrophe!! (said she) my love, Cease in these effects to prove. Now be still; yet, still believe me,
Thy grief more than death doth grieve me. If that any thought in me
Can taste comfort, but of thee;
Let me feed with hellish anguish,
And joyless, helpless, endless languish !
Half so dear, as you to me,
Of those eyes, and blinder minded!
I do any wish impart,
Where thou art not foremost placed,
If more may be said, I say
In myself the smart I try.
Tyrant honour thus doth use thee,
Therewithal, away she went;
Leaving him by passion rent
With what she had done and spoken,
"WHO is it that this dark night,
Underneath my window plaineth?"
It is one, who from thy sight,
Being (ah!) exil'd, disdaineth Every other vulgar light.
"Why, alas! and are you he?
Are not yet these fancies changed?" Dear, when you find change in me, Though from me you be estranged, Let my change to ruin be.
"What if you new beauties see? Will not they stir new affection ?" I will think they pictures be
(Image-like of saint perfection) Poorly counterfeiting thee.
"Peace! I think that some give ear. Come, no more, lest I get anger." Bliss! I will my bliss forbear,
Fearing, sweet, you to endanger; But my soul shall harbour there.
"Well, begone; begone, I say,
Lest that Argus' eyes perceive you."
O! unjust is Fortune's sway,
Which can make me thus to leave you,
And from louts to run away!
OCK up, fair lids! the treasure of my heart,
Kiss her from me; and say, unto her sprite,
Happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear! I saw thee, with full many a smiling line, Upon thy cheerful face joy's livery wear; While those fair planets on thy streams did shine. The boat, for joy, could not to dance forbear; While wanton winds, with beauties so divine, Ravish'd, staid not till in her golden hair They did themselves (O sweetest prison') twine; And fain those Æol's youth there would their stay Have made; but forc'd by nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks display. She, so dishevell'd, blush'd: from window I, With sight thereof, cried out-O fair disgrace, Let honour's self to thee grant highest place!