Then down my prayers made way
To those most comely parts
That make her fly, or stay,
As they affect deserts!
But her angry Feet, thus moved,
Fled with all the parts I loved!
Yet fled they not so fast
As her enragèd Mind,
Still did I after haste!
Still was I left behind!
Till I found, 'twas to no end
With a Spirit to contend!
BLAME not my cheeks, though pale with love they be!
The kindly heat unto my heart is flown,
To cherish it, that is dismayed by thee;
Who art so cruel and unsteadfast grown!
For Nature, called for by distressèd hearts,
Neglects, and quite forsakes, the outward parts!
But they, whose cheeks with careless blood are stained,
Nurse not one spark of love within their hearts!
And when they woo, they speak with Passion feigned;
For their fat love lies in their outward parts! [hold,
But in their breasts, where Love his Court should
Poor CUPID sits, and blows his nails for cold!
SILLY boy, 'tis full moon yet! Thy night, as day shines clearly! Had thy youth but wit to fear; thou couldst not love so dearly! Shortly, wilt thou mourn! when all thy pleasures are bereaved: Little knows he how to love, that never was deceived!
This is thy first maiden flame, that triumphs yet unstained. All is artless now you speak! Not one word yet, is feigned! All is heaven that you behold; and all your thoughts are blessed!
But no Spring can want his Fall! Each TROILUS hath his CRESSEID!
Thy well-ordered locks, ere long shall rudely hang neglected; And thy lively pleasant cheer read grief, on earth dejected! Much then wilt thou blame thy Saint! that made thy heart so holy :
And, with sighs, confess,' In love, that too much faith is folly!'
Yet be just, and constant still! Love may beget a wonder!
Not unlike a Summer's frost, or Winter's fatal thunder.
He that holds his Sweetheart true, unto his day of dying,
Lives, of all that ever breathed, most worthy the envying!
Now, let her change, and spare not!
Since She proves strange, I care not!
Feigned love charmed so my delight,
That still I doted on her sight:
But She is gone! new joys embracing;
And my desires disgracing.
When did I err in blindness;
Or vex her with unkindness!
`If my cares served her alone;
Why is She thus untimely gone?
True Love abides to th' hour of dying!
False Love is ever flying!
False! then, farewell for ever!
Once false, proves faithful never!
He that boasts now of thy love,
Shall soon my present fortunes prove!
Were he as fair as bright ADONIS;
Faith is not had, where none is!
AWAKE, thou spring of speaking grace!
Mute rest becomes not thee!
The fairest women while they sleep,
And pictures, equal be.
O, come and dwell in Love's discourses;
Old renewing, new creating!
The words which thy rich tongue discourses
Are not of common rating!
Thy voice is as an echo clear;
Which music doth beget!
Thy speech is as an oracle;
Which none can counterfeit !
For thou alone, without offending,
Hast obtained power of enchanting! And I could hear thee, without ending! Other comfort never wanting.
Some little reason, brutish lives
With human glory share:
But language is our proper grace;
From which they severed are.
As brutes in reason Man surpasses;
Men in speech excel each other!
If speech be then the best of graces;
Do it not in slumber smother!
COME, you pretty false-eyed wanton !
Leave your crafty smiling!
Think you, to escape me now,
With slipp'ry words beguiling!
No, you mocked me th' other day;
When you got loose, you fled away!
But since I have caught you now;
I'll clip your wings, for flying!
Smoth'ring kisses fast I'll heap!
And keep you so from crying.
Sooner may you count the stars,
And number hail down pouring;
Tell the osiers of the Thames,
Or Goodwin Sands devouring:
Than the thick-showered kisses here,
Which now thy tired lips must bear !
Such a harvest never was,
So rich and full of pleasure!
But 'tis spent as soon as reaped;
So trustless is Love's treasure!
THE man upright of life, whose guiltless heart is free
From all dishonest deeds, or thought of vanity;
That man, whose silent days in harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude, nor sorrow discontent :
That man needs neither towers, nor armour, for defence;
Nor secret vaults, to fly from thunder's violence.
He, only, can behold, with unaffrighted eyes,
The horrors of the deep, and terrors of the skies.
Thus scorning all the cares that Fate, or Fortune, brings,
He makes the heavens his Book; his Wisdom, heavenly things;
Good thoughts, his only Friends; his Wealth, a well-spent age;
The earth, his sober Inn, and quiet Pilgrimage.
WHAT if a day, or a month, or a year,
Crown thy delights, with a thousand sweet contentings!
Cannot a chance of a night, or an hour,
Cross thy desires, with as many sad tormentings?
Fortune, Honour, Beauty, Youth, are but blossoms dying!
Wanton Pleasure, doting Love, are but shadows flying!
All our joys are but toys; idle thoughts deceiving!
None have power, of an hour, in their life's bereaving!
Earth's but a point to the world; and a man
Is but a point to the world's compared centre !
Shall then, a point of a point be so vain
As to triumph in a silly point's adventure!
All is hazard that we have! There is nothing biding! Days of pleasure are like streams, through fair meadows
Weal and woe, Time doth go! Time is never turning!
Secret fates guide our states; both in mirth and mourning!
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