As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
The forward violet thus did I chide :
Sweet Thief! whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
If not from my Love's breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells
In my Love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.
The lily I condemned for thy hand;
And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair;
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both
And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath,
But for his theft, in pride of all his growth,
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted: yet I none could see
But sweet or colour it had stolen from thee.
My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming :
I love not less, though less the show appear:
That love is merchandized, whose rich esteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere.
Our love was new, and then but in the Spring,
When I was wont to greet it with my lays :
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing,
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days.
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue :
Because I would not dull you with my song.
When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have express'd
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they look'd but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing :
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
How oft when thou, my Music! music play'st
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss!
My Mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my Mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a Goddess go,
My Mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my Love as rare
As any She belied with false compare.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediment! Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken :
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
ROBERT DEVEREUX.
(EARL OF ESSEX.) 1568-1601.
THE FALSE FORGOTTEN.
Change thy mind since she doth change!
Let not fancy still abuse thee!
Thy untruth can not seem strange
When her falsehood doth excuse thee.
Love is dead, and thou art free :
She doth live, but dead to thee.
When she loved thee best a while,
See how still she did delay thee:
Using shows for to beguile,
Those vain hopes which have betray'd thee! Now thou see'st, but all too late,
Love loves truth, which women hate.
Love! farewell! more dear to me
Than my life which thou preservedst.
Life! thy joy is gone from thee;
Others have what thou deservedst :
They enjoy what's not their own.
Happier life to live alone!
Yet, thus much to ease my mind,—
Let her know what she hath gotten :
She whom time hath proved unkind,
Having changed, is quite forgotten :
For time now hath done her worst.
Would she had done so at first!
Love no more, since she is gone!
She is gone, and loves another :
Being once deceived by one,
Leave to love, and love no other!
She was false, bid her adieu!
She was best, but yet untrue.
PARTHENOPHE.
Why doth heaven bear a sun
To give the world an heat? Why there have stars a seat? On earth (when all is done) Parthenophe's bright sun
Doth give a greater heat.
And in her heaven there be
Such fair bright blazing stars,
Which still make open wars
With those in heaven's degree :
These stars far brighter be
Than brightest of heaven's stars.
Why doth earth bring forth roses,
Violets, or lilies,
Or bright daffadillies ?
In her clear cheeks she closes
Sweet damask roses,
In her neck white lilies,
Violets in her veins.
Why do men sacrifice
Incense to deities?
Her breath more favour gains,
And pleaseth heavenly veins
More than rich sacrifice.
Phoebus, rich father of eternal light
And in his hand a wreath of heliochrise
He brought, to beautify those tresses
Whose train, whose softness, and whose gloss more bright, Apollo's locks did overprize :
Thus with this garland while her brows he blesses,
The golden shadow with his tincture
Cover'd her locks, I gilded with the cincture.
Then, as she was 'bove human glory graced,
The Saint (methought) departed,
And suddenly upon her feet she started.
Juno beheld, and fain would have defaced
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