I knowe she swore with raging minde,
Her kingdome only set apart,
There was no losse, by law of kinde,
That could have gone so near her hart:
And this was chiefly all her paine.
She could not make the like againe.
Sith Nature thus gave her the praise
To be the chiefest worke she wrought;
In faith, me thinke, some better wayes
On your behalfe might well be sought,
Than to compare (as you have done)
To matche the candle with the sunne.
DESCRIPTION AND PRAISE OF HIS LOVE,
GERALDINE.
From Tuscane came my ladies worthy race;
Faire Florence was sometime their ancient seate;
The western yle, whose plesant shore doth face
Wild Cambers cliffs, did gyve her lively heate:
Fostred she was with milke of Irish brest;
Her sire an erle; her dame of princes blood:
From tender yeres in Britain she doth rest
With kinges childe, where she tasteth costly food.
Hunsdon did first present her to mine eyn;
Bright is her hewe, and Geraldine she hight:
Hampton me taught to wishe her first for mine:
Windsor, alas I doth chase me from her sight.
Her beauty of kind, her virtues from above :
Happy is he that can obtaine her love!
Born about 1534, died 1582.
ON ISABELLA MARKHAME, WHEN I FIRSTE THOUGHT HER FAYER AS SHE STOOD AT THE PRINCESS'S WINDOWE IN GOODLYE ATTYRE, AND TALKEDE TO DYVERS IN THE COURTE-YARD.
Whence comes my love, O hearte, disclose!
'Twas from checks that shame the rose;
From lips that spoyle the rubies prayse;
From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze.
Whence comes my woe, as freely owne;
Ah, me! 'twas from a hearte like stone.
The blushyng cheek speakes modest mynde,
The lips befitting wordes most kynde;
The eye does tempte to love's desyre,
And seems to say, 'tis Cupid's fire:
Yet all so faire but speake my moane,
Syth noughte dothe saye the hearte of stone.
Why thus, my love, so kindely speake
Sweet eye, sweet lyppe, sweet blushyng cheeke,
Yet not a hearte to save my paine ?
O Venus I take thy giftes again
Make nought so faire to cause our moane,
Or make a hearte that's lyke your owne.
Born about 1534, died 1604.
THE BIRTH OF DESIRE.
When wert thou born, Desire?
"In pomp and pride of May."
By whom, sweet boy, wert thou begot?
"By good Conceit, men say."
-Tell me who was thy nurse?
"Fresh Youth in sugared joy."
What was thy meat and daily food?
"Sore sighs and great annoy."
What hadst thou, then, to drink?
"Unfeigned lovers' tears."
What cradle were you rocked in?
"In Hope devoid of fears."
What brought you, then, asleep?
"Sweet speech that men liked best." And where is now your dwelling place? "In gentle hearts I rest."
Doth company displease?
"It doth in many a one."
Where would Desire, then, chuse to be?
"He likes to be alone."
What feedcth most your sight?
"To gaze on favour still."
Who find you most to be your foe?
Disdain of my good will.”
Will ever age or death
Bring you unto decay?
"No, no; Desire both lives and dies Ten thousand times a day.”
Born about 1540, died about 1578.
A STRANGE PASSION OF A LOVER.
Amid my bale I bathe in blisse;
I swimme in heaven, I sinke in hell;
I finde amendes for every misse,
And yet my mone no tongue can tell :
I live and love, what would you more?
As never lover lived before.
I laugh sometime with little lust,
So jest I oft and feele no joy:
Mine ease is builded all on trust,
And yet mistruste breedes mine annoy
I live and lacke, I lacke and have;
I have and misse the thing I crave.
These things seeme strange, yet are they trew;
Believe me, aweet, my state is such:
One pleasure which I would eschew
Both slakes my greefe and breedes my grutch:
So doth one paine, whiche I would shun.
Renew my joyes where greefe begun.
Then, like the larke that past the night
In heavy sleepe, with cares opprest;
Yet, when she spies the pleasant light,
She sends sweete notes from out her brest:
So sing I now, because I thinke
How joyes approach when sorrows shrinke.
And as faire Philomene againe
Can watch and sing when others sleepe,
And taketh pleasure in her paine,
To wray the woe that makes her weepe :
So sing I now for to bewray
The lothesome life I leade alway.
The which to thee (deare wench) I write,
That know'st my mirth, but not my mone:
I pray God grante thee deepe delight,
To live in joys when I am gone.
I cannot live, it will not bee;
I die to thinke to parte with thee,
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