Cupid, dumbe-Idoll, peeuish Saint of loue, No more shalt thou nor Saint nor Idoll be; No God art thou, a Goddesse shee doth proue, Of all thine honour shee hath robbed thee....
My Loue makes hote the fire whose heat is spent, The water moisture from my teares deriueth, And my strong sighes the ayres weake force reuiueth: Thus loue, tears, sighes, maintaine each one his element....
Some wits there be which lyke my method well, And say my verse runnes in a lofty vayne; Some say, I haue a passing pleasing straine, Some say that in my humour I excell....
O eyes! behold your happy Hesperus, That luckie Load-starre of eternall light, Left as that sunne alone to comfort vs, When our worlds sunne is vanisht out of sight....
My thoughts bred vp with Eagle-birds of loue, And, for their vertues I desiered to know, Vpon the nest I set them forth, to proue If they were of the Eagles kinde or no:...
Three sorts of serpents doe resemble thee; That daungerous eye-killing Cockatrice, Th' inchaunting Syren, which doth so entice, The weeping Crocodile; these vile pernicious three....
Sitting alone, loue bids me goe and write; Reason plucks backe, commaunding me to stay, Boasting that shee doth still direct the way, Els senceles loue could neuer once indite....
Those teares, which quench my hope, still kindle my desire, Those sighes, which coole my hart, are coles vnto my loue, Disdayne, Ice to my life, is to my soule a fire:...
Whilst thus mine eyes doe surfet with delight, My wofull hart, imprisond in my breast, Wishing to be trans-formd into my sight, To looke on her by whom mine eyes are blest;...
My fayre, looke from those turrets of thine eyes, Into the Ocean of a troubled minde, Where my poor soule, the Barke of sorrow, lyes, Left to the mercy of the waues and winde....
See, chaste Diana, where my harmles hart, Rouz'd from my breast, his sure and safest layre, Nor chaste by hound, nor forc'd by Hunters arte, Yet see how right he comes vnto my fayre....
I euer loue where neuer hope appeares, Yet hope drawes on my neuer-hoping care, And my liues hope would die but for dyspaire; My neuer certaine ioy breeds euer-certaine feares....
If chaste and pure deuotion of my youth, Or glorie of my Aprill-springing yeeres, Vnfained loue in naked simple truth, A thousand vowes, a thousand sighes and teares; Or if a world of faithful seruice done,...
Die, die, my soule, and neuer taste of ioy, If sighes, nor teares, nor vowes, nor prayers can moue; If fayth and zeale be but esteemd a toy, And kindnes be vnkindnes in my loue....
My faire, had I not erst adorned my Lute With those sweet strings stolne from thy golden hayre, Vnto the world had all my ioyes been mute, Nor had I learn'd to descant on my faire....
O thou vnkindest fayre! most fayrest shee, In thine eyes tryumph murthering my poore hart, Now doe I sweare by heauens, before we part, My halfe-slaine hart shall take reuenge on thee....
Rare of-spring of my thoughts, my dearest Loue, Begot by fancy on sweet hope exhortiue, In whom all purenes with perfection stroue, Hurt in the Embryon makes my ioyes abhortiue....
Plac'd in the forlorne hope of all dispayre Against the Forte where Beauties Army lies, Assayld with death, yet armed with gastly feare, Loe! thus my loue, my lyfe, my fortune tryes....
Why doe I speake of ioy, or write of loue, When my hart is the very Den of horror, And in my soule the paynes of hell I proue, With all his torments and infernall terror?...