Elizabethan Sonnet Cycles | Page 6

the beauties of her curlèd wire,?Which heaven itself with wonder might behold;?Then red with shame, her reverend locks she rent,?And weeping hid the beauty of her face,?The flower of fancy wrought such discontent;?The sighs which midst the air she breathed a space,?A three-days' stormy tempest did maintain,?Her shame a fire, her eyes a swelling rain.
X
The rumour runs that here in Isis swim?Such stately swans so confident in dying,?That when they feel themselves near Lethe's brim,?They sing their fatal dirge when death is nighing.?And I like these that feel my wounds are mortal,?Contented die for her whom I adore;?And in my joyful hymns do still exhort all?To die for such a saint or love no more.?Not that my torments or her tyranny?Enforce me to enjoin so hard a task,?But for I know, and yield no reason why,?But will them try that have desire to ask.?As love hath wreaths his pretty eyes to seel,?So lovers must keep secret what they feel.
XI
My frail and earthly bark, by reason's guide,?Which holds the helm, whilst will doth wield the sail,?By my desires, the winds of bad betide,?Hath sailed these worldly seas with small avail,?Vain objects serve for dreadful rocks to quail?My brittle boat from haven of life that flies?To haunt the sea of mundane miseries.?My soul that draws impressions from above,?And views my course, and sees the winds aspire,?Bids reason watch to scape the shoals of love;?But lawless will enflamed with endless ire?Doth steer empoop,[B] whilst reason doth retire.?The streams increase; love's waves my bark do fill;?Thus are they wracked that guide their course by will.
[Footnote B: steer empoop (_text_: steerem poop): _en poupe_.]
XII
Ah trees, why fall your leaves so fast??Ah rocks, where are your robes of moss??Ah flocks, why stand you all aghast??Trees, rocks, and flocks, what, are you pensive for my loss? The birds methinks tune naught but moan,?The winds breathe naught but bitter plaint,?The beasts forsake their dens to groan;?Birds, winds, and beasts, what doth my loss your powers attaint? Floods weep their springs above their bounds,?And echo wails to see my woe,?The robe of ruth doth clothe the grounds;?Floods, echo, grounds, why do you all these tears bestow? The trees, the rocks, and flocks reply,?The birds, the winds, the beasts report,?Floods, echo, grounds, for sorrow cry,?We grieve since Phillis nill kind Damon's love consort.
XIII
Love guides the roses of thy lips,?And flies about them like a bee;?If I approach he forward skips,?And if I kiss he stingeth me.?Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,?And sleeps within their pretty shine;?And if I look the boy will lower,?And from their orbs shoots shafts divine.?Love works thy heart within his fire,?And in my tears doth firm the same;?And if I tempt it will retire,?And of my plaints doth make a game.?Love, let me cull her choicest flowers,?And pity me, and calm her eye,?Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers,?Then will I praise thy deity.?But if thou do not love, I'll truly serve her?In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.
XIV
I wrote in Mirrha's bark, and as I wrote,?Poor Mirrha wept because I wrote forsaken;?'Twas of thy pride I sung in weeping note,?When as her leaves great moan for pity maken.?The falling fountains from the mountains falling,?Cried out, alas, so fair and be so cruel!?And babbling echo never ceasèd calling,?Phillis, disdain is fit for none but truthless.?The rising pines wherein I had engraved?Thy memory consulting with the wind,?Are trucemen to thy heart and thoughts depraved,?And say, thy kind should not be so unkind.?But, out alas! so fell is Phillis fearless,?That she hath made her Damon well nigh tearless.
XV
My Phillis hath the morning sun?At first to look upon her.?And Phillis hath morn-waking birds,?Her risings for to honour.?My Phillis hath prime-feathered flowers,?That smile when she treads on them,?And Phillis hath a gallant flock,?That leaps since she doth own them.?But Phillis hath so hard a heart--?Alas that she should have it!--?As yields no mercy to desert,?Nor grace to those that crave it.?Sweet sun, when thou look'st on,?Pray her regard my moan.?Sweet birds, when you sing to her,?To yield some pity woo her.?Sweet flowers, whenas she treads on,?Tell her, her beauty deads one.?And if in life her love she nill agree me,?Pray her before I die, she will come see me.
XVI
I part; but how? from joy, from hope, from life;?I leave; but whom? love's pride, wit's pomp, heart's bliss; I pine; for what? for grief, for thought, for strife;?I faint; and why? because I see my miss.?Oh ceaseless pains that never may be told,?You make me weep as I to water would!?Ah weary hopes, in deep oblivious streams?Go seek your graves, since you have lost your grounds!?Ah pensive heart, seek out her radiant gleams!?For why? Thy bliss is shut within those bounds!?All traitorous eyes, to[o] feeble in for[e] sight,?Grow dim with woe, that now must want your