Elizabethan Sonnet Cycles | Page 6

whom my glories are but
new begun.
But when I touch and taste as others do,
I then shall
write and you shall wonder too.
IX
The dewy roseate Morn had with her hairs
In sundry sorts the Indian
clime adorned;
And now her eyes apparrelèd in tears,
The loss of
lovely Memnon long had mourned,
When as she spied the nymph
whom I admire,
Combing her locks, of which the yellow gold
Made
blush 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