The Passionate Pilgrim | Page 4

loss thereof still fearing!
Yet in the

midst of all her pure protestings,
Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and
all were jestings.
She burn'd with love, as straw with fire flameth;
She burn'd out love,
as soon as straw outburneth;
She fram'd the love, and yet she foil'd
the framing;
She bade love last, and yet she fell a turning.
Was this
a lover, or a lecher whether?
Bad in the best, though excellent in
neither.
VI.
If music and sweet poetry agree,
As they must needs, the sister and
the brother,
Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me,

Because thou lovest the one, and I the other.
Dowland to thee is dear,
whose heavenly touch
Upon the lute doth ravish human sense;

Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such
As, passing all conceit,
needs no defence.
Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious sound

That Phoebus' lute, the queen of music, makes;
And I in deep delight
am chiefly drown'd
Whenas himself to singing he betakes.
One god
is god of both, as poets feign;
One knight loves both, and both in thee
remain.
VII.
Fair was the morn when the fair queen of love,

Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove,
For Adon's sake, a youngster proud and wild;
Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill:
Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds;
She, silly queen, with more than love's good will,
Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds;
Once, quoth she, did I see a fair sweet youth
Here in these brakes deep-wounded with a boar,
Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth!

See, in my thigh, quoth she, here was the sore.
She showed hers: he saw more wounds than one,
And blushing fled, and left her all alone.
VIII.
Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely pluck'd, soon vaded,
Pluck'd in the
bud, and vaded in the spring!
Bright orient pearl, alack! too timely
shaded!
Fair creature, kill'd too soon by death's sharp sting!
Like a
green plum that hangs upon a tree,
And falls, through wind, before
the fall should be.
I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have;
For why? thou left'st me
nothing in thy will:
And yet thou left'st me more than I did crave;

For why? I craved nothing of thee still:
O yes, dear friend, I pardon
crave of thee,
Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.
IX.
Venus, with young Adonis sitting by her,
Under a myrtle shade,
began to woo him:
She told the youngling how god Mars did try her,

And as he fell to her, so fell she to him.
Even thus, quoth she, the
warlike god embrac'd me,
And then she clipp'd Adonis in her arms;

Even thus, quoth she, the warlike god unlaced me;
As if the boy
should use like loving charms;
Even thus, quoth she, he seized on my
lips,
And with her lips on his did act the seizure;
And as she fetched
breath, away he skips,
And would not take her meaning nor her
pleasure.
Ah! that I had my lady at this bay,
To kiss and clip me till
I run away!
X.
Crabbed age and youth
Cannot live together
Youth is full of
pleasance,
Age is full of care;
Youth like summer morn,
Age like
winter weather;
Youth like summer brave,
Age like winter bare;

Youth is full of sport,
Age's breath is short;
Youth is nimble, age is

lame;
Youth is hot and bold,
Age is weak and cold;
Youth is wild,
and age is tame.
Age, I do abhor thee;
Youth, I do adore thee;
O,
my love, my love is young!
Age, I do defy thee;
O, sweet shepherd,
hie thee,
For methinks thou stay'st too long.
XI.
Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good,
A shining gloss that vadeth
suddenly;
A flower that dies when first it 'gins to bud;
A brittle
glass, that's broken presently:
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a
flower,
Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.
And as goods lost are seld or never found,
As vaded gloss no rubbing
will refresh,
As flowers dead lie wither'd on the ground,
As broken
glass no cement can redress,
So beauty blemish'd once, for ever's lost,

In spite of physic, painting, pain and cost.
XII.
Good night, good rest. Ah! neither be my share:
She bade good night
that kept my rest away;
And daff'd me to a cabin hang'd with care,

To descant on the doubts of my decay.
Farewell, quoth she, and come
again tomorrow:
Fare well I could not, for I supp'd with sorrow;
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,
In scorn or friendship, nill I
construe whether:
'T may be, she joy'd to jest at my exile,
'T may be,
again to make me wander thither:
'Wander,' a word for shadows like
myself,
As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.
XIII.
Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east!
My heart doth charge
the watch; the morning rise
Doth cite each moving sense from idle
rest.
Not daring trust the office of mine eyes,
While Philomela sits
and sings, I sit and mark,
And wish her lays were tuned like the lark;

For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty,
And