III.

For me, alas! I am full resolved Those bands, alas! shall not be dissolved; Nor break my word, though reward come late; Nor fail my faith in my failing fate; Nor change in change, though change change my state:

But always own myself, with eagle-eyed Truth, to fly Up to the sun, although the sun my wings do fry; For if those flames burn my desire, Yet shall I die in Phoenix’ fire.

ODE.

WHEN, to my deadly pleasure, When to my lively torment, Lady, mine eyes remainéd Joinéd, alas! to your beams.

With violence of heavenly Beauty, tied to virtue; Reason abashed retiréd; Gladly my senses yielded.

Gladly my senses yielding, Thus to betray my heart’s fort, Left me devoid of all life.

They to the beamy suns went, Where, by the death of all deaths, Find to what harm they hastened.

Like to the silly Sylvan, Burned by the light he best liked, When with a fire he first met.

Yet, yet, a life to their death, Lady you have reservéd; Lady the life of all love.

For though my sense be from me, And I be dead, who want sense, Yet do we both live in you.

Turnéd anew, by your means, Unto the flower that aye turns, As you, alas! my sun bends.

Thus do I fall to rise thus; Thus do I die to live thus; Changed to a change, I change not.

Thus may I not be from you; Thus be my senses on you; Thus what I think is of you; Thus what I seek is in you; All what I am, it is you.

VERSES.

_To the tune of a Neapolitan song_, _which beginneth_, “_No_, _no_, _no_, _no_.”

NO, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe, Although with cruel fire, First thrown on my desire, She sacks my rendered sprite; For so fair a flame embraces All the places, Where that heat of all heats springeth, That it bringeth To my dying heart some pleasure, Since his treasure Burneth bright in fairest light. No, no, no, no.

No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe, Although with cruel fire, First thrown on my desire, She sacks my rendered sprite; Since our lives be not immortal, But to mortal Fetters tied, do wait the hour Of death’s power, They have no cause to be sorry Who with glory End the way, where all men stay. No, no, no, no.

No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe, Although with cruel fire, First thrown on my desire, She sacks my rendered sprite; No man doubts, whom beauty killeth, Fair death feeleth, And in whom fair death proceedeth, Glory breedeth: So that I, in her beams dying, Glory trying, Though in pain, cannot complain. No, no, no, no.

SONG.

_To the tune of a Neapolitan Villanel_.

ALL my sense thy sweetness gained; Thy fair hair my heart enchained; My poor reason thy words moved, So that thee, like heaven, I loved.

Fa, la, la, leridan, dan, dan, dan, deridan: Dan, dan, dan, deridan, deridan, dei: While to my mind the outside stood, For messenger of inward good.

Nor thy sweetness sour is deemed; Thy hair not worth a hair esteemed; Reason hath thy words removed, Finding that but words they proved.

Fa, la, la, leridan, dan, dan, dan, deridan, Dan, dan, dan, deridan, deridan, dei: For no fair sign can credit win, If that the substance fail within.

No more in thy sweetness glory, For thy knitting hair be sorry; Use thy words but to bewail thee That no more thy beams avail thee; Dan, dan, Dan, dan, Lay not thy colours more to view, Without the picture be found true.

Woe to me, alas, she weepeth! Fool! in me what folly creepeth? Was I to blaspheme enraged, Where my soul I have engaged? Dan, dan, Dan, dan, And wretched I must yield to this; The fault I blame her chasteness is.

Sweetness! sweetly pardon folly; Tie me, hair, your captive wholly: Words! O words of heavenly knowledge! Know, my words their faults acknowledge; Dan, dan, Dan, dan, And all my life I will confess, The less I love, I live the less.

TRANSLATION.

_From_ “_La Diana de Monte-Mayor_,” _in Spanish_: _where Sireno_, _a shepherd_, _whose mistress Diana had utterly forsaken him_, _pulling out a little of her hair_, _wrapped about with green silk_, _to the hair he thus bewailed himself_.

WHAT changes here, O hair, I see, since I saw you! How ill fits you this green to wear, For hope, the colour due! Indeed, I well did hope, Though hope were mixed with fear, No other shepherd should have scope Once to approach this hair.

Ah hair! how many days My Dian made me show, With thousand pretty childish plays, If I ware you or no: Alas, how oft with tears,— O tears of guileful breast!— She seeméd full of jealous fears, Whereat I did but jest.

Tell me, O hair of gold, If I then faulty be, That trust those killing eyes I would, Since they did warrant me? Have you not seen her mood, What streams of tears she spent, ’Till that I sware my faith so stood, As her words had it bent?

Who hath such beauty seen In one that changeth so? Or where one’s love so constant been, Who ever saw such woe? Ah, hair! are you not grieved To come from whence you be, Seeing how once you saw I lived, To see me as you see?

On sandy bank of late, I saw this woman sit; Where, “Sooner die than change my state,” She with her finger writ: Thus my belief was staid, Behold Love’s mighty hand On things were by a woman said, And written in the sand.

_The same Sireno in_ “_Monte-Mayor_,” _holding his mistress’s glass before her_, _and looking upon her while she viewed herself_, _thus sang_:—

Of this high grace, with bliss conjoined, No farther debt on me is laid, Since that in self-same metal coined, Sweet lady, you remain well paid;

For if my place give me great pleasure, Having before my nature’s treasure, In face and eyes unmatchéd being, You have the same in my hands, seeing What in your face mine eyes do measure.

Nor think the match unevenly made, That of those beams in you do tarry, The glass to you but gives a shade, To me mine eyes the true shape carry; For such a thought most highly prized, Which ever hath Love’s yoke despised, Better than one captived perceiveth, Though he the lively form receiveth, The other sees it but disguised.

SONNETS.

THE dart, the beams, the sting, so strong I prove, Which my chief part doth pass through, parch, and tie, That of the stroke, the heat, and knot of love, Wounded, inflamed, knit to the death, I die.

Hardened and cold, far from affection’s snare Was once my mind, my temper, and my life; While I that sight, desire, and vow forbare, Which to avoid, quench, lose, nought boasted strife.

Yet will not I grief, ashes, thraldom change For others’ ease, their fruit, or free estate; So brave a shot, dear fire, and beauty strange, Bid me pierce, burn, and bind, long time and late, And in my wounds, my flames, and bonds, I find A salve, fresh air, and bright contented mind.

* * * * *

VIRTUE, beauty, and speech, did strike, wound, charm, My heart, eyes, ears, with wonder, love, delight, First, second, last, did bind, enforce, and arm, His works, shows, suits, with wit, grace, and vows’ might,

Thus honour, liking, trust, much, far, and deep, Held, pierced, possessed, my judgment, sense, and will, Till wrongs, contempt, deceit, did grow, steal, creep, Bands, favour, faith, to break, defile, and kill,

Then grief, unkindness, proof, took, kindled, taught, Well-grounded, noble, due, spite, rage, disdain: But ah, alas! in vain my mind, sight, thought, Doth him, his face, his words, leave, shun, refrain. For nothing, time, nor place, can loose, quench, ease Mine own embracéd, sought, knot, fire, disease.

WOOING-STUFF.

FAINT amorist, what, dost thou think To taste Love’s honey, and not drink One dram of gall? or to devour A world of sweet, and taste no sour? Dost thou ever think to enter Th’ Elysian fields, that dar’st not venture In Charon’s barge? a lover’s mind Must use to sail with every wind. He that loves and fears to try, Learns his mistress to deny. Doth she chide thee? ’tis to show it, That thy coldness makes her do it: Is she silent? is she mute? Silence fully grants thy suit: Doth she pout, and leave the room? Then she goes to bid thee come: Is she sick? why then be sure, She invites thee to the cure: Doth she cross thy suit with “No?” Tush, she loves to hear thee woo: Doth she call the faith of man In question? Nay, she loves thee than; And if e’er she makes a blot, She’s lost if that thou hit’st her not. He that after ten denials, Dares attempt no farther trials, Hath no warrant to acquire The dainties of his chaste desire.

SONNETS

SINCE shunning pain, I ease can never find; Since bashful dread seeks where he knows me harmed; Since will is won, and stoppéd ears are charmed; Since force doth faint, and sight doth make me blind; Since loosing long, the faster still I bind; Since naked sense can conquer reason armed; Since heart, in chilling fear, with ice is warmed; In fine, since strife of thought but mars the mind, I yield, O Love, unto thy loathed yoke, Yet craving law of arms, whose rule doth teach, That, hardly used, who ever prison broke, In justice quit, of honour made no breach: Whereas, if I a grateful guardian have, Thou art my lord, and I thy vowéd slave.

When Love puffed up with rage of high disdain, Resolved to make me pattern of his might, Like foe, whose wits inclined to deadly spite, Would often kill, to breed more feeling pain; He would not, armed with beauty, only reign On those affects which easily yield to sight; But virtue sets so high, that reason’s light, For all his strife can only bondage gain: So that I live to pay a mortal fee, Dead palsy-sick of all my chiefest parts, Like those whom dreams make ugly monsters see, And can cry help with naught but groans and starts: Longing to have, having no wit to wish, To starving minds such is god Cupid’s dish.

SONG.

_To the tune of_ “_Non credo gia che piu infelice amante_.”

THE nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making; And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth, For Tereus’ force on her chaste will prevailing. O Philomela fair! O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.