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SONNETS. FRESH Spring, the herald of love's mighty king,
In whose coat-armour richly are displaid All sorts of flowres the which on earth do spring, In goodly colours gloriously array'd, Go to my love, where she is careless laid, Yet in her winter's bowre not well awake, Tell her the joyous Time will not be staid, Unless she do him by the fore-lock take: Bid her, therefore, her self soon ready make To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew, Where every one that misseth then her make Shall be by him amearst with penance dew. Make haste, therefore, sweet Love! whilst it is prime, For none can call again the passed time.
IKE as a huntsman after weary chace,
Seeing the game from him escape away,
Sits down to rest him in some shady place,
With painting hounds beguiled of their prey;
So after long pursute and vain assay,
When I all weary had the chace forsook,
The gentle deer return'd the self-same way,
Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook ;
There she beholding me with milder look,
Sought not to Ay, but fearless still did bide,
Till I in hand her yet half trembling took,
And with her own good-will her firmly tide:
Strange thing me seem'd to see a beast so wild
so goodly wone, with her own will beguild.
SEND home my loog-stray'd eyes to me,
Which, oh! too long have dwelt on thee ; But if they there have learn'd such ill,
Such forc'd fashions,
And false passions,
That they be
Made by thee
Fit for no good sight, keep them still.
Send home my harmless heart again,
Which no unworthy thought could stain;
But if it be taught, by thine,
To make jestings
And break both
Word and oath,
Keep it still—'tis none of mine.
Yet send me back my heart and eyes,
That I may know and see thy lies;
And may laugh and joy when thou
Art in anguish,
And dost languish
For some one
That will none,
Or prove as false as thou dost now.
SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair ?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May;
If she be not so for me,
What care I how fair she be?
Shall my foolish heart be pin'd,
'Cause I see a woman kind;
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
The turtle-dove or pelican ;
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known,
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may merit name of best;
If she be not kind to me,
What care I how good she be?
Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do,
Who without them dare to woo ;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?
Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die e'er she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
If she be not fit for me,
What care I for whom she be?
MARYLLIS I did woo,
And I courted Phillis too;
Daphne for her love I chose ;
Chloris, for that damask rose
In her cheek, I held as dear,
Yea, a thousand liked, well-near;
And, in love with all together,
Feared the enjoying either;
'Cause to be of one possess'd,
Barr'd the hope of all the rest.
LORDLY gallants, tell me this :
Though my safe content you weigh not,
Io your greatness what one bliss
Have you gain'd, that I enjoy, not?
You have honours, you have wealth,
I have peace, and I have health;
All the day I merry make,
And at night no care I take.
Bound to none my fortunes be ;
This or that man's fall I fear not;
Him I love that loveth me;
For the rest a pin I care not.
You are sad when others chafe,
And grow merry as they laugh;
I, that hate it, and am free,
Laugh and weep as pleaseth me.
WANTONS! 'tis not your sweet eyings,
Forced passions, feigned dyings,
Gestures, temptings, tears, beguilings,
Dancings, singings, kissings, smilings,
Nor those painted sweets, with which
You unwary men bewitch,
(All united, nor asunder)
That can compass such a wonder,
Or to win you love prevail,
Where her moving virtues fail.
Beauties ! 'tis not all those features
Placed in the fairest creatures,
Though their best they should discover,
That can tempt, from her, a lover.
"Tis not those soft snowy breasts,
Where love, rock'd by pleasure, rests,
Nor the nectar that we sip
From a honey-dropping lip;
Nor those eyes whence beauty's lances
Wound the heart with wanton glances ;
Nor those sought delights, that lie
In love's hidden treasury,
That can liking gain, where she
Will the best-beloved be.
For, should those who think they may Draw my love from her away, Bring forth all their female graces, Wrap me in their close embraces; Practise all the arts they may, Weep, or sing, or kiss, or pray; One poor thought of her would arm me So as Circe could not harm me. Since, besides those excellencies, Wherewith others charm the senses, She whom I have praised so, Yields delight for reason too. Who could doat on thing so common, As mere outward-handsome woman?