And think how ill becometh him to slide Who seeketh heav'n and comes of heav'nly breath. Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me! Before 1586. 1598. SIR FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE CHORUS SACERDOTUM O wearisome condition of humanity! Created sick, commanded to be sound: What meaneth Nature by these diverse laws? For how should man think that he may not do, MYRA 1609. I, with whose colors Myra dressed her head, By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking, 5 ΙΟ 15 20 Must I look on, in hope time coming may I, that on Sunday at the church-stile found A garland sweet with true-love knots in flowers, Which I to wear about mine arm was bound, 5 That each of us might know that all was ours, Must I lead now an idle life in wishes, ΙΟ And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes? I, that did wear the ring her mother left, I, for whose love she gloried to be blamed, I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft, I, who did make her blush when I was named, Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked, Watching with sighs till dead love be awaked? I, that when drowsy Argus fell asleep, Like Jealousy o'erwatchèd with Desire, Was ever warnèd modesty to keep While her breath, speaking, kindled Nature's fire, Was it for this that I might Myra see Washing the water with her beauties white? Yet would she never write her love to me: Thinks wit of change when thoughts are in delight? Mad girls may safely love, as they may leave: No man can print a kiss; lines may deceive. 15 20 25 30 1633. LOVE BEYOND CHANGE Fie, foolish Earth! think you the heaven wants glory All's dark unto the blind; let them be sorry: The heavens in themselves are ever bright. Fie, fond Desire! think you that Love wants glory The hopes and fears of lust may make men sorry, 5 Then, Earth, stand fast! The sky that you benight An orb wherein no creature can be sorry, 1633. POMP A FUTILE MASK FOR TYRANNY I saw those glorious styles of government— ΙΟ 5 1633. TRUE MONARCHY For that indeed is no true monarchy Which makes kings more than men, men less than beasts, But that which works a perfect unity, Where kings as heads, and men as members, rest, With mutual ends like twins, each helping other, 5 A shepeheards boye (no better doe him call), Led forth his flock, that had bene long ypent: 5 All as the sheepe, such was the shepeheards looke, Tho to a hill his faynting flocke he ledde, And thus him playnd, the while his shepe there fedde. "Ye gods of love, that pitie lovers payne (If any gods the paine of lovers pitie), ΙΟ Looke from above, where you in joyes remaine, 15 And bow your eares unto my dolefull dittie; And Pan, thou shepheard's god, that once didst love, "Thou barrein ground, whome winters wrath hath wasted, 20 Thy mantle mard wherein thou maskedst late. “Such rage as winters reigneth in my heart, 25 My life-bloud friesing with unkindly cold; Such stormy stoures do breede my balefull smart As if my yeare were waste and woxen old: And yet, alas, but now my spring begonne, 30 "You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost, Wherein the byrds were wont to build their bowre, 35 "All so my lustfull leafe is drye and sere, My timely buds with wayling all are wasted; The blossome which my braunch of youth did beare 40 And from mine eyes the drizling teares descend, "Thou feeble flocke, whose fleece is rough and rent, 45 Thou weake, I wanne; thou leane, I quite forlorne; "A thousand sithes I curse that carefull hower 50 Yet all for naught; such sight hath bred my bane. "It is not Hobbinol wherefore I plaine, His clownish gifts and curtsies I disdaine, His kiddes, his cracknelles, and his early fruit. Ah, foolish Hobbinol! thy gyfts bene vayne; 60 "I love thilke lasse (alas! why doe I love?), And am forlorne (alas! why am I lorne?): Shee deignes not my good will, but doth reprove, 65 And laughes the songes that Colin Clout doth make. "Wherefore, my pype, albee rude Pan thou please, 70 By that, the welkèd Phoebus gan availe His weary waine; and nowe the frosty Night Her mantle black through heaven gan overhaile: 75 Which seene, the pensife boy, halfe in despight, Arose, and homeward drove his sonnèd sheepe, Whose hanging heads did seeme his carefull case to weepe. |