This realm of bliss-while virtuous course I take,-
No kings be crowned but they some covenants make.
Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be,
And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,
Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet
More oft than to a chamber-melody,
Now, blessed you, bear onward blessed me
To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet.
My Muse and I must you of duty greet
With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully:
Be you still fair, honoured by public heed,
By no encroachment wronged, nor time forgot,
Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;
And that you know I envy you no lot
Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss-
Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss!
When I was forced from Stella ever dear,
Stella, food of my thoughts, heart of my heart,
Stella, whose eyes make all my tempests clear,
By Stella's laws of duty to depart,
Alas, I found that she with me did smart,
I saw that tears did in her eyes appear,
I saw that sighs her sweetest lips did part,
And her sad words my saddest sense did hear.
For me,
I wept to see pearls scattered so;
I sighed her sighs, and wailèd for her woe;
Yet swam in joy, such love in her was seen.
Thus while th' effect most bitter was to me,
And nothing than the cause more sweet could be,
I had been vext if vext I had not been.
When Sorrow, using mine own fire's might,
Melts down his lead into my boiling breast,
Through that dark furnace to my heart opprest,
There shines a joy from thee, my only light!
But soon as thought of thee breeds my delight,
And my young soul flutters to thee, his nest,
Most rude Despair, my daily unbidden guest,
Clips straight my wings, straight wraps me in his night,
And makes me then bow down my head and say,
"Ah, what doth Phoebus' gold that wretch avail
Whom iron doors do keep from use of day?"
So strangely, alas, thy works in me prevail
That in my woes for thee thou art my joy,
And in my joys for thee my only annoy.
THOU BLIND MAN'S MARK, THOU FOOL'S SELF-CHOSEN
Thou blind man's mark, thou fool's self-chosen snare,
Fond fancy's scum, and dregs of scattered thought,
Band of all evils, cradle of causeless care,
Thou web of will whose end is never wrought;
Desire! Desire! I have too dearly bought,
With price of mangled mind, thy worthless ware;
Too long, too long, asleep thou hast me brought,
Who should my mind to higher things prepare.
But yet in vain thou hast my ruin sought,
In vain thou mad'st me to vain things aspire,
In vain thou kindlest all thy smoky fire,
For Virtue hath this better lesson taught—
Within myself to seek my only hire,
Desiring naught but how to kill Desire.
LEAVE ME, O LOVE WHICH REACHEST BUT TO DUST
Leave me, O love which reachest but to dust,
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust:
Whatever fades but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be,
Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light
That doth both shine and give us sight to see.
O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth draws out to death,
And think how ill becometh him to slide
Who seeketh heav'n and comes of heav'nly breath.
Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see:
Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me!
SIR FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE
CHORUS SACERDOTUM
O wearisome condition of humanity!
Born under one law, to another bound;
Vainly begot, and yet forbidden vanity;
Created sick, commanded to be sound:
What meaneth Nature by these diverse laws?
Passion and reason self-division cause.
Is it the mark or majesty of power
To make offences, that it may forgive?
Nature herself doth her own self deflower,
To hate those errors she herself doth give.
For how should man think that he may not do,
If Nature did not fail and punish too?
Tyrant to others, to herself unjust,
Only commands things difficult and hard;
Forbids us all things which it knows we lust;
Makes easy pains, impossible reward.
If Nature did not take delight in blood,
She would have made more easy ways to good.
We that are bound by vows and by promotion,
With pomp of holy sacrifice and rites,
To preach belief in God and stir devotion,
To preach of heaven's wonders and delights,
Yet when each of us in his own heart looks
He finds the God there far unlike his books.
I, with whose colors Myra dressed her head,
I, that ware posies of her own hand-making,
I, that mine own name in the chimneys read
By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking,
Must I look on, in hope time coming may
With change bring back my turn again to play?
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,
That each of us might know that all was ours,
Must I lead now an idle life in wishes,
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,
Must I look on a-cold while others warm them?
Do Vulcan's brothers in such fine nets arm them?
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.
LOVE BEYOND CHANGE
Fie, foolish Earth! think you the heaven wants glory
Because your shadows do yourself benight?
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
Because your shadows do yourself benight?
The hopes and fears of lust may make men sorry,
But Love still in herself finds her delight.
Then, Earth, stand fast! The sky that you benight
Will turn again, and so restore your glory.
Desire, be steady! Hope is your delight,
An orb wherein no creature can be sorry,
Love being placed above these middle regions,
Where every passion wars itself with legions.
POMP A FUTILE MASK FOR TYRANNY
I saw those glorious styles of government-
God, laws, religion-wherein tyrants hide
The wrongs they do, and all the woes we bide,
Wounded, profaned, destroyed. Power is unwise
That thinks in pomp to mask her tyrannies.
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,
In service of the Commonwealth, their mother.
Before 1628.
A shepeheards boye (no better doe him call),
When winters wastful spight was almost spent,
All in a sunneshine day, as did befall,
Led forth his flock, .hat had bene long ypent:
So faynt they woxe, and feeble in the folde,
That now unnethes their feete could them uphold.
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