Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 28

1 Give place, you ladies, and begone, Boast not yourselves at all, For here at hand approacheth one Whose face will stain you all.

2 The virtue of her lively looks Excels the precious stone; I wish to have none other books To read or look upon.

3 In each of her two crystal eyes Smileth a naked boy; It would you all in heart suffice To see that lamp of joy.

4 I think Nature hath lost the mould Where she her shape did take; Or else I doubt if Nature could So fair a creature make.

5 She may be well compared Unto the phoenix kind, Whose like was never seen nor heard, That any man can find.

6 In life she is Diana chaste, In truth Penelope; In word, and eke in deed, steadfast; What will you more we say?

7 If all the world were sought so far, Who could find such a wight?

Her beauty twinkleth like a star Within the frosty night.

8 Her rosial colour comes and goes "With such a comely grace, More ruddier, too, than doth the rose, Within her lively face."

9 At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet, Nor at no wanton play, Nor gazing in an open street, Nor gadding, as astray.

10 The modest mirth that she doth use, Is mix'd with shamefastness; All vice she doth wholly refuse, And hateth idleness.

11 O Lord, it is a world to see How virtue can repair, And deck in her such honesty, Whom Nature made so fair.

12 Truly she doth as far exceed Our women now-a-days, As doth the gilliflower a wreed, And more a thousand ways.

13 How might I do to get a graff Of this unspotted tree?

For all the rest are plain but chaff Which seem good corn to be.

14 This gift alone I shall her give, When death doth what he can: Her honest fame shall ever live Within the mouth of man.

THAT ALL THINGS SOMETIME FIND EASE OF THEIR PAIN, SAVE ONLY THE LOVER.

1 I see there is no sort Of things that live in grief, Which at sometime may not resort Where as they have relief.

2 The stricken deer by kind Of death that stands in awe, For his recure an herb can find The arrow to withdraw.

3 The chased deer hath soil To cool him in his heat; The a.s.s, after his weary toil.

In stable is up set.

4 The coney hath its cave, The little bird his nest, From heat and cold themselves to save At all times as they list.

5 The owl, with feeble sight, Lies lurking in the leaves, The sparrow in the frosty night May shroud her in the eaves.

6 But woe to me, alas!

In sun nor yet in shade, I cannot find a resting-place, My burden to unlade.

7 But day by day still bears The burden on my back, With weeping eyes and wat'ry tears, To hold my hope aback.

8 All things I see have place Wherein they bow or bend, Save this, alas! my woful case, Which nowhere findeth end.

FROM 'THE PHOENIX' NEST.'

O Night, O jealous Night, repugnant to my pleasure, O Night so long desired, yet cross to my content, There's none but only thou can guide me to my treasure, Yet none but only thou that hindereth my intent.

Sweet Night, withhold thy beams, withhold them till to-morrow, Whose joy, in lack so long, a h.e.l.l of torment breeds, Sweet Night, sweet gentle Night, do not prolong my sorrow, Desire is guide to me, and love no loadstar needs.

Let sailors gaze on stars and moon so freshly s.h.i.+ning, Let them that miss the way be guided by the light, I know my lady's bower, there needs no more divining, Affection sees in dark, and love hath eyes by night.

Dame Cynthia, couch a while; hold in thy horns for s.h.i.+ning, And glad not low'ring Night with thy too glorious rays; But be she dim and dark, tempestuous and repining, That in her spite my sport may work thy endless praise.

And when my will is done, then, Cynthia, s.h.i.+ne, good lady, All other nights and days in honour of that night, That happy, heavenly night, that night so dark and shady, Wherein my love had eyes that lighted my delight.

FROM THE SAME.

1 The gentle season of the year Hath made my blooming branch appear, And beautified the land with flowers; The air doth savour with delight, The heavens do smile to see the sight, And yet mine eyes augment their showers.

2 The meads are mantled all with green, The trembling leaves have clothed the treen, The birds with feathers new do sing; But I, poor soul, whom wrong doth rack, Attire myself in mourning black, Whose leaf doth fall amidst his spring.

3 And as you see the scarlet rose In his sweet prime his buds disclose, Whose hue is with the sun revived; So, in the April of mine age, My lively colours do a.s.suage, Because my suns.h.i.+ne is deprived.

4 My heart, that wonted was of yore, Light as the winds, abroad to soar Amongst the buds, when beauty springs, Now only hovers over you, As doth the bird that's taken new, And mourns when all her neighbours sings.

5 When every man is bent to sport, Then, pensive, I alone resort Into some solitary walk, As doth the doleful turtle-dove, Who, having lost her faithful love, Sits mourning on some wither'd stalk.

6 There to myself I do recount How far my woes my joys surmount, How love requiteth me with hate, How all my pleasures end in pain, How hate doth say my hope is vain, How fortune frowns upon my state.

7 And in this mood, charged with despair, With vapour'd sighs I dim the air, And to the G.o.ds make this request, That by the ending of my life, I may have truce with this strange strife, And bring my soul to better rest.

THE SOUL'S ERRAND.

1 Go, Soul, the body's guest, Upon a thankless errand, Fear not to touch the best, The truth shall be thy warrant; Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie.

2 Go tell the Court it glows, And s.h.i.+nes like rotten wood; Go, tell the Church it shows What's good and doth no good; If Church and Court reply, Then give them both the lie.

3 Tell potentates they live, Acting by others' actions, Not loved, unless they give, Not strong, but by their factions; If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie.

4 Tell men of high condition, That rule affairs of state, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate; And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie.

5 Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending; And if they make reply, Then give them all the lie.

6 Tell Zeal it lacks devotion, Tell Love it is but l.u.s.t, Tell Time it is but motion, Tell Flesh it is but dust; And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie.

7 Tell Age it daily wasteth, Tell Honour how it alters, Tell Beauty how she blasteth, Tell Favour how she falters; And as they shall reply, Give every one the lie.

8 Tell Wit how much it wrangles In treble points of niceness, Tell Wisdom she entangles Herself in overwiseness; And when they do reply, Straight give them both the lie.