Sir P.S.: His Astrophel and Stella / Wherein the excellence of sweete poesie is concluded
Date: 2018-01-14T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: English poetry -- Early modern; 1500-1700; Sonnets; English

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Title: Sir P.S.: His Astrophel and Stella

Author: Philip Sidney

Release date: January 14, 2018 [eBook #56375]
Most recently updated: March 12, 2023

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/56375

Credits: Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIR P.S.: HIS ASTROPHEL AND STELLA ***

Transcriber’s Note: Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original printing. Some minor errors in punctuation and capitalisation have been corrected, and some changes to the text are listed at the end.

SIR P. S. HIS
ASTROPHEL AND
STELLA.

Wherein the excellence of sweete
Poesie is concluded.

At London,
Printed for Thomas Newman.
Anno Domini. 1591.

SIR P. S. HIS
ASTROPHEL AND
STELLA.

Loving in trueth, and fayne my love in verse to show,

That the deere Shee, might take some pleasure of my paine:

Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,

Knowledge might pittie winne, and pittie grace obtaine.

I sought fit wordes to paint the blackest face of woe,

Studying inventions fine, her wittes to entertaine,

Oft turning others leaves, to see if thence would flowe,

Some fresh and fruitfull showre, upon my Sunne-burnt braine.

But wordes came halting out, wanting inventions stay,

Invention Natures childe, fledde Stepdame studies blowes:

And others feete, still seem’de but strangers in my way,

Thus great with Childe to speake, and helplesse in my throwes,

Byting my trewand penne, beating my selfe for spite:

Foole saide my Muse to mee, looke in thy heart and write.

Not at first sight, nor with a dribbing shot,

Love gave the wound, which while I breath will bleede:

But knowne, worth did in mine of time proceede,

Till by degrees it had full conquest got.

I sawe and lik’d, I lik’d but loved not,

I lov’d, but did not straight what Love decreede:

At length to Loves decrees, I forst agreede:

Yet with repining at so partiall lot.

Now even that foot-steppe of lost libertie

Is gone, and now like slave borne Muscovite:

I call it praise to suffer tyrannie,

And now imploy the remnant of my wit

To make my selfe believe that all is well,

While with a feeling skill I paint my hell.

Let Daintie wittes cry on the Sisters nine,

That bravely maskt, their fancies may be tolde:

Or Pinders Apes flaunt they in phrases fine,

Enamling with pyde flowers their thoughts of gold:

Or els let them in statelyee glorie shine,

Ennobling new found tropes with problemes old:

Or with strange similes, inricht each line,

Of hearbes or beasts, which Inde or Affricke hold.

For me in sooth, no Muse but one I know,

Phrases and Problemes from my reach do growe.

And straunge things cost too deere for my poor sprites,

How then? even thus in Stellas face I reede,
What love and beautie be, then all my deede
But coppying is, what in her nature writes.

Vertue (alas) now let me take some rest,
Thou set’st a bate betweene my will and wit;
If vaine love have my simple soule opprest,

Leave what thou lik’st not, deale not thou with it.

Thy Scepter use in some olde Catoes brest,

Churches or Schooles are for thy seat more fit:

I doe confes, (pardon a fault confest,)

My mouth too tender is for thy hard bit.

But if that needes, thou wilt usurping bee

The little reason that is left in mee.

And still th’ effect of thy perswasions proove,

I sweare, my heart such one shall shew to thee,

That shrines in flesh so true a deitie,

That Vertue, thou thy selfe shalt be in love.

It is most true, that eyes are found to serve

The inward light: and that the heavenly part

Ought to be King, from whose rules who doth swerve,

Rebels to nature, strive for their owne smart.

It is most true, what wee call Cupids dart,
An Image is, which for ourselves we carve:
And fooles adore, in Temple of our hart,

Till that good God make church and Church-men starve.

True that true beautie vertue is in deede,

Whereof this beautie can but be a shade:

Which Elements with mortall mixture breede,

True that on earth we are but Pilgrimes made,

And should in soule, up to our Country move:

True and most true, that I must Stella love.

Some Lovers speake, when they their Muses entertaine

Of hopes begot, by feare, of wot not what desires,

Of force of heavenly beames, infusing hellish paine;

Of lyving deathes, deere woundes, faire Stormes, and friesing fyres.

Some one his songs in Jove and Joves straunge tales attyres,

Bordered with Bulles and Swannes, poudered with golden raine:

Another humbler witte to shepheards pipe retyres,

Yet hiding royall blood, full oft in Rurall vaine.

To some a sweetest plaint a sweetest stile affordes,

Whiles teares poure out his inke, and sighes breathe

His paper pale despaire, and paine his penne doth move.

I can speake what I feele, and feele as much as they,

But thinke that all the mappe of my state I display,

When trembling voice brings foorth, that I do Stella love.

When nature made her chiefe worke, Stella’s eyes,

In collour blacke, why wrapt she beames so bright?

Would she in beamy blacke like Painter wise,

Frame daintiest lustre mixte of shades of light?

Or did she els that sober hewe devise,

In object best, to strength and knitt our sighte

Least if no vaile these brave gleames did disguise,

They Sun-like should more dazell than delight.

Or would she her miraculous power shewe,

That whereas blacke seemes Beauties contrarie,

Shee even in blacke doth make all Beauties flower

Both so and thus; she minding Love should bee

Plaste ever there, gave him this mourning weede:

To honour all their deathes, which for her bleede.

Love borne in Greece, of late fled from his native place,

Forst by a tedious proofe, that Turkish hardned hart

Were no fit marke, to pearce with his fine pointed dart:

And pleasd with our lost peace, staide here his fleeting race.

But finding these North climes, too coldlie him imbrace,

Not usde to frosen clippes, he strave to finde some part

Where with most ease and warmth, he might imploy his art.

At length he preach’d himselfe in Stellas joyfull face,

Whose faire skinne, beamie eyes, like morning Sunne on snow:

Deceiv’d the quaking boy, who thought from so pure light,

Effects of livelie heate must needes in nature growe.

But shee most faire, most colde; made him thence take his flight

To my close hart; where while some fire brands he did lay,

He burnt unwares his wings, and cannot fly away.

Queene Vertues Court, which some call Stellas face,

Prepar’d by Natures cheefest furniture:

Hath his front built of Alabaster pure.

Gold is the covering of that statelie place.

The doore, by which sometimes comes forth her grace

Red Porphire is, which locke of Pearle makes sure:

Whose Porches rich, with name of chekes indure,

Marble mixt red and white, doe enterlace.

The Windowes now, through which this heavenly guest

Lookes ore the world, and can finde nothing such,

Which dare claime from those lights the name of best,

Of touch they are, that without touch doe touch,

Which Cupids selfe, from beauties mine did drawe:

Of touch they are, and poore I am their strawe.

Reason, in faith thou art well serv’d, that still

Would’st brabling be, with sence and love in me:

I rather with thee climbe the Muses hill,

Or reach the fruite of Natures chiefest tree:

Or seeke heavens course, or heavens inside to see:

Why should’st thou toyle, our thornie soyle to till?

Leave sence and those that sences objects be,

Deale thou with powers, of thoughts leave love to will.

But thou wouldst needes fight both with Love and sence,

With sworde of witte, giving woundes of dispraise:

Till down-right blowes did foyle thy cunning fence,

So soone as they strake thee with Stellas rayes.

Reason, thou knewest, and offered straight to prove;

By reason good, good reason her to love.

In truth oh Love: with what a boyish kinde

Thou doost proceede, in thy most serious waies;

That when the heaven to thee his best displaies,

Yet of that best thou leav’st the best behinde.

That like a Childe that some faire booke doth finde

With gilden leaves of colloured Velom, playes
Or at the most on some faire picture stares,
But never heedes the fruite of Writers minde.
So when thou sawest in Natures cabinet,

Stella, thou straight lokest babies in her eyes:

In her chekes pit, thou didst thy pitfall set,

And in her brest bo-peepe or touching lyes,

Playing and shining in each outward part:

But foole seekst not to get into her hart.

Cupid because thou shin’st in Stellas eyes,

That from her lookes thy day-nets now scapes free:

That those lips swelde so full of thee they be.

That her sweet breath makes all thy flames t’arise,

That in her brest thy pap well sugred lyes,

That her grace gracious makes thy wrongs, that shee,

What word so ere shee speakes, perswades for thee:

That her cleere voice, lifts thy fame to the skyes.

Thou countest Stella thine, like those whose powres

Having got up a breach; (by fighting well)

Cry victorie, this faire day all is ours:

Oh no, her heart is such a Cytadell.

So fortified with wit, stor’d with disdaine:

That to winne it, is all the skill and paine.

Phœbus was Judge, betweene Jove, Mars, & love,

Of those three Gods whose armes the fairest were:

Joves golden shield, did Eagle Sables beare:

Whose talents held young Ganimede above.

But in verde fielde, Mars bare a golden Speare,

Which through a bleeding heart, his point did shove:

Each had his Crest, Mars carried Venus glove.

Jove on his Helme the Thunderbolt did reare.

Cupid then smiles, for on his crest there lyes

Stellas faire haire, her face he makes his shielde:

Where Roses gueules, are borne in silver fielde.

Phœbus drewe wide the Curtaine of the skyes

To blase the last, and swore devoutly then:

The first thus macht, were scarcely Gentlemen.

Alas, have I not paine enough my friend,

Uppon whose breast, a fiercer gripe doth tyre,

Than did on him, who first stole downe the fyre;

While Love on me, doth all his quiver spend,

But with your rubarbe wordes you must contend,

To greeve me worse in saying, that desier

Doth plunge my well form’d soule, even in the mier

Of sinfull thoughtes, which doe in ruine ende.

If that be sinne which doth the manners frame,

Well stayed with trueth, in worde and faith of deede,

Readie of wit, and fearing nought but shame;
If it be sin which in fixt hart dooth breede,
A loathing of all lose unchastitie;
Then love is sin, and let me sinfull bee.

You that do search for every purling spring,

Which from the rybs of old Parnassus flowes,

And every flower (not sweete perhaps) which growes

Neere there about, into your Poesie wring.
Ye that do Dictionaries method bring
Into your rymes, running in ratling rowes,
You that poore Petrarchs long deceased woes
With new borne sighes, & devised wit do sing;

You take wrong wayes, those far-fet helps be such,

As doe bewray a want of inward tutch,

And sure at length stolne goods doe come to light.

But if both for your love and skill you name,
You seeke to nurse at fullest brest of Fame,
Stella behold and then begin t’endite.

In nature apt to like, when I did see
Beauties which were of many Carrects fine,
My boyling spirits did thether soone encline,
And Love I thought that I was full of thee;
But finding not those restles flames in mee

Which others said did make their soules to pyne,

I thought those babes of some pins hurt did whine:

By my love judging what loves paines might be.

But while I thus with this young Lyon plaid,

Myne eyes (shall I say curst or blest) beheld

Stella: now shee is nam’de, neede more be sayd?

In her sight I a lesson new have speld.

I now have learnd love right, and learnd even so,

As who by being poysond doth poyson know.

His mother deere Cupid offended late,
Because that Mars grew slacker in her love,
With pricking shot he did not throughly move

To keepe the pace of their first loving state:

The boy refusde, for feare of Marses hate;

Who threatned stripes, if he his wrath did prove:

But she in chafe him from her lap did shove,

Brake bowe, brake shafts, where Cupid weeping sate,

Till that his Grandam Nature pittying it,

Of Stellas browes made him two better bowes:

And in her eyes of arrowes infinit.

O how for joye he leapes, ô how he crowes;

And straight therewith, like wagges new got to play:

Falls to shrewde turnes, and I was in his way.

With what strange checkes I in my selfe am shent,

When into Reasons Audit I doe goe:

And by just counts my selfe a Bankerowt know

Of all those goods which heaven to me hath lent,

Unable quite, to pay even Natures rent,
Which unto it by birth-right I doe owe:
And which is worse, no good excuse can showe,
But that my wealth I have most idely spent,

My youth doth waste, my knowledge brings forth toyes,

My wit doth strive, those passions to defende

Which for reward, spoyle it with vaine annoyes;

I see my course, to lose my selfe doth bende.

I see and yet no greater sorrowe take

Than that I looke no more for Stellas sake.

On Cupids bowe, how are my hart strings bent?

That see my wracke, and yet imbrace the same:

When most I glorie, then I feele most shame;

I willing run, yet while I runne repent;

My best wittes still their owne disgrace invent,

My verie ynke, turnes straight to Stella’s name:

And yet my words (as them my penne doth frame)

Against themselves that they are vainely spent.

For though she passe all things, yet what is all

That unto me, who fare like him that both
Lookes to the skyes and in a ditch doth fall,
O let me prop my mind yet in his grouth
And not in nature, for best fruits unfit;
Scholler saith Love bend hitherward your wit.

Fly, flye my friends, I have my deathes wound, flye;

See there that boy, that murthering boy I say,

Who like a thiefe hid in a bush doth lye,

Tyll blooddy bullet get him wrongfull pray.

So, tyrant he no fitter place could spy,

Nor so farre levell in so secrete stay:

As that sweete blacke which veiles thy heavenly eye.

There himselfe with his shot he close doth laye.

Poore passenger, passe now thereby I did,

And staid pleasd with prospect of the place,

While that black hue from me the bad guest hid,

But straight I saw motions of lightnings grace,

And there descried the glisterings of his dart:

But ere I could flie thence, it pearst my hart.

Your words my freend right helthfull caustickes blame.

My young minde marde whom Love doth windlase so:

That my owne writings like bad servants showe

My wits, quick in vaine thoughts, in vertue lame;

That Plato I reade for nought, but if he tame
Such coltish giers; that to my birth I owe
Nobler desires: lest els that friendly foe
Great expectation were a traine of shame.

For since mad March great promise made to mee,

If now the May of my yeeres much decline,
What can be hop’d my harvest time will be,
Sure you say well, your wisedomes golden myne

Digs deepe with learnings spade: now tell me this,

Hath this world ought so faire as Stella is?

In highest way of heaven the Sunne did ride,

Progressing then from fayre Twynns golden place,

Having no maske of Clowdes before his face,

But shining forth of heat in his chiefe pride,

When some faire Ladies by hard promise tyde,

On horsebacke met him in his furious race,

Yet each prepar’de with Fannes well shading grace,

From that foes wounds their tender skinnes to hide.

Stella alone, with face unarmed marcht,

Either to doe like him, which open shone:

Or carelesse of the welth, because her owne.

Yet were the hid and meaner beauties parcht,

Her dainties bare went free; the cause was this,

The Sunne which others burnt, did her but kisse.

The curious wits, seeing dull pensivenes
Bewray it selfe in my long setled eyes:
Whence those same fumes of mellancholie rise,
With idle paines and missing ayme do gesse;
Some that know how, my spring I did adresse,

Deem’d that my Muse some fruite of knowledge plyes:

Others, because the Prince my service tryes,

Thinke that I thinke, State errors to redresse;

But harder Judges, judge ambitious rage,

(Scourge of it selfe, still clyming slippery place)

Holds my young braine captiv’d in golden cage.

O fooles, or over-wise, alas the case;

Of all my thoughts have neither stop nor start,

But onely Stellas eyes, and Stellas hart.

Rich fooles there there be, whose base and filthie hart,

Lyes hatching still the goods wherein they flow:

And damning their owne selves to Tantal’s smart,

Welth breeding want, more rich, more wretched grow.

Yet to those fooles, heaven doth such wit impart,

As what their hands doe hold, their heads doe know.

And knowing love, and loving lay apart,

As scattered things, farre from all dangers show.

But that rich foole, who by blind Fortunes lot,

The richest gem of love and life enjoyes,
And can with foule abuse such beauties blot:
Let him deprived of sweet, but unfelt joyes

Exilde for aye, from those high treasures which

He knowes not grow, in onely follie rich.

The wisest scholler of the wight most wise,
By Phœbus doome, with sugred sentence sayes:
That vertue if it once meete with our eyes,

Strange flames of love it in our soules would rayse.

But for that man with paine this truth discries,

While he each thing in sences ballance wayes,

And so, nor will nor can behold those skyes,

Which inward Summe to heroicke mindes displaies.

Vertue of late with vertuous care to stir

Love of himselfe, takes Stellas shape, that hee

To mortall eyes might sweetly shine in her.
It is most true, for since I her did see,
Vertues great beautie in her face I prove,

And finde th’ effect, for I doe burne in love.

Though duskie wits dare scorne Astrologie,

And fooles can thinke those lampes of purest light,

Whose number, waies, greatnes, eternitie,

Promising wondrous wonders to invite,

To have for no cause birth-right in the skyes.

But for to spangle the blacke weedes of Night,

Or for some Braule which in that Chamber hie,

They should still daunce to please a gazers sight.

For mee I doe Nature unydle know,

And know great causes, great effects procure,

And know those bodies high, raigne on the low.

And if these rules did fayle, proofe makes me sure,

Who oft foresee my after following case,

By onely those two starres in Stella’s face.

Because I oft in darke abstracted guise,

Seeme most alone in greatest company,

With dearth of words, and aunswers quite awry,

To them that would make speech of speech arise;

They deeme, and of their doome the rumor flies,

That poyson foule of bubling pride doth lie
So in my swelling brest, that onely I
Faune on my selfe, all others doe dispise:

Yet pride (I thinke) doth not my soule possesse,

(Which lookes too oft in this unflattering glasse)

But one worse fault, ambition I confesse,

That makes me oft my best freends over-passe,

Unseene unheard, while thought to highest place

Bends all his powers, even unto Stellas grace.

You that with allegories curious frame

Of others children changelings use to make,

With mee those paines for good now doe not take,

I list not dig so deepe for brasen fame.
When I see Stella, I doe meane the same
Princesse of beautie, for whose onely sake,

The raynes of love I love, though never slake;

And joy therein, though Nations count it shame:

I begge no subject to use eloquence,
Nor in hid waies to guide Philosophie,
Looke at my hands for no such quintessence,
But know that I in pure simplicitie,

Breath out the flames which burn within my hart,

Love only leading me into this arte.

Like some weake Lords Neighbord by mightie kings,

To keepe themselves and their chiefe Cities free,

Doe easily yeelde, that all their coast may be

Readie to serve their Campe of needfull things:

So Stellas hart finding what power Love brings,

To keepe it selfe in life and libertie,
Doth willing graunt that in the Frontire he
Use all to help his other conquerings.
And thus her hart escapes, but thus her eyes

Serve him with shot, her lips his Heralds are,

Her brests his Tents, legges his tryumphall Chare,

Herselfe his foode, her skin his Armour brave.

And I but for because my prospect lyes:

Upon that coast, am given up for slave.

Whether the Turkish new Moone minded be,

To fill her hornes this yeere on Christian coast,

How Polands King mindes without leave of hoast,

To warme with ill made fire cold Muscovie,
If French can yet three parts in one agree,
What now the Dutch in their full diets boast,

How Holland harts, now so good Townes are lost,

Trust in the shade of pleasing Orange tree.
How Ulster likes of the same goldenbitt,
Wherewith my Father made it once halfe tame,
If in the Scottish Court be weltering yet;
These questions busie wits to me do frame,
I combered with good manners, aunswere doe,
But know not how, for still I thinke on you.

With how sad steps ô Moone thou clim’st the skyes,

How silently, and with how meane a face,
What may it be, that even in heavenly place,
That busie Archer his sharpe Arrowes tryes?
Sure if that long with love acquainted eyes

Can judge of love, thou feelst of Lovers case,

I reade within thy lookes thy languisht grace.

To mee that feele the like, my state discries.

Then even of fellowship ô Moone tell me,

Is constant love deemde there but want of wit?

Are beauties there, as proude as here there be?

Doe they above, love to be lov’d, and yet

Those Lovers scorne, whom that love doth possesse?

Doe they call vertue there ungratefulnesse?

Morpheus the lively sonne of deadlie Sleepe,
Witnes of life to them that living die:
A Prophet oft, and oft an Historie,
A Poet eake as humors flye and creepe:
Since thou in me so sure a power doost keepe,
That never I with clos’d up fence doe lye,
But by thy worke, my Stella I discry,

Teaching blind eyes both how to smile and weepe,

Vouchsafe of all acquaintance this to tell,

Whence hast thou Ivorie, Rubies, Pearle, and Golde,

To shew her skin, lips, teeth, and head so well?

(Foole aunswers he) no Indes such treasures hold,

But from thy hart, while my Sire charmeth thee,

Sweet Stellas Image I do steale to mee.

I might, unhappy word, (woe me) I might,

And then would not, nor could not see my blisse:

Till now, wrapt in a most infernall Night,

I finde, how heavenly day (wretch) did I misse;

Hart rent thy selfe, thou doost thy selfe but right.

No lovely Paris made thy Helen his,

No force, no fraude, robd thee of thy delight,

Nor fortune of thy fortune Author is;
But to my selfe, my selfe did give the blow,
While too much wit forsooth so trubled me,
That I respects for both our sakes must show,
And yet could not by rysing morne fore-see,
How faire a day was neere, (ô punisht eyes)
That I had beene more foolish, or more wise.

Come let me write, and to what end? to ease

A burthened hart, (how can words ease, which are

The glasses of thy daily vexing care?)

Oft cruell fights well pictured forth doe please,

Art not asham’d to publish thy disease?

Nay, that may breede my fame, it is so rare,

But will not wise men thinke thy words fonde ware?

Then be they close, and they shall none displease,

What idler thing than speake and not be heard?

What harder thing than smart and not to speake?

Peace foolish wit, with wit my wit is marde;

Thus write I while I doubt to write, and wreake

My harmes in ynkes poore losse, perhaps some finde

Stellas great power, that so confus’d my minde.

What may words say? or what may words not say,

Where truth it selfe must speake like flattery?

Within what bounds can one his lyking stay,
Where Nature doth with infinite agree?
What Nestors counsell can my flames allay,

Since Reasons selfe doth blow the coles to me?

And ah, what hope that hope should once see day,

Where Cupid is sworne page to Chastitie;
Honour is honoured that thou dost possesse
Him as thy slave, and now long needie Fame
Doth even grow rich, meaning my Stellas name;
Wit learnes in thee perfection to expresse,

Not thou by praise, but praise in thee is raised,

It is a praise, to praise where thou art praised.

Stella, whence doth these newe assaults arise,

A conquerd, yeelding, ransackt hart to win?

Whereto long since, through my long battred eyes,

Whole Armies of thy beauties entred in,

And there long since, Love thy Lieuetenant lyes,

My forces raz’d, thy banners rais’d within
Of conquest, what do these effects suffise,
But wilt new warre uppon thine owne begin,
With so sweet voyce, and by sweet nature so,

In sweetest strength, so sweetly skild withall,

In all sweet stratagems sweet Art can shew:

That not my soule which at thy foot did fall

Long since forst by thy beames; but stone nor tree

By sences priviledge can scape from thee.

This night while sleepe begins, with heavie wings

To close mine eyes, and the unbitted thought

Doth fall to stray, and my chiefe powers are brought

To leave the scepter of all subject things,

The first that straight my fancies errour brings

Unto my minde, is Stellas Image, wrought

By Loves owne selfe, but with so curious draught,

That she me thinkes not onely shines but sings:

I start, looke, harke, but what inclos’d up sence

Was helde in open sence it flyes away,
Leaving me nought but wayling eloquence.
I seeing Better sights in sighes decay,
Conclude a new, and woed Sleepe againe,

But him her hoast that unkind guest had slaine.

Come Sleepe, ô Sleepe, the certaine knot of peace,

The bathing place of wits, the balme of woe,

The poore mans wealth, the prysoners release,

The indifferent judge betweene the high and lowe,

With shield of proofe, shield me from out the presse

Of these fierce darts, Dispaire at me doth throw;

O make in me those civill warres to cease:

I will good trybute pay if thou do so.

Take thou of me smooth pillowes, sweetest bed;

A chamber deafe of noyse, and blinde of light,

A rosie garland, and a wearie head.

And if these things (as being thine in right)

Move not thy heavie grace, thou shalt in mee

Livelier than els where Stellas Image see.

As good to write, as for to lie and groane,

O Stella deere, how much thy power hath wrought,

That hast my minde now of the basest brought,

My still kept course while others sleepe to moane;

Alas if from the height of Vertues throane,

Thou canst vouchsafe the influence of a thought,

Upon a wretch which long thy grace hath sought,

Way then how I by thee am overthrowne;
And then thinke thus, although thy beautie be
Made manifest, by such a victorie,
Yet noblest Conquerers doe wreake avoide;
Since then thou hast so farre subdued me,
That in my hart I offer still to thee,
O doe not let thy Temple be destroide.

Having this days, my horse, my hand, my Launce

Guided so well, that I obtaind the prize,

Both by the judgment of the English eyes,

And of some sent from that sweet enmie Fraunce,

Horsmen my skill in horsmanship advaunce,

Towne folke my strength: a daintier Judge applies

His praise to flight, which from good use doth rise:

Some luckie wits, impute it but to chaunce:
Others, because from both sides I doe take
My blood, from them that doe excell in this,
Thinke Nature me a man at Armes did make.
How farre they shoot awry; the true cause is,
Stella lookt on, and from her heavenly face,

Sent forth the beames, which made so faire a race.

O Eyes which doe the Spheres of beautie move,

Whose beames all joyes, whose joyes all vertues be:

Who while they make Love conquer, conquer Love,

The Schooles where Venus hath learnd Chastitie;

O eyes, where humble lookes most glorious prove,

Onely loved tyrants just in crueltie.
Doe not, doe not, from poore me, once remove,
Keepe still my Zenith, ever shine on me;

For though I never see them, but straight waies

My life forgets to nourish languisht sprights:

Yet still on me (ô eyes) dart downe your rayes;

And if from Majestie of sacred Lights

Oppressing mortall sence, my death proceede:

Wreckes tryumphs best, which Love hie set doth breed.

Faire eyes, sweet lips, deere hart, that foolish I

Could hope by Cupids helpe, on you to pray:

Since to himselfe he doth your gifts apply,

As his maine force, chiefe sport, and easefull stay.

For when he will see who dare him gainsay,

Then with those eyes he lookes, loe by and by,

Each soule doth at Loves feete his weapons lay,

Glad if for her he give them leave to die.

When he will play, then in her lips he is,

Where blushing red, that Loves selfe them do love,

With either lip he doth the other kisse

But when he will for quiets sake remove

From all the world, her hart is then his roome:

Where well he knowes, no man to him can come.

My words I know doe well set forth my minde,
My minde bemones his sence of inward smart;
Such smart may pittie claime of any hart;
Her hart, sweete hart, is of no Tygers kinde,
And yet she heares, and I no pittie finde,
But more I cry, lesse grace she doth impart;
Alas, what cause is there so overthwart,
That Noblenes it selfe makes thus unkinde?

I much doe gesse, yet finde no truth save this,

That when the breath of my complaint doe touch

Those daintie doores unto the Court of Blisse,

The heavenly nature of that place is such:

That once come there, the sobs of my annoyes,

Are metamorphos’d straight to tunes of joyes.

Stella oft sees the verie face of woes
Painted in my beclowded stormie face:
But cannot skill to pittie my disgrace;

No though thereof the cause her selfe shee knowes.

Yet hearing late a fable which did show,
Of Lovers never knowne, (a grievous case)
Pittie thereof got in her breast such place,

As from her eyes, a Spring of teares did flow.

Alas, if Fancie drawne by ymag’d things,

Though false, yet with free scope more grace doth breede

Then Servants wreck, where new doubts honor brings,

Than thinke my Deere, that in me you doe reede

Of Lovers ruine some thrise sad Tragædie:

I am not I, pittie the tale of me.

I curst thee oft, I pittie now thy case,

Blind hitting Boy, since shee that thee and me

Rules with a becke, so tyranniseth thee,

That thou must want or foode or dwelling place;

For Shee protests to banish thee her face.

Her face (ô Love) a roge thou then should’st bee,

If Love learne not alone to love and see,
Without desire to feede on further grace.
Alas poore wagge, that now a Scholler art
To such a Schoole-mistris, whose lessons new

Thou needes must misse, and so thou needes must smart;

Yet deere, let me this pardon get of you,

So long though he from booke mich to desire.

Till without Fuell, thou can make hote fire.

What, have I thus betraide my libertie,

Can those black beames, such burning marks engrave

In my free side, or am I borne a slave,
Whose necke becomes such yoke of tyrannie?
Or want I sence to feele my miserie,
Or spirit, disdaine of such disdaine to have,
Who for long faith the daily helpe I crave,
May get no almes, but scorne of beggerie.
Vertue awake, beautie but beautie is;
I may, I must, I can, I will, I doe

Leave following that which it is gaine to misse,

Let her goe: soft, but there she comes, goe to,

Unkind I love you, not, (O mee) that eye

Doth make my hart give to my tongue a lye.

Soules joy, bend not those morning starres from me,

Where vertue is made strong by beauties might,

Where love is chastnes, paine doth learne delight,

And humblenes growes on with majestie;
What ever may ensue, O let me be
Copartner of the ritches of that sight:
Let not mine eyes be driven from that light;
ô looke, ô shine, ô let me die and see,
For though I oft my selfe of them bemone,

That through my hart their beamie darts be gone,

Whose curelesse wounds even nowe most freshly bleede;

Yet since my deaths wound is already got,

Deere killer, spare not thy sweete cruell shot,

A kinde of grace it is to slaye with speede.

I on my horse, and Love on me doth trie

Our horsmanship, while by strange worke I prove,

A horsman to my horse, a horse to Love;
And now mans wrongs in me poore beast discry.
The raines wherewith my ryder doth me tie

Are reverent thoughts, which bit of reverence move,

Curbde in with feare, but with gilt bosse above

Of hope, which makes it seeme faire to the eye:

The wande is will, thou fancie saddle art,

Girt fast by memorie; and while I spurre

My horse, he spurres with sharpe desires my hart,

He sits me fast how ever I doe sturre,
And now hath made me to his hand so right,
That in the manage, my selfe do take delight.

Stella, the fulnes of my thoughts of thee
Cannot be stayed within my panting brest:
But they do swell and struggle forth of me,
Till that in words thy figure be exprest;
And yet as soone as they so formed be,
According to my Lord Loves owne behest,
With sad eyes I their weake proportion see
To portract what within this world is best.
So that I cannot chuse but write my minde,
And cannot chuse but put out what I write,

While those poore babes their death in birth doe find;

And now my penne these lynes had dashed quite,

But that they stop his furie from the same:

Because their fore-front beares sweet Stellas name.

Pardon mine eares, both I and they doe pray,
So may your tongue full flauntingly proceede,
To them that doe such entertainments neede;
So may you still have somewhat new to say.
On sillie me, doe not you burthen lay

Of all the grave conceipts your braine doth breede,

But find some Hercules, to beard (in steede
Of Atlas tyrde) your wisedomes heavenly sway.
For me while you discourse of courtly tydes,

Of cunningst Fishers in most troubled streames,

Of straying waves when valiant errour guides:

Meane while my hart confers with Stellas beames,

And is even woe that so sweet Comedie,

By such unfuted speech, should hindered be.

A Strife is growne betweene Vertue and Love,

While each pretends, that Stella must be his;

Her eyes, her lips, her all, saith Love doe this,

Since they doe weare his badge, most firmely prove;

But Vertue thus, that title doth disprove.

That Stella, (ô deere name) that Stella is,

That vertuous Soule, sure heyre of heavenly Blisse:

Not this faire outside, which our hart doth move;

And therefore, though her beauty and her grace,

Be Loves indeede, in Stellas selfe he may

By no pretence claime any manner place.

Well Love, since this Demurre our sute doth staie.

Let Vertue have that Stellas selfe, yet thus,

That Vertue but that body graunt to us.

In Martiall sportes I had my cunning tryde,

And yet to breake more Staves I did mee adresse

While that the peopl’s showtes: I must confesse,

Youth, luck, and praise, even filld my vaines with pride;

When Cupid having me his slave descride,

In Mars his liverie, prauncing in the presse.

What now sir foole said he (I would no lesse)

Looke heere I say; I lookt, and Stella spide:

Who hard by through a window sent forth light;

My hart then quake, then daz’led were my eyes.

One hand forgot to rule, th’ other to fight,
No Trumpet sound I heard, nor freendly cries;
My foe came on, and beate the ayre for mee,

Till that her blush, taught me my shame to see.

Because I breathe not love to every one,
Nor doe not use sette Colours for to weare:
Nor nourish speciall locks with vowed haire,
Nor give each speech a full point of a grone,
The Courtly Nymphes acquainted with the mone

Of them, which in their lips Loves Standard beare:

What he, (say they of me) now I dare sweare,

He cannot love: no, no, let him alone.

And thinke so still, so Stella know my minde.

Professe in deede, I do not Cupid’s art.

But you faire Maides, at length this true shall find,

That his right badge, is but worne in the hart.

Dumbe Swans, not chattering Pyes doe Lovers prove,

They love in deed, who quake to say they love.

Fie schoole of Patience, fie, your Lesson is

Far far too long, to learne it without booke:

What, a whole weeke, without one peece of looke?

And thinke I should not your large precepts misse,

When I might reade those Letters faire of blisse,

Which in her face teach vertue, I could brooke,

Somewhat thy leaden counsels which I tooke:

As of a freend that meant not much amisse:

But now alas, that I doe want her sight,

What doost thou thinke that I can ever take,

In thy colde stuffe, a phlegmatick delight?

No Patience, if thou wilt my good, then make

Her come, and heare with patience my desires

And then with patience bid me beare my fire.

Muses, I oft invoked your whole ayde,

With choisest flowres, my speech t’engarland so,

That it disguisde, in true (but naked) show,

Might winne some grace in your sweet skill arraide;

And oft whole troupes of saddest words I stayde,

Striving abroade, a forraging to goe,

Untill by your inspiring I might know,

How their blacke banners might be best displaid.

But now I meane no more your helpe to trye.

Nor other sugering of speech to prove,

But on her name uncessantly to cry.

For let me but name her whom I doe love,

So sweete sounde straight my eares and hart doe hit,

That I well finde no eloquence like it.

Woe having made with many sighs his owne

Each sense of mine; each gift, each power of minde

Growne now his slaves, he forst them out to finde

The throwest words, fit for woes selfe to grone

Hoping that when they might finde Stella alone,

Before she could prepare to be unkind,

Her soule (armed with such a daintie rinde,)

Should soone be hurt with sharpnes of the mone.

She heard my plaints, and did not onely heare.

But them, so sweet is she, most sweetly sing,

With that faire brest, making Woes darknes cleere,

A prittie case I hoped her to bring,

To feele my griefe, and she with face and voice,

So sweetes my paines, that my paines me rejoyce.

Doubt there hath beene, when with his golden chaine

The Orator so farre mens harts doth bind:

That no pace els their guided steps can find;

But as in them more shorte or slacke doth raine.

Whether with words this sou’raigntte be gaine,

Clothde with fine tropes with strongest reason lin’d,

Or els pronouncing grace, wherewith his minde

Prints his owne lively forme, in rudest braine.

Now judge by this, in pearcing phrases late

Th’ Anatomie of all my woes I wrate,

Stellas sweete breath the same to me did reede.

Oh voyce, oh face mauger my speeches might,
With wooed woe, most ravishing delight,
Even in sad mee a joy to me did breede.

Deere, why make you more of a dogge than me?
If he doe love, alas I burne in love;
If he waite well, I never thence would move;
If he be faire, yet but a dogge can be;
Little he is, so little worth is he:

He barkes, my songs thyne owne voyce oft doth prove;

Bidden, (perhaps) he fetcheth thee a glove?
But I unbid, fetch even my soule to thee
Yet while I languish, him that bosome clips,

That lap doth lap, nay lets in spight of spight

This sour-breath’d mate tast of those sugred lips;

Alas, if you graunt onely such delight

To witles things, then Love I hope, (since wit

Becomes a clogge) will soone ease me of it.

When my good Angell guides me to the place
where al my good I do in Stella see,
That Heaven of joyes throwes only downe on me

Thundred disdaines, and Lightning of disgrace;

But when the ruggedst step of fortunes race

Makes me fall from her sight, then sweetly she

With words, whereing the Muses Treasures be,
Shewes love and pittie to my absent case.
Now I (witt-beaten long, by hardest fate)
So dull am, that I cannot looke into

The ground of this fierce love, and loving hate?

Then some good body tell me how to do,

Whose presence absence, absence presence is:

Blest in my curse, and curssed in my blisse.

Oft with true sighes, oft with uncalled teares,

Now with slow words, now with dumbe eloquence,

I Stellas eyes assailde, invade her eares,

But this at last is her sweete breath’d defence,

That who indeede a sound affection beares,

So captives to his Saint both soule and sence,

That wholie Hers, all selfnes he forbeares.

Thence his desire he learnes, his lives course thence,

Now since this chast love, hates this love in mee;

With chastned minde I needes must shew, that shee

Shall quickly me from what she hates remove.

O Doctor Cupid, thou for me reply:

Driven els to graunt by Angell Sophistry,

That I love not, without I leave to love.

Late tyr’d with woe, even ready for to pine

With rage of love, I call my Love unkinde.

Shee in whose eyes, love though unfelt doth shine,

Sweetely saide, I true love in her should finde.

I joyed, but straight thus watred was my wine:

That love she did, but with a love not blinde.

Which would not let me, whome she lov’d decline.

From Nobler course, fit for my birth and minde.

And therefore her loves Authoritie;

Wild me those Tempests of vaine love to flee:

And Anchor fast my selfe on vertues shore.

Alas if this the onely mettall be,

Of love newe coyn’d to help my beggery:

Deere, love me not, that you may love me more.

Oh Grammer rules, oh now your vertues showe,
So Children still read you with awfull eyes,
As my young Dove may in your precepts wise,
Her graunt to me by her owne vertue knowe.

For late with hart most hie, with eyes most lowe;

I crav’d the thing which ever she denies.

Shee lightning Love, displaying Venus skyes,

Least one should not be heard twise, said no no.

Sing then my Muse, now I do Pæan sing.

Heavens Envy not at my high triumphing:

But Grammers force with sweete successe confirme,

For Grammer sayes (ah this deere Stella way)
For Grammer sayes (to Grammer who sayes nay)
That in one speech, two negatives affirme.

No more my deere, no more these Counsels try,

O give my passions leave to runne their race:

Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace.

Let Folke orecharg’d with braine against me cry,

Let Cloudes be dimme, my face breake in my eye,

Let me no steps but of lost labour try,
Let all the earth in scorne recount my race;
But doe not will me from my love to fly.
I do not envie Aristotles wit,
Nor do aspire to Cæsars bleeding fame:
Nor ought to care though some above me sit;
Nor hope nor with another course to frame:

But that which once may winne thy cruell hart,

Thou art my wit; and thou my vertue art.

Love, by sure proofe I may call thee unkinde,

That gives no better cares to my just cryes:

Thou whom to me, such my good turnes shouldst binde,

As I may well recount, but none can prise.

For when nak’d boy, hou couldst no harbour finde

In this olde world, (growne now so to be wise)

I lodg’de thee in my heart: and being blinde

By nature borne, I gave to thee my eyes.

Mine eyes, my light, my life, my hart alas,

If so great services may scorned be:

Yet let this thought thy Tygrish courage passe,

That I perhaps am somewhat kin to thee:

Since in thine armes, if learn’d fame truth hath spred,

Thou bearst the Arrowe, I the Arrowhed.

And doe I see some cause a hope to feede
Or doth the tedious burthen of long woe
In weakned mindes, quick apprehension breede
Of every Image which may comfort showe.
I cannot brag of word, much lesse of deede,

Fortune wheels still with me in one sort slowe.

My wealth no more, and no whit lesse my neede,

Desier, still on stilts of feare doth goe.

And yet amids all feares, a hope there is

Stolne to my hart: since last faire night (nay day)

Stellas eyes sent to me the beames of blisse,

Looking on mee, while I looke other way:

But when mine eyes backe to their heaven did move:

They fled with blush, which guiltie seem’d of love:

Hope art thou true or doost thou flatter me?

Doth Stella now beginne, with pitteous eye

The raigne of this her conquest to espie?

Will shee take time before all wracked be?

Her eye speech is translated thus by thee.

But failste thou not in phrase so heavenly hye?

Looke on againe, the faire text better prie;

What blushing notes dost thou in Margent see?

What sighes stolne out, or kild before full borne

Hast thou found such and such like arguments?

Or art thou els to comfort me forsworne?

Well how so thou interpret the contents,

I am resolv’d thy error to maintaine:

Rather than by more trueth to get more paine.

Stella, the only Plannet of my light

Light of my life, and life of my desire,

Cheife good, whereto my hope doth onely spire,

World of my wealth and heaven of my delight.

Why doost thou spend the Treasure of thy sprite

With voice more fit to wed Amphyons Lyre?

Seeking to quench in me the noble fyre,

Fed by thy worth and kindled by thy sight.

And all in vaine, for while thy breath most sweete

With choisest words, thy words with reasons rare:

Thy reasons firmely set, are vertues feete,
Labor to kill in me this killing care
Oh thinke I then, what Paradise of joy
It is, so faire a vertue to enjoye.

Oh joy, too high for my Love still to showe,
Oh blisse, fit for a nobler seat than mee
Envie put out thine eyes, least thou doe see
What Oceans of delight in me doth flowe.

My friend that oft saw’st through all maskes, my woe,

Come, come, and let me poure myself on thee:

Gone is the winter of my miserie.

My spring appeares, ô see what heere doth growe,

For Stella hath with wordes (where faith doth shine)

Of her high hart given me the Monarchie
I, I, ô I may say that she is mine.
And though she give but thus condicionally,

This Realme of blisse, while vertues course I take,

No Kings be Crownd, but they some covenant make.

My Muse may well grudge at my heavenly joy,

Yf still I force her in sad rymes to creepe:

She oft hath drunke my teares, now hopes t’enjoy

Nectar of mirth, since I loves Cup do keepe.
Sonnets be not bound Prentice to annoy,
Trebbles sing high, so well as bases deepe:
Griefe but Loves winter liverie is, the boy
Hath cheekes to smile, so well as eyes weepe.
Come then my Muse, shew the height of delight
In well raisde noates my pen the best it may

Shall paint out joy, though but in blacke and white.

Cease eager Muse, peace pen for my sake stay.

I give you heere my hand for truth of this:

Wise silence is best Musique unto blisse.

Who will in fayrest booke of nature know,
How Vertue may best lodgde in Beautie bee,
Let him but learne of love to read in thee

Stella those faire lines which true goodnes showe.

There shall he finde all vices overthrowe:

Not by rude force, but sweetest soveraigntie

Of reason, from whose light, the night birdes flie,

That inward Sunne in thine eyes shineth so.

And not content to be perfections heir,

Thy selfe doth strive all mindes that way to move:

Who marke in thee what is in deede most faire,

So while thy beautie drives my hart to love,

As fast thy vertue bends that love to good:

But ah, Desire still cryes, give me some food.

Desire, though thou mine olde companion art,
And oft so clinges to my pure Love, that I
One from the other scarcely can discry:
While each doth blowe the fier of my hart:
Now from thy fellowship I needs must part.
Venus is taught with Dians wings to flye,
I must no more in thy sweete passions lie,
Vertues golde now, must head my Cupids dart,
Service and honour wonder with delight,
Feare to offend, well worthie to appeare:

Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my spright,

These things are left me by my onely deare.

But thou Desire, because thou wouldst have all:

Now banisht art, yet alas how shall?

Love still a Boy, and oft a wanton is,

Schoolde only by his Mothers tender eye:

What wonder then if he his lesson misse,

When for so soft a rod deare play he trye.

And yet my starre, because a sugred kisse,

In sport I sucke, while she a sleepe did lye:

Doth lowre, naye chide, nay threat for onely this:

Sweet it was saucy love, not humble I.

But no scuse serves, she makes her wrath appeare,

In Beauties throne, see now who dares come neere

Those scarlet Judges, threatning blooddie paine.

O heavenly Foole, thy most kisse worthy face
Anger invests with such a lovely grace,
That Angers selfe I needes must kisse againe.

I Never dranke of Aganippe well,

Nor never did in shade of Tempe sit:

And Muses scorne with vulgar braines to dwell,

Poore Lay-man I, for sacred rites unfit.

Some doe I heare of Poets fury tell,

But God wot, wot not what they meane by it:

And this I sweare by blackest brooke of hell,

I am no Pickepurse of an others wit.

How fals it than, that with so smooth an ease

My thoughts I speake? And what I speake doth flowe

In verse; and that my verse best wittes doth please,

Gesse we the cause. What is it this? fie no,
Or so? much lesse. How then? sure thus it is,
My Lips are sure inspir’d with Stellas kisse.

Of all the Kings that ever heere did raigne,

Edward namde fourth, as first in praise I name:

Not for his faire outside, nor well linde braine,

Although lesse guift, imp feathers oft no fame.

Nor that he could young wise, wise valliant frame

His Syres revenge, joynde with a kingdomes gaine:

And gaind by Mars, could yet mad Mars so tame,

That ballance waide what sword did late obtaine.

Nor that he made the Flower de lys so fraide,
Though strongly hedgd of bloody Lyons pawes:
That wittie Lewes to him a tribuite paide;
Nor this nor that, nor any such small cause,
But onely, for this worthy King durst prove,

To loose his Crowne, rather then fayle his Love.

Shee comes, and straight therewith her shining twins do move

Their raies to me: who in her tedious absence lay

Benighted in cold woe; but now appeares my shining day,

The only light of joy, the only warmth of Love,

Shee comes with light and warmth, which like Aurora prove;

Of gentle force, so that my eyes dare gladly play

With such a rosy Morne: whose beames most freshly gay

Scorch not; but onely doe darke chilling spirits remove.

But loe, while I do speake it groweth noone with mee,

Her flamy glittering lights increase with time and place:

My heart cryes ah it burnes, mine eyes now dazled be:

No winde, no shade can coole: what helpe then in my case?

But with short breath, long lookes, staide feete, and walking hed,

Pray that my Sunne goe downe with me her beames to bed.

Those lookes, whose beames be joy, whose motion is delight,

That face whose lecture shewes what perfect Beautie is:

That presence which doth give darke hearts a living light,

That grace, which Venus weepes that shee her selfe doth misse.

That hand, which without touch, holdes more than Atlas might,

Those lips, which makes deathes pay a meane prise for a kisse:

That skin, whose past-praise hue scornes this poore tearme of whit,

Those words which doe sublime the quintessence of blisse.

That voice which makes the soule plant himselfe in the eares,

That conversation sweet, where such high comforts be:

As constru’d in true speech; the name of heaven it beares:

Makes me in my best thoughts and quiet judgements see,

That in no more but these I might be fully blest:

Yet ah, my maiden Muse doth blush to tell the best.

Oh how the pleasant ayres of true love bee

Inflicted by those vapours, which arise

From out that noysome gulfe: which gaping lies

Betweene the jawes of hellish Jelousey.

A Monster, others harmes, selfe misery.

Beauties plague, Vertues scurge, succour of lyes:

Who his owne joy to his owne heart applyes,
And onely cherish doth with injuries:
Who since he hath by natures speciall grace,

So pearsing pawes as spoyle when they embrace,

So nimble feete as stirre though still on thornes,

So manie eyes aye seeking their owne woe.

So ample eares, that never good newes knowe,

Is it not ill that such a divell wants hornes?

Sweete kisse, thy sweetes I faine would sweetely indite,

Which even of sweetnes, sweetest sweeter art;

Pleasing’st consort, where each sense holds a part,

With coopling Doves guides Venus chariot right,

Best charge and brav’st retraite in Cupids sight.

A double key which openeth to the hart,
Most ritch when most his ritches it imparte.
Nest of yong joyes, Scholemaster of delight,
Teaching the meanes at once to take and give,

The friendly fray where blowes do wound and heale,

The prettie death while each in other live,

Poore hopes first wealth a stage of promised weale.

Breakefast of love, but loe, loe where shee is

Cease we to praise, now praie wee for a kisse.

Sweet swelling lip well maiest thou swell in pride

Since best wittes thinke it witt thee to admire,

Natures praise, vertues stall, Cupids colde fire,

Whence words, not words but heavenly graces slide,

The newe Pernassus where the Muses byde:
Sweeteness of Musicke, Wisomes beautifier,
Breather of life, and fastner of desire,

Where Beauties blush in Honors graine is dyde.

Thus much my hart compeld my mouth to say:

But now, spite of my heart my tongue will stay,

Loathing al lyes, doubting this flatterieis,

And no spurre can this restie race renewe;

Without how farre this praise is short of you,

Sweete lipp you teach my mouth with one sweete kisse.

O Kisse which doth those ruddie gemmes impart,

Or Gemmes or fruits of new found Parradise,

Breathing all blisse and sweetnes to the hart,

Teaching dumbe lips a nobler exercise.

O kisse which soules even soules together ties

By links of Love, and onely natures Art,

How faine would I paint thee to all mens eies,

Or of thy gifts at least shade out some part?

But shee forbids, with blushing words shee saies,

Shee builds her fame on higher seated praise:

But my heart burnes, I cannot silent be,

Then since deare life, you faine would have me peace.

And I (mad with delight) want wit to cease,

Stop you my mouth with still still kissing me.

Nymph of the garden where all beauties be,
Beauties which do in excellencie passe,
His who till death lockt in a watry glasse,
Or hirs whom nak’d the Trojan boy did see.

Sweete garden Nymph that keepes the Cherrie tree,

Whose fruit doth far the Hesperian tast surpasse,

Most sweete faire, most faire sweete, do not alasse

From comming neere these Cherries banish mee,
For though full of desire, emptie of wit,
Admitted late by your best graced grace,
I caught at one of them an hungry bit,

Pardon that fault, once more graunt me the place,

And so I sweare even by the same delite,

I will but kisse, I never more will bite.

Good brother Philip I have forborne you long,
I was content you should in favour creepe,
While craftely you seemed your Cut to keepe,

As though that faire soft hand did you great wrong:

I beare with envy, yet I heare your song,

When in hir necke you did love ditties peepe,

Nay, (more foole I) oft suffred you to sleepe,

In lillies nest where Loves selfe lies a long,

What? doth high place ambitious thoughts augment?

Is saucines reward of curtesie?

Cannot such grace your silly selfe content,

But you must needes with those lips billing be?

And through those lips drinke Nectar from that tung,

Leave that Syr Phipp lest off your necke be wrung.

High way since you my chiefe Pernassus be,
And that my Muse to some eares not unmeete,
Tempers her words to trampling horses feete,
More often than to a Chamber melodie,
Now blessed you beare onwards blessed me,

To her where I my heart safeliest shall meete,

My Muse and I must you of duetie greete,
With thanks and wishes wishing thankfully;
Be you still carefull kept by publike heede,
By no encrochment wrongd, nor time forgot,

Nor blam’d for bloud, nor sham’d for sinfull deede,

And that you know I envie you no lot,

Of highest wish, I wish you so much blisse,

Hundreds of yeares you Stellas feete may kisse.

I see the house my harte thy selfe containe,

Beware full Sailes drown not thy tottering Barge,

Least joy by nature apt, (spirites to enlarge)

Thee to thy wracke beyond thy limits straine,

Nor doe like Lords whose weake confused braine,

Not pointing to fit folks each undercharge,
While every office themselves will discharge,
With doing all leave nothing done but paine,

But give apt servants their due place; let eye

See beauties totall summe summ’d in their face,

Let eares heare speach which will to wonder tye,

Let breath suck up those sweetes, let armes imbrace

The Globe of weale, lipps Lov’s Indentures make.

Thou but of all the kingly tribute take.

Alas whence comes this change of lookes? If I
have chang’d desert, let mine owne conscience be

A still felt plague to selfe condemning mee:

Let woe grype on my heart, shame load mine eye:

But if all faith like spotles Ermine lye
Safe in my soule (which onely doth to thee
As his sole object of felicitie
With wings of Love in aire of wonder flie.)

O case your hand, treat not so hard your slave,

In Justice, paines come not till faults do call:

Or if I needs (sweet Judge) must torments have,

Use something else to chasten mee withall,

Than those blest eyes where all my hopes do dwell,

No doome shall make ones Heaven become his Hell.

When I was forst from Stella ever deare,

Stella, foode of my thoughts, hart of my hart:

Stella, whose eyes make all my temples cleare,

By Yron lawes, of duetie to depart,

Alas I found that shee with mee did smart:

I sawe that teares did in her eyes appeare:

I sawe that sighes her sweetest lips did part:

And her sad words my sadded sense did heare.

For mee, I weepe to see Pearles scattered so:

I sighd her sighes, and wailed for her woe:

Yet swamme in joy such love in her was seene.

Thus while the effect most bitter was to mee,

And nothing than that cause more sweet could be,

I had beene vext, if vext I had not beene.

Out Traytour absence dar’st thou counsell mee
From my deare Captainnesse to runne away,
Because in brave arraye here marcheth shee
That to winne mee oft showes a present paye.
Is Faith so weake, or is such force in thee?

When Sunne is hid, can Starres such beames displaie?

Cannot Heavens foode once felt keepe stomacks free

From base desire on earthly cares to praie?

Tush absence, while thy mistes eclypse that light,

My Orphan sense flyes to the inward sight:

Where memorie settes foorth the beames of Love,

That where before heart lov’d and eyes did see,

In heart my sight and Love now coupled be,

United powres make eche the stronger prove.

Now that of absence the most yrksome night,
With darkest shade doth overcome the daie:
Since Stella’s eyes wont to give mee my daie,
Leaving my Hemisphere leaves mee in night,

Each day seemes long, and longs for long staied night:

The night as tedious, wooes th’approch of day:

Tyr’d with the dustie toyles of busie day,
Languisht with horrors of the silent night,
Suffering the evils both of daie and night,
While no night is more darke than is my day,
Nor no day hath lesse quiet then my night:
With such bad mixture of my night and daie,
That living thus in blackest Winter night,
I feele the flames of hottest Sommers daie.

Stella, thinke not that I by verse seeke fame,

Who seeke, who hope, who love, who like, but thee:

Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my historie,

If thou praise not, all other praise is shame.

Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame

A nest for my yong praise in Lawrell tree,

In trueth I sweare, I wish not there should be
graved in my Epitaph a Poets name.
Nor if I would could I just title make
That anie laud thereof to me should growe
Without my Plumes from others wings I take;
For nothing from my wit or will doth flowe:
Since all my words thy beautie doth indite,

And Love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.

Stella, while now by honours cruell might,
I am from you (light of my light) misled,
And that faire you, my Sunne thus overspred
With absence vale I live in sorrowes night.
If this darke place yet shewe by candle light
Some Beauties peece, as amber collourd hed,

Milke hands, rose cheekes, or lips more sweet more red,

Or seeming jett black, but in blacknes bright

They please I doe confesse, they please mine eyes,

But whie? because of you they moddels be;

Moddels such be wood globes of glistering skyes.

Deare therefore be not jealous over me,

If you heare that they seeme my heart to move,

Not them, no no, but you in them I love.

Be your words made (good sir) of Indean ware,
That you allowe them mee by so small rate,
Or do you cutted Spartanes imitate,
Or do you meane my tender eares to spare?
That to my questions you so totall are?
When I demaund of Phœnix Stellas state,
You say (forsooth) you left her well of late
O God, thinke you that satisfies my care?
I would know whether shee did sit or walke.

How cloathd: how waited on: sighd shee or smilde:

Whereof: with whome: how often did shee talke:

With what pastimes, times jorneys shee beguild?

If her lips daine to sweeten my poore name?

Saie all: and all well said: still say the same.

O Fate, ô fault, O curst child of my blisse,

What sobs can give words grace my griefe to show?

What inke is black enough to paint my woe?

Through mee, wretch mee, even Stella vexed is:

Yet Trueth, if Caitives brath might call thee this,

Witnes with mee, that my fowle stumbling so,

From carelesnes did in no manner growe,

But wit confusd with too much care did misse.

And do I then my selfe this vaine scuse give:

I do sweete Love, and know this harmed thee.

The world quit mee, shall I my self forgive?

Onely with paines my paines thus eased be:

That all thy hurtes in my hearts wracke I reed

I crye thy sighs (my deare) thy teares I bleed.

Greefe find the words, for thou hast made my braine

So darke with mistie vapours which arise

From out thy heavie mould, that inbent eyes

Can scarce discerne the shape of mine owne paine:

Do thou then (for thou canst) do thou complaine

For my poore soule which now that sicknes tries,

Which even to sense, sense of it selfe denies.

Though harbengers of death lodge there his traine,

Or if the love of plaint yet mind forbeares,

As of a Caitife worthie so to dye;

Yet waye thy selfe and wayle in causefull teares:

That though in wretchednes thy life doth lie,

Yet growest more wretched than thy nature beares:

By being plast in such a wretch as I.

Yet sighes, deare sighes, in deede true friends you are,

That do not leave your least friend at the wurst:

But as you with my brest I oft have nurst:

So gratefull now you wait upon my care.

Faint coward Joy, no longer tarrie dare,

Seeing hope yeeld when this woe strake him first,

Delight exclaims he is for my fault curst,
Although my mate in Armes himselfe he sware,
Nay Sorrow comes with such mayne rage as hee,

Kills his owne children, Teares, finding that they

By Love were made apt to comfort with mee,

Onely true sighes, you do not go away:

Thank may you have for such thankfull part:

Thank worthiest yet, when you shall breake my heart.

Though with good cause thou lik’st so well the night.

Since kind or chaunce gives both one libertie,

Both sadly blacke, both blackly darkned be:

Night bard from Sunne, thou from thine own Sunnes light

Silence in both displaies his sullen might:

Slowe Heavens in both do hold the one degree,

That full of doubts, thou of perplexitie:

Thy teares expresse nights native moysture right,

In both a wofull solitarines:

In night of Spirites the gastly power sturr,

And in our sprites are Spirits gastlines:

But but (alas) nights sights the ods hath fure,

For that at length invites us to some rest,

Thou though still tyr’d, yet still dost it detest.

Dian that faine would cheare her friend the Night,

Doth shewe her oft at full her fairest face,

Bringing with her those starrie Nymphs, whose chace

From heavenly standing hurts eche mortall wight.

But ah poore Night in love with Phœbus light,
And endlesly dispairing of his grace,
Herselfe to shewe no other joy hath place,
Sylent and sad in moorning weeds doth dight:
Even so (alas) and Ladie Dians peere,
With choise delight and rarest company,

Would faine drive clouds from out my heavie cheere:

But woe is me, though joy her selfe were shee,

Shee could not shewe my blind braine waies of joy

While I dispaire my Sunnes light to enjoy.

Ah bed the feeld where joyes peace some do see:

The feeld where al my thoughts to war be traind,

How is thy grace by my strange fortune staind?

How thy low shrowdes by my sighs stormed be?

With sweet soft shades thou oft invitest mee

To steale some rest, but wretch I am constrained.

Spurd with Loves spurr, this held and shortly rained

With Cares hard hand, to runne and tosse in thee,

While the black horrors of the silent night,

Paint Woes black face so lively in my sight,

That tedious leasure markes eache wrinckled line:

But when Aurora leades out Phœbus daunce

Mine eyes then only winke for spite perchaunce,

That wormes shou’d have their Sunne and I want mine.

When farre spent night perswades each mortall eie

To whome nor Art nor Nature granted light:

To lay his then marke wanting shaftes of sight;

Clos’d whith their quivers in Sleeps armorie;
With windowes ope then most my heart doth lye
Viewing the shape of darknes and delight,

And takes that sad hue, with which inward might

Of his mazde powres he keeps just harmony:

But when birds chirpe aire, and sweet aire which is

Mornes messenger with rose enameld skyes

Calls each wight to salute the heaven of blisse;

Intombd of lids then buried are mine eyes,
Forst by their Lord who is ashamd to find
Such light in sence with such a darkned mind.

Oh teares, no teares, but shoures from beauties skyes,

Making those Lilies and those Roses growe,

Which aie most faire now fairer needs must show,

While grateful pitty Beauty beautifies,

Oh minded sighs that from that brest doe rise,

Whose pants doe make unspilling Creame to flow,

Winged with woes breath so doth Zephire blow

As might refresh the hel where my soule fries,

Oh plaints conserv’d in such a surgred phrase,

That eloquence envies, and yet doth prayse,

While sightd out words a perfect musicke gives

Such teares, sighs, plaints, no sorrow is, but joy:

Or if such heavenly sighs must prove annoy,

All mirth farewel, let me in sorrow live.

Stella is sicke, and in that sick-bed lyes

Sweetenes, that breathes and pants as oft as shee:

And Grace sicke too, such fine conclusions tries,

That sicknes brings it selfe best grac’d to bee.

Beautie is sicke, but sicke in such faire guise,

That in that palenes Beauties white we see,

And Joy which is unsever’d from those eyes.

Stella now learnes, (strange case) to weepe with me,

Love moves thy paine and like a faithful page,

As thy looks sturre, runs up and downe to make

All folkes prest at thy wil thy paine to swage,

Nature with care seeks for his darlings sake,

Knowing worlds passe, ere she enough can finde

Of such heaven stuffe to cloath so heavenly minde.

Where be those Roses, which so sweetned earst our eyes?

Where be those red cheekes, which fair increase did frame

No hight of honor in the kindly badge of shame,

Who hath the crimson weeds stoln from the morning skies?

How doth the coullor fade of those vermillion eyes,

Which Nature selfe did make and selfe engrave the same?

I would know by what right this palenes overcame

That hue, whose force my heart in so great thraldom ties?

Gallens adopted sonnes, who by a beaten way

Their judgements hackney on, the fault of sicknes lay:

But feeling proofe makes me say, they mistake it sure,

It is but love that makes this paper perfect white,

To write therein more fresh the storie of Delight,

Whiles Beauties reddest incke Venus for him doth stir.

O happie Thames that didst my Stella beare,
I saw thee with full many a smiling line
Upon thy cheereful face loves Livery weare:

While those faire Plannets on thy streames did shine,

The boat for joy could not to dance forbeare,
While wanton winds with beautie so divine
Ravisht, staid not, til in her golden haire

They did themselves (ô sweetest prison) twine.

But faine those friendly winds there would their stay

Have made, but forst by Nature still to flie,

First did with puffing kisse those Lockes display:

She so discovered, blusht. From window I

With sight thereof cride out; Ah faire disgrace,

Let honours selfe to thee graunt highest place.

Envious wits what hath beene mine offence,

That with such poisoned eare my wits you marke,

That to each word, nay sigh of mine you harke,

As grudging me my sorrows eloquence?

Ah, is it not enough, that I am thence:

Thence, so farre thence, that scantly anie sparke

Of comfort dare come to this dungeon darke
Where rigorous exile lockes up al my sense:
But if I by a happie window passe,
If I but Starres uppon mine Armour beare,

Sicke, thirstie, glad (though but of empty glasse)

Your morals note straight my hid meaning there,

From out my ribs a whirlewind proves that I

Doe Stella love. Fooles, who doth it denie?

Unhappie sight and hath shee vanisht by,

So neere, in so good time so free a place,

Dead glasse dost thou thine object so imbrase,

As what my hart still sees thou canst not spie,

I sweare by hir Love and my lacke, that I
Was not in fault that bent my dazling race
Onely unto the heaven of Stella’s face,
Counting but dust that in her way did lie:

But cease mine eyes, your teares doe witnes well,

That you guiltles therefore your necklace mist,

Curst be the Page from whome the bad torch fell,

Curst be the night which did your will resist,

Curst be the Cochman that did drive so fast,

With no lesse curse then absence makes me tast.

O absent presence Stella is not here,

False flattering hope that with so faire a face,

Bare me in hand that in this Orphane place,

Stella I saw, my Stella should appeare,

What saist thou now, where is that dainty cleare

Thou wouldst mine eyes should helpe their famisht case:

But how art thou? now that selfe felt disgrace

Doth make me most to wish thy comfort neere,
But heere I doe shore of faire Ladies meete,
Who may with charme of conversation sweete
Make in my heavie mould new thoughts to grow:
Sure they prevaile as much with me, as he
That bad his frind but then new maimde to be
Merrie with him, and so forget his woe.

Stella since thou so right a Princesse art
Of all the Powers which life bestowe on me,
That ere by them ought undertaken be,
They first resort unto that soveraigne part;
Sweete for a time give respite to my heart,

Which pants as though it still should leape to thee:

And on my thought give the Lieuetenancie

To this great cause, which needes both wit and Art,

And as a Queene who from her presence sends

Whom shee emploies, dismisse from thee my wit,

Still to have wrought that thy owne will attends,

For servants shame of Maisters blame doth fit.

O let not Fooles in me thy works approve,

And scorning say, see what it is to love.

When sorrow (using my owne Siers might)

Melts downe his lead into my boyling brest,

Through that darke Furnace of my heart opprest,

There shines a joy from thee my onely light:

But soone as thought of thee breeds my delight,

And my young soule once flutters to her nest,

Most dead dispaire my daily unbidden guest

Clips strait my wings, strait wraps me in his night,

And makes me then bow downe my head and say,
Ah what doth Phœbus gold that wretch availe,
Whom Iron darts doth keepe from use of daie,

So strangely (alas) thy workes on me prevaile,

That in my woes for thee, thou art my joy;

And in my joyes for thee, my onel’ anoy.

Other Sonnets of variable verse.

First Sonnet.

Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,

Which now my brest surchargd with musick lendeth?

To you, to you all song of praise is due,

Onely in you my song begins and endeth.

2 Who hath the eyes which marrie state with pleasure,

Who keepes the key of Natures chiefest treasure:

To you, to you, all song of praise be due,

Onely for you the heavens forget all measure.

3 Who hath the lips where wit with fairenes raigneth,

Who womenkinde at once both decks and staineth:

To you, to you all song of praise is due,

Onely by you Cupid his crowne maintaineth.

4 Who hath the feet whose steps all sweetnes planteth,

Who els for whom Fame worthie trumpets wanteth:

To you, to you all song of praise be due,

Onely to you her scepter Venus granteth.

5 Who hath the brest whose milk doth patience nourish,

Whose grace is such, that when it chides doth cherish:

To you, to you all song of praise be due,

Onely through you the tree of life doth floorish.

6 Who hath the hand which without stroke subdueth

Who long hid beautie with encrease renueth:

To you, to you all song of praise is due,

Only at you all envie hopelesse endeth.

7 Who hath the haire which most loose most fast tieth,

Who makes a man live then glad when he dieth:

To you, to you all song of praise be due,

Onely of you the flatterer never lieth.

8 Who hath the voyce which soule from senses sunders,

Whose force but yours the bolt of beautie thunders?

To you, to you all song of praise is due,

Onely with you no miracles are wonders.

9 Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,

Which now my breast orechargd with Musick lendeth?

To you, to you all song of praise is due,

Onely in you my song begins and endeth.

Second Sonnet.

Have I caught my heavenly Juel

Teaching Sleepe most faire to be:

Now will I teach her, that she

When shee wakes is too too cruell.

2 Since sweete Sleepe her eyes hath charmed,

The two onely darts of Love:

Now will I with that Boy prove

Some play while he is disarmed.

3 Her tongue waking still refuseth,

Giving franklie niggard no:

Now will I attempt to knowe,

What no her tongue sleeping useth.

4 See the hand that waking gardeth,

Sleeping grants a free resort:

Now I will invade the fort.

Cowards Love with losse rewardeth.

5 But (O foole) thinke of the danger

Of her just and high disdaine.

Now will I (alas) refraine

Love feares nothing else but anger.

6 Yet those lippes so sweetly swelling,
Do invite a stealing kisse;
Now but venture will I this,
Who will read must first learne spelling.

7 Oh sweete kisse, but ah shee is waking.

Lowring beautie chastens mee.

Now will I for feare hence flee,

Foole, more Foole for no more taking.

The third Sonnet.

If Orpheus voyce had force to breathe such musicks Love

Through pores of senseles trees, as it could make them move:

If stones good measure daunst the Thebane walls to builde,

To cadens of the tunes which Amphions Lyre did yeeld,

More cause a like effect at least wise bringeth.

O stones, ô trees, learne hearing, Stella singeth.

2 If Love might sweeten so a boy of Shepheards brood,

To make a Lyzard dull to taste Loves food:

If Eagle fierce could so in Grecian maide delight,

As her eyes were his light, her death his endlesse night:

Earth gave that Love, heaven (I trow) Love refineth.

O Beasts, ô Birds, looke Love; for Stella shineth.

3 The beasts, birds, stones & trees feele this, and feeling love:

And if the trees, nor stones stirre not the same to prove.

Nor beasts, nor birds doo come unto this blessed gaze:

Know that small Love is quick, and great Love doth amaze:

They are amaz’d, but you with reason armed.

O eyes, O eares of men, how are you charmed?

The fourth Sonnet.

Onely Joy, now here you are,

Fit to heare and ease my care:

Let my whispering voyce obtaine

Sweete rewards for sharpest paine:

Take me to thee, and thee to mee.

No no no no, my Deare let bee.

2 Night hath closde all in her cloke,
Twinkling starres love thoughts provoke,
Danger hence good care doth keepe,
Jelouzie him selfe doth sleepe:
Take me to thee, and thee to mee.

No no no no, my Deare let bee.

3 Better place no wit can finde
Cupids knot to loose or binde,
These sweete flowers, our fine bed too,
Us in their best language wooe:
Take me to thee, and thee to mee:

No no no no, my Deare let bee.

4 This small light the Moone bestoes,

Serves thy beames for to disclose,

So to raise my heart more hie:

Feare not, els none can us spie:

Take me to thee, and thee to mee.

No no no no, my Deare let bee.

5 That you heard was but a mouse,
Dumbe Sleepe holdeth all the house,
Yet a sleepe (methinks) they say,
Yong fooles, take time while you may:
Take me to thee, and thee to mee.

No no no no, my Deare let bee.

6 Niggard time threates if we misse
This large offer of our blisse,
Long stay ere shee graunt the same:
Sweete then, while ech thing doth frame
Take me to thee, and thee to mee.

No no no no, my Deare let bee.

7 Your faire Mother is a bed,

Candles out, and curtaines spred;

Shee thinkes you do letters write:

Write, but first let me endite.

Take me to thee, and thee to mee.

No no no no, my Deare let bee.

8 Sweete, alas why strive you thus?

Concord better fitteth us;

Leave to Mars the force of hands.

Your power in your beautie stands.

Take me to thee, and thee to mee.

No no no no, my Deare let bee.

9 Woe to mee, and do you sweare,

Me to hate but I forbeare?

Curst be my destinies all,

That brought mee so high to fall:

Soone with my death Ile please thee.

No no no no, my Deare let bee.

The fifth Sonnet.

While favour fed my hope, delight with hope was brought,

Thought waited on delight, and speach did follow thought,

Then drew my tongue and pen records unto thy glorie;

I thought all words were lost that were not spent of thee,

I thought each place was darke but where thy lights would be,

And all eares worse than deaffe, that heard not out thy storie.

2 I said thou wert most faire, and so indeede thou art;

I said thou wert most sweete, sweete poyson to my hart;

I said my soule was thine, ô would I then had lied;

I said thy eyes were starres, thy breasts the milken way,

Thy fingers Cupids shafts, thy voice the Angels lay:

And all is said so well, that no man it denied.

3 But now that hope is lost, unkindnes kils delight,

Yet thought and speach do live, thought metamorphisde quite,

For rage now rules the reynes, which guided were by pleasure,

I thinke now of thy faults, who late wrote of thy praise,

That speech falls now to blame which did thy honour raise:

The same key open can, which can locke up a treasure.

4 Then thou whom partiall heavens conspir’d in one to frame

The proofe of beauties worke, the inheritance of fame,

The mansion state of blisse, and just excuse of lovers:

See now those feathers pluckt wherewith thou flewest most hie,

See what cloudes of reproach shall darke thy honours skie;

Whom fault once casteth downe, hardly high state recovers.

5 And ô my Muse, though oft you luld her in your lap,

And then a heavenly Childe gave her Ambrosian pap,

And to that braine of hers your highest gifts infused:

Since she disdaining me, doth you in me disdaine,

Suffer not her to laugh, and both we suffer paine:

Princes in subjects wrongd must deeme themselves abused.

6 Your client poore, my selfe, shall Stella handle so,

Revenge, revenge, my Muse defiance trumpet blowe,

Threat, threat, what may be done; yet do no more but threaten:

Ah, my sute granted is, I feele my breast doth swell;

Now Childe, a lesson new you shall begin to spell,

Sweet babes must babies have, but shrewd girles must be beaten.

7 Thinke now no more to heare of warme fine shining snow,

Nor blushing Lillyes, nor pearles Rubie hidden row,

Nor of that golden sea, whose waves in curles are broken:

But of thy soule fraught with such ungratefulnesse,

As where thou soone mightst help, most there thou dost oppresse:

Ungratefull who is cald, the worst of ills is spoken.

8 Yet worse than worse, I say thou art a Thiefe. A thiefe?

Now God forbid: a thiefe, and of worst thieves a thiefe;

Thieves steale for neede, & steale for goods, which paine recovers:

But thou, rich in all joyes, dost rob my goods from mee,

Which cannot be restorde by time nor industrie:

Of foes the spoyle is evill, farre more of constant lovers.

9 Yet gentle English thieves doo rob, and will not slay;

Thou English murdring thiefe, wilt have hearts for thy pray.

The name of murdrer now on thy faire forhead sitteth,

And even while I do speake my death wounds bleeding bee,

Which I protest proceed from onely cruell thee.

Who may and will not save, murther in trueth committeth.

10 But murthers private fault seemes but a toy to thee.

I lay then to thy charge unjustice Tirannie,

If rule by force without all claime, a Tyrant sheweth;

For thou art my hearts Lord, who am not borne thy slave,

And which is worse makes me most guiltles torments have.

A rightfull Prince by unrightfull deeds a Tyrant groweth.

11 Loe you grow proud with this, for Tyrants makes folks bow:

Of foule rebellion then I do appeach thee now,

Rebels by Natures lawes rebell by way of reason:

Thou sweetest subject wert borne in the Realme of Love,

And yet against thy Prince, thy force dost daily prove.

No vertue merits praise, once toucht with blot of Treason.

12 But valiant Rebels oft in fooles mouthes purchase fame,

I now then staine thy white with blackest blot of shame,

Both Rebel to the Sonne, and vagrant from the Mother,

For wearing Venus badge, in every part of thee,

Unto Dianaes traine thou runnaway didst flie:

Who faileth one is false, though trustie to another.

13 What is not this enough, nay farre worse commeth here:

A Witch I say thou art, though thou so faire appeare.

For I protest, mine eyes never thy sight enjoyeth,

But I in mee am chang’d, I am alive and dead.

My feete are turn’d to rootes, my heart becommeth lead,

No witchcraft is so ill, as which mans minde destroyeth.

14 Yet Witches may repent, thou art farre worse than they:

Alas, that I am forst such evill of thee to say:

I say thou art a Divel though cloathd in Angels shining:

For thy face tempts my soule to leave the heavens for thee,

And thy words of refuse doo powre even hell on mee:

Who tempts, and tempting plagues are Divels in true defining.

15 You then ungrateful theefe, you murthering Tirant you,

You Rebell runnaway, to Lord and Lady untrue,

You Witch, you Divel (alas) you still in me beloved,

You see what I can say: mend yet your froward minde,

And such skill in my Muse you reconcil’d shall finde,

That by these cruell words your praises shal be proved.

The Sixth Sonnet.

O You that heare this voice,
O you that see this face,
Say whether of the choice,
Deserves the better place,
Feare not to judge this bate,
For it is voide of hate.

2 This side doth Beautie take,
For that doth Musick speake,
Fit Orators to make,
The strongest judgements weake.
The barre to plead the right,
Is onely true delight.

3 Thus doth the voice and face,
The gentle Lawiers wage,
Like loving brothers case,
For Fathers heritage,
That each while each contends,
It selfe to other lends.

4 For Beautie beautifies
With heavenly view and grace,
The heavenly harmonie;
And in this faultles face
The perfect beauties bee,
A perfect harmonie.

5 Musick more lustie swels
In speeches nobly placed,
Beautie as farre excels
In actions aptly graced.
A friend each partie drawes,
To countenance his cause.

6 Love more affected seemes
To Beauties lonely light,
And wonder more esteemes
Of Musicks wondrous might;
But both to both so bent,
As both in both are spent.

7 Musicke doth witnes call

The eare his truth to trie:

Beautie brings to the hall

The judgement of the eie:

Both in their objects such,

As no exceptions tuch.

8 The common Sense which might
Be arbitrer of this,
To be forsooth upright,
To both sides partiall is:
He laies on this chiefe praise,
Chiefe praise on that he laies.

9 Then reason Princesse hie,
Whose throne is in the minde;
Which Musicke can in skie,
And hidden Beauties finde:
Say, whether thou wilt crowne
With limitlesse renowne.

The Seventh Sonnet.

Whose senses in so evil comfort their stepdame Nature laies,

That ravishing delight in them most sweete tunes doth not raise,

Or if they doe delight therein, yet are so cloid with wit,

As with sententious lips to set a little vaine on it:

O let them heare these sacred tunes, & learne in wonders scholes,

To be (in things past bounds of wit) fooles if they be not fooles.

2 Who have so leaden eyes, as not to see sweete Beauties showe:

Or seeing, have so wooden wits as not that worth to knowe;

Or knowing have so muddie mindes, as not to be in love;

Or loving, have so frothie hearts, as easie thence to move:

O, let them see these heavenly beames, and in faire, letters reed

A lesson, fit both sight and skill, Love and firme Love to breed.

3 Heare then, but then with wonder hear; see, but admiring see,

No mortal gifts, no earthly fruts now heare diserned bee:

See, doo you see this face: a face, nay image of the skyes:

Of which, the two life-given lights are figured in her eyes:

Heare you this soule-invading voyce, and count it but a voyce,

The verie essence of their tunes, when Angls doo rejoyce.

The eighth Sonnet.

In a grove most rich of shade;

Where birds wanton Musicke made:

Maie then yong his pide weeds shewing,

New perfumes with flowrs fresh growing.

2 Astrophel with Stella sweet
Did for mutual comfort meete
Both within themselves oppressed,
But either in each other blessed.

3 Him great harmes had taught much care,

Her faire necke a foule yoke bare:

But hir sight his cares did banish,

In his sight hir yoke did vanish.

4 Wept they had, alas the while:

But now teares themselves did smile,

While their eyes by Love directed,

Interchangeably reflected.

5 Sighd they had: but now betwixt

Sighs of woe were glad sighs mixt:

With armes crost, yet testifying

Restles rest, and living dying.

6 Their eares hungrie of each word
Which the deare tongue would afford,
But their tongues restrained from walking,
Till their harts had ended talking.

7 But when their tongues could not speake,

Love it selfe did silence breake:

Love did set his lips asunder

Thus to speake in love and wonder.

8 Stella, Sovereigne of my joy,

Faire Triumphres in annoy:

Stella, Starre of heavenly fire,

Stella, loadstarre of desire.

9 Stella, in whose shining eyes
Are the lights of Cupids skyes,
Whose beames where they are once darted
Love there with is straight imparted.

10 Stella, whose voyce when it speakes,

Sences all asunder breakes:

Stella, whose voyce when it singeth

Angles to acquaintance bringeth.

11 Stella, in whose bodie is

Writ the carecters of blis:

Whose sweete face all beautie passeth,

Save the minde which it surpasseth.

12 Graunt, ô graunt, but speach (alas)

Failes me, fearing on to passe:

Graunt to me, what am I saying?

But no sinne there is in praying.

13 Graunt (ô Deare) on knees I pray
(Knees on ground he then did stay)
That not I, but since I prove you,
Time and place from me nere move you.

14 Never season was more fit,

Never roome more apt for it:

Smiling aire allowes my reason:

These birds sing; now use the season.

15 This small winde which so sweete is,

See how it the leaves doth kis:

Each tree in his best attyring,

Sense of Love to Love inspiring.

16 Love makes earth the water drinke,

Love to earth makes water sinke:

And if dumb things be so wittie,

Shall a heavenly Grace want pittie?

17 There his hands (in their speach) faine

Would have made tongues language plaine:

But her hands his hands compelling,

Gave repulse, all grace expelling.

18 Therewithall, away she went,
Leaving him with passion rent,
With what she had done and spoken,
That therewith my song is broken.

The ninth Sonnet.

Goe my Flocke, goe get you hence,
Seeke a better place of feeding,
Where you may have some defence
From the stormes in my breast bleeding,
And showers from mine eyes proceeding.

2 Leave a wretch in whom all woe,
Can abide to keepe no measure;
Merrie Flocke, such one forgoe
Unto whom mirth is displeasure,
Onely rich in measures treasure.

3 Yet alas before you goe,
Heare your wofull Masters storie,
Which to stones I else would showe;
Sorrow onely then hath glorie,
When tis excellently sorie.

4 Stella, fairest Shepheardesse,
Fairest, but yet cruelst ever:
Stella, whom the heavens still blesse,
Though against me she persever,
Though I blisse inherit never.

5 Stella hath refused mee,
Stella, who more love hath proved
In this caitiffe hart to bee,
Than can in good to us be moved
Towards Lambkins best beloved.

6 Stella hath refused mee
Astrophel that so well served.
In this plesant Spring (Muse) see,
While in pride flowers be preserved,
Himselfe onely, winter starved.

7 Why (alas) then doth she sweare
That she loveth me so deerely;
Seeing me so long to beare
Coales of love that burne so cleerly:
And yet leave me hopelesse meerly.

8 Is that love? forsooth I trow.
If I saw my good dogg grieved,
And a helpe for him did know,
My love should not be beleeved,
But he were by me releeved.

9 No, she hates me (welaway)
Faining love, somewhat to please me,
Knowing if she should display
All hate, death soone would seaze me,
And of hideous torments ease me.

10 Then my deare Flocke now adieu:
But alas, if in your straying
Heavenly Stella meete with you,
Tell her in your piteous blaying
Her poore Slaves just decaying.

The Tenth Sonnet.

O Deare Life, when shall it bee,
That mine eyes thine eyes shall see,
And in them thy minde discover,
Whether absence have had force
Thy remembrance to divorce
From the image of thy Lover?

2 O if I my selfe finde not
By thine absence oft forgot,
Nor debard from Beauties treasure,
Let no tongue aspire to tell
In what high joyes I shall dwell,
Onely thought aimes at the pleasure.

3 Thought therefore will I send thee
To take up the place for mee,
Long I will not after tarrie:
There unseene thou maist be bold
Those faire wonders to behold,
Which in them my hopes do carrie.

4 Thought, see thou no place forbeare,
Enter bravely everiewhere,
Seaze on all to her belonging:
But if thou wouldst garded bee,
Fearing her beames, take with thee
Strength of liking, rage of longing.

5 O my Thoughts, my Thoughts surcease,
Your delights my woes encrease,
My life fleetes with too much thinking:
Thinke no more, but die in mee,
Till thou shalt received bee,
At her lips my Nectar drinking.

Finis Syr P. S.

Transcriber’s Note

List of changes made to the text to correct suspected printing errors (by comparison with other editions):

Page 4, “romes” changed to “comes” (comes forth her grace).

Page 17, “sume” changed to “some” (And of some sent).

Page 17, “hormanship advaunc” changed to “horsmanship advaunce” (my skill in horsmanship advaunce).

Page 26, “durssed” changed to “curssed” (curssed in my blisse).

Page 26, “eloquene” changed to “eloquence” (with dumbe eloquence).

Page 44, “love fooles” changed to “love. Fooles” (Doe _Stella_ love. Fooles, who doth it denie?).

Page 47, “paise” changed to “praise” (all song of praise is due).

Page 51, “hard” changed to “heard” (that heard not out).

Page 52, “wrongs” changed to “wrongd” (Princes in subjects wrongd).

Page 56, stanza number “2” added to the 7th sonnet.

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Table of Contents

- SIR P. S. HIS ASTROPHEL AND STELLA.

- Other Sonnets of variable verse.

- First Sonnet.

- Second Sonnet.

- The third Sonnet.

- The fourth Sonnet.

- The fifth Sonnet.

- The Sixth Sonnet.

- The Seventh Sonnet.

- The eighth Sonnet.

- The ninth Sonnet.

- The Tenth Sonnet.

- Transcriber’s Note

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE