Edmund Spenser

Men call you fair, and you do credit it, For that your self ye daily such do see: But the true fair, that is the gentle wit, And vertuous mind, is much more prais'd of me. For all the rest, how ever fair it be, Shall turn to naught and lose that glorious hue: But only that is permanent and free From frail corruption, that doth flesh ensue. That is true beauty: that doth argue you To be divine, and born of heavenly seed: Deriv'd from that fair Spirit, from whom all true And perfect beauty did at first proceed. He only fair, and what he fair hath made, All other fair, like flowers untimely fade.

Most happy letters, fram'd by skilful trade, With which that happy name was first design'd: The which three times thrice happy hath me made, With gifts of body, fortune, and of mind. The first my being to me gave by kind, From mother's womb deriv'd by due descent, The second is my sovereign Queen most kind, That honour and large richesse to me lent. The third my love, my life's last ornament, By whom my spirit out of dust was raised: To speak her praise and glory excellent, Of all alive most worthy to be praised. Ye three Elizabeths for ever live, That three such graces did unto me give.

I joy to see how in your drawen work, Your selfe unto the Bee ye doe compare; And me unto the Spyder that doth lurke, In close awayt to catch her unaware. Right so your selfe were caught in cunning snare Of a deare for, and thralled to his love: In whose streight bands ye now captived are So firmely, that ye never may remove. But as your whole worke is woven all about, With woodbynd flowers and fragrant Enlantine: So sweet your prison you in time shall prove, With many deare delights bedecked fyne, And all thensforth eternall peace shall see Betweene the Spyder and the gentle Bee.

Fresh spring the herald of loves mighty king, In whose cote armour richly are displayed All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring In goodly colours gloriously arrayd: Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd, Yet in her winters bowre not well awake: Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid Unless she doe him by the forelock take. Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make, To wayt on love amongst his lovely crew: Where every one that misseth then her make, Shall be by him amearst with penance dew. Make hast therefore sweet love, whilest it is prime, For none can call againe the passèd time.

Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day, Didst make thy triumph over death and sin: And having harrow'd hell, didst bring away Captivity thence captive, us to win: This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin, And grant that we for whom thou diddest die, Being with thy dear blood clean wash'd from sin, May live for ever in felicity. And that thy love we weighing worthily, May likewise love thee for the same again: And for thy sake, that all like dear didst buy, With love may one another entertain. So let us love, dear love, like as we ought, Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.

Like as a huntsman after weary chase, Seeing the game from him escap'd away, Sits down to rest him in some shady place, With panting hounds beguiled of their prey: So after long pursuit and vain assay, When I all weary had the chase forsook, The gentle deer return'd the self-same way, Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook. There she beholding me with milder look, Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide: Till I in hand her yet half trembling took, And with her own goodwill her firmly tied. Strange thing, me seem'd, to see a beast so wild, So goodly won, with her own will beguil'd.

To all those happy blessings which ye have, With plenteous hand by heaven upon you thrown: This one disparagement they to you gave, That ye your love lent to so meane a one. Yee whose high worths surpassing paragon, Could not on earth have found one fit for mate, Ne but in heaven matchable to none, Why did ye stoup unto so lowly state. But ye thereby much greater glory gate, Then had ye sorted with a princes pere: For now your light doth more it selfe dilate, And in my darknesse greater doth appeare. Yet since your light hath once enlumind me, With my reflex yours shall encreased be.

The weary yeare his race now having run, The new begins his compast course anew: With shew of morning mylde he hath begun, Betokening peace and plenty to ensew. So let us, which this chaunge of weather vew, Chaunge eeke our mynds and former lives amend, The old yeares sinnes forepast let us eschew, And fly the faults with which we did offend. Then shall the new yeares joy forth freshly send, Into the glooming world his gladsome ray: And all these stormes which now his beauty blend, Shall turne to caulmes and tymely cleare away. So likewise love cheare you your heavy spright, And chaunge old yeares annoy to new delight.

So oft as I her beauty do behold, And therewith do her cruelty compare, I marvel of what substance was the mould The which her made at once so cruel-fair. Not earth; for her high thoughts more heavenly are: Not water; for her love doth burn like fire: Not air; for she is not so light or rare: Not fire; for she doth freeze with faint desire. Then needs another element inquire Whereof she might be made; that is, the sky. For to the heaven her haughty looks aspire, And eke her love is pure immortal high. Then since to heaven ye likened are the best, Be like in mercy as in all the rest.

Of this worlds Theatre in which we stay, My love lyke the Spectator ydly sits Beholding me that all the pageants play, Disguysing diversly my troubled wits. Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits, And mask in myrth lyke to a Comedy: Soone after when my joy to sorrow flits, I waile and make my woes a Tragedy. Yet she beholding me with constant eye, Delights not in my merth nor rues my smart: But when I laugh she mocks, and when I cry She laughes, and hardens evermore her hart. What then can move her? if not merth nor mone, She is no woman, but a sencelesse stone.