1247 Love poems

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! What, may it be that even in heav'nly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries! Sure, if that long-with love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case, I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

I might!—unhappy word—O me, I might, And then would not, or could not, see my bliss; Till now wrapt in a most infernal night, I find how heav'nly day, wretch! I did miss. Heart, rend thyself, thou dost thyself but right; No lovely Paris made thy Helen his, No force, no fraud robb'd thee of thy delight, Nor Fortune of thy fortune author is; But to myself myself did give the blow, While too much wit, forsooth, so troubled me That I respects for both our sakes must show: And yet could not by rising morn foresee How fair a day was near: O punish'd eyes, That I had been more foolish,—or more wise!

What, have I thus betrayed my liberty? Can those black beams such burning marks engrave In my free side? or am I born a slave, Whose neck becomes such yoke of tyranny? Or want I sense to feel my misery? Or sprite, disdain of such disdain to have? Who for long faith, though daily help I crave, May get no alms but scorn of beggary. Virtue, awake! Beauty but beauty is; I may, I must, I can, I will, I do Leave following that which it is gain to miss. Let her go. Soft, but here she comes. Go to, Unkind, I love you not! O me, that eye Doth make my heart give to my tongue the lie!

Soul’s joy, bend not those morning stars from me, Where virtue is made strong by beauty’s might, Where love is chasteness, pain doth learn delight, And humbleness grows one with majesty. Whatever may ensue, O let me be Co-partner of the riches of that sight; Let not mine eyes be hell-driv’n from that light; O look, O shine, O let me die and see. For though I oft my self of them bemoan, That through my heart their beamy darts be gone, Whose cureless wounds even now most freshly bleed, Yet since my death wound is already got, Dear killer, spare not they sweet cruel shot; A kind of grace it is to slay with speed.

I on my horse, and Love on me, doth try Our horsemanships, while by strange work I prove A horseman to my horse, a horse to Love, And now man’s wrongs in me, poor beast, descry. The reins wherewith my rider doth me tie Are humbled thoughts, which bit of reverence move, Curbed in with fear, but with gilt boss above Of hope, which makes it seem fair to the eye. The wand is will; thou, fancy, saddle art, Girt fast by memory; and while I spur My horse, he spurs with sharp desire to my heart; He sits me fast, however I do stir; And now hath made me to his hand so right That in the manage myself takes delight.

It is most true, that eyes are formed to serve The inward light; and that the heavenly part Ought to be king, from whose rules who do swerve, Rebels to Nature, strive for their own smart. It is most true, what we call Cupid’s dart, An image is, which for ourselves we carve; And, fools, adore in temple of our heart, Till that good god make Church and churchman starve. True, that true beauty virtue is indeed, Whereof this beauty can be but a shade, Which elements with mortal mixture breed; True, that on earth we are but pilgrims made, And should in soul up to our country move; True; and yet true, that I must Stella love.

A strife is grown between Virtue and Love, While each pretends that Stella must be his: Her eyes, her lips, her all, saith Love, do this, Since they do wear his badge, most firmly prove. But Virtue thus that title doth disprove, That Stella (O dear name) that Stella is That virtuous soul, sure heir of heav’nly bliss; Not this fair outside, which our hearts doth move. And therefore, though her beauty and her grace Be Love’s indeed, in Stella’s self he may By no pretense claim any manner place. Well, Love, since this demur our suit doth stay, Let Virtue have that Stella's self; yet thus, Let Virtue but that body grant to us.

Highlight Actions Enable or disable annotations O Grammar rules, O now your virtues show; So children still read read To discern and discover you with awful awful Archaic term for “awe-filled”. eyes, As my young Dove may in your precepts wise Her grant to me, by her own virtue know. For late with heart most high, with eyes most low, I crav’d the thing which ever she denies: She lightning Love lightning Love That is, lightening Love , displaying Venus’ skies Venus’ skies Venus as both the planet (evening star) and the goddess of Love , Least once should not be heard, twice said, No, No. Sing Sing … sing This line is an example of epanalepsis, the poetic technique of beginning and ending the line with the same word. then my Muse, now Io P æ an Io P æ an Homer began his hymn to Apollo with these words, which serve as a Latinized version of the phrase “Sing Muse...” sing, Heav’ns envy not at my high triumphing: But Grammar’s force with sweet success confirm, For Grammar says (O this dear Stella weigh,) For Grammar says (to Grammar who says nay) That in one speech two Negatives affirm.

No more, my dear, no more these counsels try; Oh, give my passions leave to run their race; Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace; Let folk o'ercharg'd with brain against me cry; Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye; Let me no steps but of lost labour trace; Let all the earth with scorn recount my case, But do not will me from my love to fly. I do not envy Aristotle's wit, Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame; Nor aught do care though some above me sit; Nor hope nor wish another course to frame, But that which once may win thy cruel heart: Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art.

When Nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes, In colour black why wrapt she beams so bright? Would she in beamy black, like painter wise, Frame daintiest lustre, mix'd of shades and light? Or did she else that sober hue devise, In object best to knit and strength our sight; Lest, if no veil these brave gleams did disguise, They, sunlike, should more dazzle than delight? Or would she her miraculous power show, That, whereas black seems beauty's contrary, She even in black doth make all beauties flow? Both so, and thus, she, minding Love should be Plac'd ever there, gave him this mourning weed To honour all their deaths who for her bleed.