1247 Love poems

Happy ye leaves when as those lilly hands, Which hold my life in their dead doing might Shall handle you and hold in loves soft bands, Lyke captives trembling at the victors sight. And happy lines, on which with starry light, Those lamping eyes will deigne sometimes to look And reade the sorrowes of my dying spright, Written with teares in harts close bleeding book. And happy rymes bath’d in the sacred brooke, Of Helicon whence she derived is, When ye behold that Angels blessed looke, My soules long lacked foode, my heavens blis. Leaves, lines, and rymes, seeke her to please alone, Whom if ye please, I care for other none.

The sovereign beauty which I do admire, Witness the world how worthy to be praised: The light whereof hath kindled heavenly fire In my frail spirit, by her from baseness raised; That being now with her huge brightness dazed, Base thing I can no more endure to view; But looking still on her, I stand amazed At wondrous sight of so celestial hue. So when my tongue would speak her praises due, It stopped is with thought's astonishment: And when my pen would write her titles true, It ravish'd is with fancy's wonderment: Yet in my heart I then both speak and write The wonder that my wit cannot endite.

New yeare forth looking out of Janus gate, Doth seeme to promise hope of new delight: And bidding th’old Adieu, his pass

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.