1247 Love poems

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.

One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide, and made my pains his prey. "Vain man," said she, "that dost in vain assay, A mortal thing so to immortalize; For I myself shall like to this decay, And eke my name be wiped out likewise." "Not so," (quod I) "let baser things devise To die in dust, but you shall live by fame: My verse your vertues rare shall eternize, And in the heavens write your glorious name: Where whenas death shall all the world subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew."

Fayre is my love, when her fayre golden heares, With the loose wynd ye waving chance to marke: Fayre when the rose in her red cheekes appears, Or in her eyes the fyre of love does sparke. Fayre when her brest lyke a rich laden barke, With pretious merchandize she forth doth lay: Fayre when that cloud of pryde which oft doth dark Her goodly light with smiles she drives away, But fayrest she, when so she doth display The gate with pearles and rubyes richly dight: Throgh which her words so wise do make their way To beare the message of her gentle spright. The rest be works of natures wonderment, But this the worke of harts astonishment.

Lyke as the Culver on the barèd bough, Sits mourning for the absence of her mate: And in her songs sends many a wishfull vow, For his returne that seemes to linger late, So I alone now left disconsolate, Mourne to my selfe the absence of my love: And wandring here and there all desolate, Seek with my playnts to match that mournful dove: Ne joy of ought that under heaven doth hove, Can comfort me, but her owne joyous sight: Whose sweet aspèct both God and man can move, In her unspotted pleasauns to delight. Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis, And dead my life that wants such lively blis.

More then most faire, full of the living fire, Kindled above unto the maker neere: No eies but joyes, in which al powers conspire, That to the world naught else be counted deare. Thrugh your bright beams doth not the blinded guest Shoot out his darts to base affections wound? But Angels come to lead fraile mindes to rest In chast desires on heavenly beauty bound. You frame my thoughts and fashion me within, You stop my toung, and teach my hart to speake, You calme the storme that passion did begin, Strong thrugh your cause, but by your vertue weak. Dark is the world, where your light shined never; Well is he borne, that may behold you ever.

Ye tradefull Merchants that with weary toyle, Do seeke most pretious things to make your gain: And both the Indias of their treasures spoile, What needeth you to seeke so farre in vaine? For loe my love doth in her selfe containe All this worlds riches that may farre be found, If Saphyres, loe hir eies be Saphyres plaine, If Rubies, loe hir lips be Rubies sound: If Pearles, hir teeth be pearles both pure and round; If Yvorie, her forhead yvory weene; If Gold, her locks are finest gold on ground; If silver, her faire hands are silver sheene; But that which fairest is, but few behold, Her mind adornd with vertues manifold.

Penelope for her Ulisses sake, Deviz’d a Web her wooers to deceave: In which the worke that she all day did make The same at night she did again unreave: Such subtile craft my Damzell doth conceave, Th’ importune suit of my desire to shnone: For all that I in many dayes doo weave, In one short houre I find by her undonne. So when I thinke to end that I begonne, I must begin and never bring to end: For with one looke she spils that long I sponne, And with one word my whole years work doth rend. Such labour like the Spyders web I fynd, Whose fruitless worke is broken with least wynd.

My Love is like to ice, and I to fire: How comes it then that this her cold so great Is not dissolved through my so hot desire, But harder grows the more I her entreat? Or how comes it that my exceeding heat Is not allayed by her heart-frozen cold, But that I burn much more in boiling sweat, And feel my flames augmented manifold? What more miraculous thing may be told, That fire, which all things melts, should harden ice, And ice, which is congeal’d with senseless cold, Should kindle fire by wonderful device? Such is the power of love in gentle mind, That it can alter all the course of kind.

Three sorts of serpents do resemble thee: That dangerous eye-killing cockatrice, The enchanting siren, which doth so entice, The weeping crocodile—these vile pernicious three. The basilisk his nature takes from thee, Who for my life in secret wait dost lie, And to my heart sendst poison from thine eye: Thus do I feel the pain, the cause, yet cannot see. Fair-maid no more, but Mer-maid be thy name, Who with thy sweet alluring harmony Hast played the thief, and stolen my heart from me, And like a tyrant makst my grief thy game: Thou crocodile, who when thou hast me slain, Lamentst my death, with tears of thy disdain.

Thou twist of gold, woven so curiously, Be filled with warmth and urgent tenderness, And cool not on her throat’s white nakedness, Like metal death, but burn insistently, Reminding her of me! To save her from the serpent’s little eye I set a stone of blue chalcedony Within a cunning loop—so it shall be Aware and mindful when her lashes lie Untaught of danger nigh. To keep her from the dragon’s hungry tooth In seven laps the quorls were subtly twined; From seven rivers grains of gold were mined, Hammered by black elves’ mauls, and tempered sooth In hissing brews uncouth. So lie within my satchel, Amulet, With many another dull and boughten thing, Till I am done with all my wandering And fix thee pendant on the carcanet Around her white neck set. For I have graven some small incantation In feathery lines upon this rounded wire— King Solomon made such for his desire, And Sheba’s throat was warm for subjugation Hearing the King’s translation.