The Passionate Pilgrim

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WHen my Loue sweares that she is made of truth,
I doe beleeue her (though I know she lies)
That she might thinke me some vntutor'd youth,
Vnskilfull in the worlds false forgeries.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinkes me young,
Although I know my yeares be past the best:
I smiling, credite her false speaking toung,
Outfacing faults in Loue, with loues ill rest.
But wherefore sayes my Loue that she is young?
And wherefore say not I, that I am old?
O, Loues best habite is a soothing toung,
And Age (in Loue) loues not to haue yeares told.
Therfore Ile lye with Loue, and Loue with me,
Since that our faults in Loue thus smother'd be.
TWo Loues I haue, of Comfort, and Despaire,
That like two Spirits, do suggest me still:
My better Angell is a Man (right faire)
My worser spirite a Woman (colour'd ill.)
To winne me soone to hell, my Female euill
Tempteth my better Angell from my side,
And would corrupt my Saint to be a Diuell,
Wooing his purity with her faire pride.
And whether that my Angell be turnde feend,
Suspect I may (yet not directly tell:
For being both to me: both, to each friend,
I ghesse one Angell in anothers hell:
The truth I shall not know, but liue in doubt,
Till my bad Angell fire my good one out.
DId not the heauenly Rhetorike of thine eie,
Gainst whom the world could not hold argumet,
Perswade my hart to this false periurie:
Vowes for thee broke deserue not punishment.
A woman I forswore: but I will proue
Thou being a Goddesse, I forswore not thee:
My vow was earthly, thou a heauenly loue,
Thy grace being gainde, cures all disgrace in me.
My vow was breath, and breath a vapor is,
Then thou faire Sun, that on this earth doth shine,
Exhale this vapor vow, in thee it is:
If broken, then it is no fault of mine.
If by me broke, what foole is not so wise
To breake an Oath, to win a Paradise?
SWeet Cytherea, sitting by a Brooke,
With young Adonis, louely, fresh and greene,
Did court the Lad with many a louely looke,
Such lookes as none could looke but beauties queen.
She told him stories, to delight his eares:
She shew'd him fauors, to allure his eie:
To win his hart, she toucht him here and there,
Touches so soft still conquer chastitie.
But whether vnripe yeares did want conceit,
Or he refusde to take her figured proffer,
The tender nibler would not touch the bait,
But smile, and ieast, at euery gentle offer:
Then fell she on her backe, faire queen, & toward
He rose and ran away, ah foole too froward.
IF Loue make me forsworn, how shal I swere to loue?
O, neuer faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed:
Though to my selfe forsworn, to thee Ile constant proue,
those thoghts to me like Okes, to thee like Osiers bowed.
Studdy his byas leaues, and makes his booke thine eies,
where all those pleasures liue, that Art can comprehend:
If knowledge be the marke, to know thee shall suffice:
Wel learned is that toung that well can thee commend,
All ignorant that soule, that sees thee without wonder,
Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admyre:
Thine eye Ioues lightning seems, thy voice his dreadfull thunder
which (not to anger bent) is musick & sweet fire
Celestiall as thou art, O, do not loue that wrong:
To sing heauens praise, with such an earthly toung.
SCarse had the Sunne dride vp the deawy morne,
And scarse the heard gone to the hedge for shade:
When Cytherea (all in Loue forlorne)
A longing tariance for Adonis made
Vnder an Osyer growing by a brooke,
A brooke, where Adon vsde to coole his spleene:
Hot was the day, she hotter that did looke
For his approch, that often there had beene.
Anon he comes, and throwes his Mantle by,
And stood starke naked on the brookes greene brim:
The Sunne look't on the world with glorious eie,
Yet not so wistly, as this Queene on him:
He spying her, bounst in (whereas he stood)
Oh IOVE (quoth she) why was not I a flood?
FAire is my loue, but not so faire as fickle.
Milde as a Doue, but neither true nor trustie,
Brighter then glasse, and yet as glasse is brittle,
Softer then waxe, and yet as Iron rusty:
A lilly pale, with damaske die to grace her,
None fairer, nor none falser to deface her.
Her lips to mine how often hath she ioyned,
Betweene each kisse her othes of true loue swearing:
How many tales to please me hath she coyned,
Dreading my loue, the losse whereof still fearing.
Yet in the mids of all her pure protestings,
Her faith, her othes, her teares, and all were ieastings.
She burnt with loue, as straw with fire flameth,
She burnt out loue, as soone as straw out burneth:
She fram d the loue, and yet she foyld the framing,
She bad loue last, and yet she fell a turning.
Was this a louer, or a Letcher whether?
Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.
IF Musicke and sweet Poetrie agree,
As they must needs (the Sister and the brother)
Then must the loue be great twixt thee and me,
Because thou lou'st the one, and I the other.
Dowland to thee is deere, whose heauenly tuch
Vpon the Lute, dooth rauish humane sense,
Spenser to me, whose deepe Conceit is such,
As passing all conceit, needs no defence.
Thou lou'st to heare the sweet melodious sound,
That Phoebus Lute (the Queene of Musicke) makes:
And I in deepe Delight am chiefly drownd,
When as himselfe to singing he betakes.
One God is God of both (as Poets faine)
One Knight loues Both, and both in thee remaine.
FAire was the morne, when the faire Queene of loue,
Paler for sorrow then her milke white Doue,
For Adons sake, a youngster proud and wilde,
Her stand she takes vpon a steepe vp hill.
Anon Adonis comes with horne and hounds,
She silly Queene, with more then loues good will,
Forbad the boy he should not passe those grounds,
Once (quoth she) did I see a faire sweet youth
Here in these brakes, deepe wounded with a Boare,
Deepe in the thigh a spectacle of ruth,
Soe in my thigh (quoth she) here was the sore,
She shewed hers, he saw more wounds then one,
And blushing fled, and left her all alone.
SWeet Rose, faire flower, vntimely pluckt, soon vaded,
Pluckt in the bud, and vaded in the spring·
Bright orient pearle, alacke too timely shaded,
Faire creature kilde too soon by Deaths sharpe sting:
Like a greene plumbe that hangs vpon a tree:
And fals (through winde) before the fall should be.
I weepe for thee, and yet no cause I haue,
For why: thou lefts me nothing in thy will·
And yet thou lefts me more then I did craue,
For why: I craued nothing of thee still:
O yes (deare friend I pardon craue of thee,
Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.
VEnus with Adonis sitting by her,
Vnder a Mirtle shade began to wooe him,
She told the youngling how god Mars did trie her,
And as he fell to her, she fell to him.
Euen thus (quoth she) the warlike god embrac't me:
And then she clipt Adonis in her armes:
Euen thus (quoth she) the warlike god vnlac't me,
As if the boy should vse like louing charmes:
Euen thus (quoth she) he seized on my lippes,
And with her lips on his did act the seizure:
And as she fetched breath, away he skips,
And would not take her meaning nor her pleasure.
Ah, that I had my Lady at this bay:
To kisse and clip me till I run away.
Crabbed age and youth cannot liue together,
Youth is full of pleasance, Age is full of care,
Youth like summer morne, Age like winter weather,
Youth like summer braue, Age like winter bare.
Youth is full of sport, Ages breath is short,
Youth is nimble, Age is lame
Youth is hot and bold, Age is weake and cold,
Youth is wild, and Age is tame.
Age I doe abhor thee, Youth I doe adore thee,
O my loue my loue is young:
Age I doe defie thee. Oh sweet Shepheard hie thee:
For me thinks thou staies too long.
BEauty is but a vaine and doubtfull good,
A shining glosse, that vadeth sodainly,
A flower that dies, when first it gins to bud,
A brittle glasse, that s broken presently.
A doubtfull good, a glosse, a glasse, a flower,
Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an houre.
And as goods lost, are seld or neuer found,
As vaded glosse no rubbing will refresh:
As flowers dead, lie withered on the ground,
As broken glasse no symant can redresse.
So beauty blemisht once, for euer lost,
In spite of phisicke, painting, paine and cost.
Good night, good rest, ah neither be my share,
She bad good night, that kept my rest away,
And daft me to a cabben hangde with care:
To descant on the doubts of my decay.
Farewell (quoth she) and come againe to morrow
Fare well I could not, for I supt with sorrow.
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,
In scorne or friendship, nill I conster whether:
'T may be she ioyd to ieast at my exile,
'T may be againe, to make me wander thither.
Wander (a word) for shadowes like my selfe,
As take the paine but cannot plucke the pelfe.
Lord how mine eies throw gazes to the East,
My hart doth charge the watch, the morning rise
Doth scite each mouing scence from idle rest,
Not daring trust the office of mine eies.
While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,
And with her layes were tuned like the larke.
For she doth welcome daylight with her dittie,
And driues away darke dreaming night:
The night so packt, I post vnto my pretty,
Hart hath his hope, and eies their wished sight,
Sorrow changd to solace, and solace mixt with sorrow,
For why, she sight, and bad me come to morrow.
Were I with her, the night would post too soone,
But now are minutes added to the houres:
To spite me now, ech minute seemes an houre,
Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers.
Pack night, peep day, good day of night now borrow
Short night to night, and length thy selfe to morrow
IT was a Lordings daughter, the fairest one of three
That liked of her maister, as well as well might be,
Till looking on an Englishman, the fairest that eie could see,
Her fancie fell a turning.
Long was the combat doubtfull, that loue with loue did fight
To leaue the maister louelesse, or kill the gallant knight,
To put in practise either, alas it was a spite
Vnto the silly damsell.
But one must be refused, more mickle was the paine,
That nothing could be vsed, to turne them both to gaine,
For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with disdaine,
Alas she could not helpe it.
Thus art with armes contending, was victor of the day,
Which by a gift of learning, did beare the maid away,
Then lullaby the learned man hath got the Lady gay,
For now my song is ended.
ON a day (alacke the day)
Loue whose month was euer May·
Spied a blossome passing fair,
Playing in the wanton ayre,
Through the veluet leaues the wind
All vnseene gan passage find,
That the louer (sicke to death)
Wisht himselfe the heauens breath,
Ayre (quoth he) thy cheekes may blowe
Ayre, would I might triumph so
But (alas) my hand hath sworne,
Nere to plucke thee from thy throne,
Vow (alacke) for youth vnmeet,
Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet,
Thou for whome Ioue would sweare,
Iuno but an Ethiope were
And deny hymselfe for Ioue
Turning mortall for thy Loue.
MY flocks feede not, my Ewes breed not,
My Rams speed not, all is amis:
Loue is dying, Faithes defying,
Harts nenying, causer of this.
All my merry Iigges are quite forgot,
All my Ladies loue is lost (god wot)
Where her faith was firmely fixt in loue,
There a nay is plac't without remoue.
One silly crosse, wrought all my losse,
O frowning fortune cursed fickle dame,
For now I see, inconstancy,
More in wowen then in men remaine.
In blacke morne I, all feares scorne I,
Loue hath forlorne me, liuing in thrall:
Hart is bleeding, all helpe needing,
O cruell speeding, fraughted with gall.
My shepheards pipe can sound no deale,
My weathers bell rings dolefull knell,
My curtaile dogge that wont to haue plaid,
Plaies not at all but seemes afraid.
With sighes so deepe, procures to weepe,
In howling wise, to see my dolefull plight,
How sighes resound through hartles ground
Like a thousand vanquisht men in blodie fight.
Cleare wels spring not, sweete birds sing not,
Greene plants bring not forth their die,
Heards stands weeping, flocks all sleeping,
Nimphes blacke peeping fearefully:
All our pleasure knowne to vs poore swaines:
All our merrie meetings on the plaines,
All our euening sport from vs is fled,
All our loue is lost, for loue is dead,
Farewell sweet loue thy like nere was,
For a sweet content the cause all my woe,
Poore Coridon must liue alone,
Other helpe for him I see that there is none.
When as thine eye hath chose the Dame,
And stalde the deare that thou shouldst strike,
Let reason rule things worthy blame,
As well as fancy (partyall might)
Take counsell of some wiser head,
Neither too young, nor yet vnwed.
And when thou comst thy tale to tell,
Smooth not thy toung with filed talke,
Least she some subtill practise smell,
A Cripple soone can finde a halt,
But plainly say thou loust her well,
And set her person forth to sale.
And to her will frame all thy waies,
Spare not to spend, and chiefly there,
Where thy desart may merit praise,
By ringing in thy Ladies eare,
The strongest castle, tower and towne,
The golden bullet beats it downe.
Serue alwaies with assured trust,
And in thy sute be humble true,
Vnlesse thy Lady proue vniust,
Prease neuer thou to chuse a new:
When time shall serue, be thou not slacke,
To proffer though she put thee back.
What though her frowning browes be bent
Her cloudy lookes will calme yer night,
And then too late she will repent,
That thus dissembled her delight.
And twice desire yer it be day,
That which with scorne she put away.
What though she striue to try her strength,
And ban and braule, and say the nay:
Her feeble force will yeeld at length,
When craft hath taught her thus to say:
Had women beene so strong as men
In faith you had not had it then.
The wiles and guiles that women worke,
Dissembled with an outward shew:
The tricks and toyes that in them lurke,
The Cock that treads the shall not know,
Haue you not heard it said full oft,
A Womans nay doth stand for nought.
Thinke Women still to striue with men,
To sinne and neuer for to faint,
There is no heauen (by holy then)
When time with age shall them attaint,
Were kisses all the ioyes in bed,
One Woman would another wed.
But soft enough, too much I feare,
Least that my mistresse heare my song,
She will not stick to round me on th'are,
To teach my toung to be so long:
Yet will she blush, here be it said,
To heare her secrets so bewraid.
LIue with me and be my Loue,
And we will all the pleasures proue
That hilles and vallies, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountaines yeeld.
There will we sit vpon the Rocks,
And see the Shepheards feed their flocks,
By shallow Riuers, by whose fals
Melodious birds sing Madrigals.
There will I make thee a bed of Roses,
With a thousand fragrant poses,
A cap of flowers, and a Kirtle
Imbrodered all with leaues of Mirtle.
A belt of straw and Yuye buds,
With Corall Clasps and Amber studs,
And if these pleasures may thee moue,
Then liue with me, and be my Loue.
Loues answere.
IF that the World and Loue were young,
And truth in euery shepheards toung,
These pretty pleasures might me moue,
To liue with thee and be thy Loue.
AS it fell vpon a Day,
In the merry Month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade,
Which a groue of Myrtles made,
Beastes did leape, and Birds did sing,
Trees did grow, and Plants did spring:
Euery thing did banish mone,
Saue the Nightingale alone.
Shee (poore Bird) as all forlorne,
Leand her breast vp-till a thorne,
And there sung the dolfulst Ditty,
That to heare it was great Pitty,
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry
Teru, Teru, by and by:
That to heare her so complaine,
Scarce I could from teares refraine:
For her griefes so liuely showne,
Made me thinke vpon mine owne.
Ah (thought I) thou mournst in vaine,
None takes pitty on thy paine:
Senslesse Trees, they cannot heare thee,
Ruthlesse Beares, they will not cheere thee.
King Pandion, he is dead:
All thy friends are lapt in Lead.
All thy fellow Birds doe sing,
Carelesse of thy sorrowing.
Whilst as fickle Fortune smilde,
Thou and I, were both beguild.
Euery one that flatters thee,
Is no friend in miserie:
Words are easie, like the wind,
Faithfull friends are hard to find:
Euery man will be thy friend,
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend:
But if store of Crownes be scant,
No man will supply thy want
If that one be prodigall,
Bountifull they will him call:
And with such-like flattering,
Pitty but he were a King.
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him, they will intice.
If to Women hee be bent,
They haue at Commaundement.
But if Fortune once doe frowne,
Then farewell his great renowne:
They that fawnd on him before.
Vse his company no more.
Hee that is thy friend indeede,
Hee will helpe thee in thy neede:
If thou sorrow, he will weepe:
If thou wake, hee cannot sleepe:
Thus of euery griefe, in hart
Hee, with thee, doeth beare a part.
These are certaine signes, to know
Faithfull friend, from flatt'ring foe.
Modern text
I
When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth,
Unskilful in the world's false forgeries.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although I know my years be past the best,
I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue,
Outfacing faults in love with love's ill rest.
But wherefore says my love that she is young?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is a soothing tongue,
And age, in love loves not to have years told.
Therefore I'll lie with love, and love with me,
Since that our faults in love thus smothered be.
II
Two loves I have, of comfort and despair,
That like two spirits do suggest me still;
My better angel is a man right fair,
My worser spirit a woman coloured ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her fair pride.
And whether that my angel be turned fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;
For being both to me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another's hell.
The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.
III
Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,
'Gainst whom the world could not hold argument,
Persuade my heart to this false perjury?
Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.
A woman I forswore; but I will prove,
Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;
Thy grace being gained cures all disgrace in me.
My vow was breath, and breath a vapour is;
Then, thou fair sun, that on this earth doth shine,
Exhal'st this vapour vow; in thee it is:
If broken, then it is no fault of mine.
If by me broke, what fool is not so wise
To break an oath, to win a paradise?
IV
Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook
With young Adonis, lovely, fresh and green,
Did court the lad with many a lovely look,
Such looks as none could look but beauty's queen.
She told him stories to delight his ear;
She showed him favors to allure his eye;
To win his heart, she touched him here and there;
Touches so soft still conquer chastity.
But whether unripe years did want conceit,
Or he refused to take her figured proffer,
The tender nibbler would not touch the bait,
But smile and jest at every gentle offer:
Then fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward:
He rose and ran away – ah, fool too froward.
V
If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?
O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed:
Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll constant prove;
Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers bowed.
Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes,
Where all those pleasures live that art can comprehend.
If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice;
Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend:
All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder;
Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire.
Thine eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful thunder,
Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire.
Celestial as thou art, O do not love that wrong,
To sing heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue.
VI
Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn,
And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade,
When Cytherea, all in love forlorn,
A longing tarriance for Adonis made
Under an osier growing by a brook,
A brook where Adon used to cool his spleen:
Hot was the day; she hotter that did look
For his approach, that often there had been.
Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by,
And stood stark naked on the brook's green brim:
The sun looked on the world with glorious eye,
Yet not so wistly as this queen on him.
He, spying her, bounced in whereas he stood.
‘ O Jove,’ quoth she, ‘ why was not I a flood!’
VII
Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle;
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty;
Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle;
Softer than wax, and yet as iron rusty;
A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her;
None fairer, nor none falser to deface her.
Her lips to mine how often hath she joined,
Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing!
How many tales to please me hath she coined,
Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing!
Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings,
Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings.
She burnt with love, as straw with fire flameth;
She burnt out love, as soon as straw out-burneth;
She framed the love, and yet she foiled the framing;
She bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning.
Was this a lover, or a lecher whether?
Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.
VIII
By Richard Barnfield
If music and sweet poetry agree,
As they must needs, the sister and the brother,
Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me,
Because thou lov'st the one and I the other.
Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch
Upon the lute doth ravish human sense;
Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such
As, passing all conceit, needs no defence.
Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious sound
That Phoebus' lute, the queen of music, makes;
And I in deep delight am chiefly drowned
When as himself to singing he betakes.
One god is god of both, as poets feign;
One knight loves both, and both in thee remain.
IX
Fair was the morn when the fair queen of love,
Second line missing
Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove,
For Adon's sake, a youngster proud and wild;
Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill;
Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds;
She, silly queen, with more than love's good will,
Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds.
‘ Once,’ quoth she, ‘ did I see a fair sweet youth
Here in these brakes deep-wounded with a boar,
Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth!
See, in my thigh,’ quoth she, ‘ here was the sore.’
She showed hers: he saw more wounds than one,
And blushing fled, and left her all alone.
X
Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely plucked, soon vaded,
Plucked in the bud, and vaded in the spring;
Bright orient pearl, alack, too timely shaded,
Fair creature, killed too soon by death's sharp sting;
Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree,
And falls through wind before the fall should be.
I weep for thee and yet no cause I have;
For why thou leftst me nothing in thy will.
And yet thou leftst me more than I did crave,
For why I craved nothing of thee still:
O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee,
Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.
XI
By Bartholomew Griffin
Venus, with young Adonis sitting by her
Under a myrtle shade, began to woo him:
She told the youngling how god Mars did try her,
And as he fell to her, so fell she to him.
‘ Even thus,’ quoth she, ‘ the warlike god embraced me,’
And then she clipped Adonis in her arms;
‘Even thus,' quoth she, ‘the warlike god unlaced me,'
As if the boy should use like loving charms;
‘ Even thus,’ quoth she, ‘ he seized on my lips,’
And with her lips on his did act the seizure:
And as she fetched breath, away he skips,
And would not take her meaning nor her pleasure.
Ah, that I had my lady at this bay,
To kiss and clip me till I run away!
XII
Crabbed age and youth cannot live together:
Youth is full of pleasance, Age is full of care;
Youth like summer morn, Age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave, Age like winter bare.
Youth is full of sport, Age's breath is short;
Youth is nimble, Age is lame;
Youth is hot and bold, Age is weak and cold;
Youth is wild and Age is tame.
Age, I do abhor thee; Youth, I do adore thee;
O, my love, my love is young!
Age, I do defy thee. O, sweet shepherd, hie thee,
For methinks thou stays too long.
XIII
Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good,
A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly,
A flower that dies when first it 'gins to bud,
A brittle glass that's broken presently;
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.
And as goods lost are seld or never found,
As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh,
As flowers dead lie withered on the ground,
As broken glass no cement can redress:
So beauty blemished once, for ever lost,
In spite of physic, painting, pain and cost.
XIV
Good night, good rest: ah, neither be my share;
She bade good night that kept my rest away;
And daffed me to a cabin hanged with care,
To descant on the doubts of my decay.
‘ Farewell,’ quoth she, ‘ and come again to-morrow;’
Fare well I could not, for I supped with sorrow.
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,
In scorn or friendship nill I conster whether;
'T may be, she joyed to jest at my exile,
'T may be, again to make me wander thither:
‘ Wander, ’ a word for shadows like myself,
As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.
Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east!
My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise
Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest.
Not daring trust the office of mine eyes,
While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,
And wish her lays were tunèd like the lark;
For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty,
And drives away dark dreaming night.
The night so packed, I post unto my pretty;
Heart hath his hope and eyes their wished sight;
Sorrow changed to solace and solace mixed with sorrow,
For why she sighed and bade me come to-morrow.
Were I with her, the night would post too soon,
But now are minutes added to the hours;
To spite me now, each minute seems a moon;
Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers!
Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now borrow:
Short night, to-night, and length thyself to-morrow.
XV
It was a lording's daughter, the fairest one of three,
That liked of her master as well as well might be,
Till looking on an Englishman, the fairest that eye could see,
Her fancy fell a-turning.
Long was the combat doubtful that love with love did fight,
To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight;
To put in practice either, alas, it was a spite
Unto the silly damsel!
But one must be refused; more mickle was the pain
That nothing could be used to turn them both to gain,
For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with disdain:
Alas, she could not help it!
Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day,
Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away:
Then, lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gay;
For now my song is ended.
XVI
On a day, alack the day!
Love, whose month was ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air.
Through the velvet leaves the wind
All unseen 'gan passage find,
That the lover, sick to death,
Wished himself the heaven's breath.
‘ Air,’ quoth he, ‘ thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alas! my hand hath sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn;
Vow, alack! for youth unmeet,
Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet.
Thou for whom Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiope were;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.’
XVII
My flocks feed not, my ewes breed not,
My rams speed not, all is amiss;
Love is dying, faith's defying,
Heart's denying, causer of this.
All my merry jigs are quite forgot,
All my lady's love is lost, God wot;
Where her faith was firmly fixed in love,
There a nay is placed without remove.
One silly cross wrought all my loss;
O frowning Fortune, cursed fickle dame!
Or now I see inconstancy
More in women than in men remain.
In black mourn I, all fears scorn I,
Love hath forlorn me, living in thrall:
Heart is bleeding, all help needing,
O cruel speeding, fraughted with gall.
My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal;
My wether's bell rings doleful knell;
My curtal dog that wont to have played,
Plays not at all, but seems afraid;
My sighs so deep procures to weep,
In howling wise, to see my doleful plight.
How sighs resound through heartless ground,
Like a thousand vanquished men in bloody fight!
Clear wells spring not, sweet birds sing not,
Green plants bring not forth their dye;
Herds stand weeping, flocks all sleeping,
Nymphs back peeping fearfully.
All our pleasure known to us poor swains,
All our merry meetings on the plains,
All our evening sport from us is fled,
All our love is lost, for Love is dead.
Farewell, sweet lass, thy like ne'er was
For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan:
Poor Corydon must live alone;
Other help for him I see that there is none.
XVIII
When as thine eye hath chose the dame,
And stalled the deer that thou shouldst strike,
Let reason rule things worthy blame,
As well as fancy's partial might;
Take counsel of some wiser head,
Neither too young nor yet unwed.
And when thou com'st thy tale to tell,
Smooth not thy tongue with filèd talk,
Lest she some subtle practice smell –
A cripple soon can find a halt –
But plainly say thou lov'st her well,
And set thy person forth to sell.
And to her will frame all thy ways;
Spare not to spend, and chiefly there
Where thy desert may merit praise,
By ringing in thy lady's ear:
The strongest castle, tower and town,
The golden bullet beats it down.
Serve always with assurèd trust,
And in thy suit be humble true;
Unless thy lady prove unjust,
Press never thou to choose a new:
When time shall serve, be thou not slack
To proffer, though she put thee back.
What though her frowning brows be bent,
Her cloudy looks will calm ere night,
And then too late she will repent
That thus dissembled her delight;
And twice desire, ere it be day,
That which with scorn she put away.
What though she strive to try her strength,
And ban and brawl, and say thee nay,
Her feeble force will yield at length,
When craft hath taught her thus to say:
‘ Had women been so strong as men,
In faith, you had not had it then,’
The wiles and guiles that women work,
Dissembled with an outward show,
The tricks and toys that in them lurk,
The cock that treads them shall not know.
Have you not heard it said full oft,
A woman's nay doth stand for nought?
Think women still to strive with men,
To sin and never for to saint:
There is no heaven; by holy then,
When time with age shall them attaint.
Ere kisses all the joys in bed,
One woman would another wed.
But, soft, enough, too much I fear,
Lest that my mistress hear my song;
She will not stick to round me on th' ear,
To teach my tongue to be so long,
Yet will she blush, here be it said,
To hear her secrets so bewrayed.
XIX
By Christopher Marlowe
Live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountains yield.
There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, by whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee a bed of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Then live with me and be my love.
By Walter Ralegh: Love's Answer
If that the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.
XX
By Richard Barnfield
As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring;
Every thing did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone:
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Leaned her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity:
‘ Fie, fie, fie,’ now would she cry;
‘ Tereu, Tereu!’ by and by;
That to hear her so complain,
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain!
None takes pity on thy pain:
Senseless trees they cannot hear thee;
Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:
King Pandion he is dead;
All thy friends are lapped in lead;
All thy fellow birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing.
Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled,
Thou and I were both beguiled.
Every one that flatters thee
Is no friend in misery.
Words are easy, like the wind;
Faithful friends are hard to find:
Every man will be thy friend
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend;
But if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call,
And with such-like flattering,
‘ Pity but he were a king;’
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will entice;
If to women he be bent,
They have at commandment.
But if Fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown;
They that fawned on him before
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need:
If thou sorrow, he will weep;
If thou wake, he cannot sleep;
Thus of every grief in heart
He with thee doth bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flatt'ring foe.
SHAKESPEARE'S WORDS © 2018 DAVID CRYSTAL & BEN CRYSTAL