Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame
A nest for my young praise in laurel tree:
In truth, I swear I wish not there should be
Graved in my epitaph a Poet's name.
Nor, if I would, could I just title make,
That any laud thereof to me should grow,
Without my plumes from others' wings I take :
For nothing from my wit or will doth flow,
Since all my words thy beauty doth indite,

And Love doth hold my hand and makes me write. (Astrophel and Stella, XC.)

BE your words made, good Sir, of Indian ware,
That you allow them me by so small rate?
Or do you curted Spartans imitate?

Or do you mean my tender ears to spare,
That to my questions you so total are?
When I demand of Phoenix-Stella's state,
You say, forsooth, "You left her well of late":
O God! think you that satisfies my care?

I would know whether she did sit or walk;

How clothed; how waited on; sighed she, or smiled,
Whereof-with whom,-how often did she talk;
With what pastimes Time's journey she beguiled;
If her lips deigned to sweeten my poor name:
Say all; and all well said, still say the same.
(Astrophel and Stella, XCII.)

Stella Sick

WHERE be those roses gone, which sweetened so our eyes?

Where those red cheeks, which oft, with fair increase, did frame

The height of honour in the kindly badge of shame? Who hath the crimson weeds stol'n from my morning

skies?

How doth the colour fade of those vermilion dyes, Which Nature's self did make, and self-ingrained the same?

I would know by what right this paleness overcame That hue, whose force my heart still unto thraldom ties.

Galen's adoptive sons, who by a beaten way

Their judgments hackney on, the fault on sickness lay ; But feeling proof makes me say they mistake it far:

It is but love which makes this paper perfect white, To write therein more fresh the story of delight, Whilst Beauty's reddest ink Venus for him doth stir.

(Astrophel and Stella, CII.)

On Seeing the Winds playing with Stella's Hair

O HAPPY Thames, that didst my Stella bear!
I saw thee, with full many a smiling line
Upon thy cheerful face, Joy's livery wear,
While those fair planets on thy streams did shine.
The boat for joy could not to dance forbear,
While wanton winds, with beauties so divine
Ravished, stayed not, till in her golden hair
They did themselves-O sweetest prison !-twine.
And fain those Æol's youths there would their stay
Have made, but, forc'd by Nature still to fly,
First did with puffing kiss those locks display:
She, so dishevelled, blushed: from window I
With sight thereof cried out, " O, fair disgrace,
Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place!"
(Astrophel and Stella, CIII.)

Basilius' "Love-Complaint

LET not old age disgrace my high desire,
O heavenly soul, in human shape contained :
Old wood inflamed doth yield the bravest fire,
When younger doth in smoke his virtue spend ;
Nor let white hairs which on my face do grow
Seem to your eyes of a disgraceful hue,
Since whiteness doth present the sweetest show,
Which makes all eyes do homage unto you.
Old age is wise and full of constant truth ;
Old age well stayed from ranging humour lives;
Old age hath known what ever was in youth;
Old age o'ercome the greater honour gives;
And to old age since you yourself aspire,
Let not old age disgrace my high desire.

(Arcadia: Bk. II.)

The Bargain

My true love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange-one for the other given :
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss ;-
There never was a bargain better driven.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one ;
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart for once it was his own;
I cherish his because in me it bides.

His heart his wound received from my sight;
My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;
For as from me on him his hurt did light,
So still methought in me his hurt did smart :
Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,
My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

(Arcadia: Bk. III.-Carita's Song.)

Musidorus to Pamela

LOCK up, fair lids, the treasure of my heart;
Preserve those beams, this age's only light;
To her sweet sense sweet sleep some ease impart-
Her sense, too weak to bear her spirit's might.
And while, O sleep, thou closest up her sight,-
Her sight, where Love did forge his fairest dart,--
O harbour all her parts in easeful plight;
Let no strange dream make her fair body start.
But yet, O dream, if thou wilt not depart
In this rare subject from thy common right,
But wilt thyself in such a seat delight,
Then take my shape, and play a lover's part:
Kiss her from me, and say unto her sprite,
Till her eyes shine I live in darkest night.

(Arcadia: Bk. III.)

Philoclea "disburdens her
Secret Passion"

O STEALING Time, the subject of delay-
Delay, the rack of unrefrained desire-

What strange design hast thou my hopes to stay,
Mine hopes which do but to mine own aspire?

Mine own! O word on whose sweet sound doth prey
My greedy soul with grip of inward fire,

Thy title great I justly challenge may,
Since in such phrase his faith he did attire.
O Time, become the chariot of my joys :

As thou draw'st on, so let my bliss draw near ;
Each moment lost part of my hap destroys.
Thou art the father of occasion dear;
Join with thy son to ease my long annoys:
In speedy help thank-worthy friends appear.
(Arcadia: Bk. III.)

Musidorus' Song

SINCE Nature's works be good, and death doth serve
As Nature's work, why should we fear to die?
Since fear is vain but when it may preserve,
Why should we fear that which we cannot fly?
Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears,
Disarming human minds of native might;
While each conceit an ugly figure bears,
Which were not evil, well viewed in reason's light.
Our only eyes, which dimmed with passions be,
And scarce discern the dawn of coming day,
Let them be cleared, and now begin to see
Our life is but a step in dusty way:

Then let us hold the bliss of peaceful mind ;-
Since this we feel, great loss we cannot find.

(Arcadia: Bk. V.)

A Farewell

OFT have I mused, but now at length I find,
Why those that die, men say they do "depart.”
3" Depart!" A word so gentle to my mind'
Weakly did seem to paint Death's ugly dart.
But now the stars, with their strange course, do bind
Me one to leave, with whom I leave my heart: Soul
I hear a cry of spirits faint and blind,

That, parting thus, my chiefest part I part.
Part of my life, the loathed part to me,
Lives to impart my weary clay some breath
But that good part wherein all comforts be,
Now dead, doth show departure is a death;
Yea, worse than death;-death parts both woe and

joy:

14 From joy I part, still living in annoy.