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Renouncement

THOU blind man's mark, thou fool's self-chosen snare,
Fond fancy's scum, and dregs of scattered thought:
Band of all evils; cradle of causeless care;
Thou web of will, whose end is never wrought :
Desire! Desire! I have too dearly bought,
With price of mangled mind, thy worthless ware;
Too long, too long, asleep thou hast me brought,
Who should my mind to higher things prepare.
But yet in vain thou hast my ruin sought;
In vain thou mad'st me to vain things aspire ;
In vain thou kindlest all thy smoky fire;
For Virtue hath this better lesson taught,-
Within myself to seek my only hire,
Desiring nought but how to kill Desire.

"Treasure in Heaven'

LEAVE me, O Love, which reachest but to dust;
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust:
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;
Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light
That doth both shine and give us sight to see.
O take fast hold! let that light be thy guide

In this small course which birth draws out to death,
And think how evil becometh him to slide,
Who seeketh heav'n, and comes of heav'nly breath.
Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see:

Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.

Splendidis longum valedico nugis.

II. Miscellaneous Verse

To Stella

DOUBT You to whom my Muse these notes intendeth
Which now my breast o'ercharged to music lendeth ?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due :
Only in you my song begins and endeth.

Who hath the eyes which marry State with Pleasure?
Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest treasure?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due :
Only for you the heaven forgat all measure.

Who hath the lips where Wit in fairness reigneth?
Who womankind at once both decks and staineth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due :
Only by you Cupid his crown maintaineth.

Who hath the feet whose step all sweetness planteth?
Who else for whom Fame worthy trumpets wanteth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due :

Only to you her sceptre Venus granteth.

Who hath the breast whose milk doth patience nourish?
Whose grace is such that when it chides doth cherish?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due :
Only through you the tree of life doth flourish.

Who hath the hand which without stroke subdueth?
Who long-dead beauty with increase reneweth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due :

Only at you all envy hopeless rueth.

Who hath the hair which loosest fastest tieth?
Who makes a man live then glad when he dieth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due :

Only of you the flatterer never lieth.

Who hath the voice which soul from senses sunders? Whose force but yours the bolts of beauty thunders? To you, to you, all song of praise is due :

Only with you not miracles are wonders.

Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth
Which now my breast o'ercharged to music lendeth ?
Το you, to you, all song of praise is due :
Only in you my song begins and endeth.

(Astrophel and Stella: First Song.)

A Stolen Kiss

HAVE I caught my heav'nly jewel
Teaching Sleep most fair to be?
Now will I teach her that she,
When she wakes, is too-too cruel.

Since sweet Sleep her eyes hath charmed,
The two only darts of Love,

Now will I, with that Boy, prove
Some play, while he is disarmed.

Her tongue, waking, still refuseth,
Giving frankly niggard "No :"
Now will I attempt to know
What "No" her tongue, sleeping, useth.

See the hand that, waking, guardeth,
Sleeping, grants a free resort:
Now will I invade the fort:
Cowards Love with loss rewardeth.

But, O fool, think of the danger
Of her just and high disdain;
Now will I, alas, refrain:

Love fears nothing else but anger.

Yet those lips, so sweetly swelling,
Do invite a stealing kiss.

Now will I but venture this;

Who will read, must first learn spelling.

O, sweet kiss! but, ah, she's waking;
Louring beauty chastens me :
Now will I for fear hence flee ;
Fool, more fool, for no more taking!

(Astrophel and Stella: Second Song.)

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No, No, No!"

ONLY Joy! now here you are,
Fit to hear and ease my care,
Let my whispering voice obtain
Sweet rewards for sharpest pain;
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
No, no, no, no, my Dear, let be.

Night hath closed all in her cloak,
Twinkling stars love-thoughts provoke,
Danger hence good care doth keep,
Jealousy himself doth sleep;

Take me to thee, and thee to me.
No, no, no, no, my Dear, let be.

Better place no wit can find,
Cupid's knot to loose or bind ;
Those sweet flowers on fine bed too,
Us in their best language woo:
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
No, no, no, no, my Dear, let be.

This small light the moon bestows
Serves thy beams but to disclose ;

Give Passion leave

No more, my Dear, no more these counsels try;
O give my passions leave to run their race;
Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace;
Let folk o'ercharged with brain against me cry ;
Let clouds bedim my face, break in my 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 Cæsar'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.

(Astrophel and Stella, LXIV.)

Wise Silence—" Best Music unto Bliss"

My Muse may well grudge at my heav'nly joy,
If still I force her in sad rhymes to creep;
She oft hath drunk my tears, now hopes to enjoy
Nectar of mirth, since I Jove's cup do keep.
Sonnets be not bound 'prentice to Annoy;
Trebles sing high, as well as basses deep;
Grief but Love's winter-livery is; the boy
Hath cheeks to smile, as well as eyes to weep.
Come then, my Muse, shew thou height of delight
In well-raised notes; my pen, the best it may,
Shall paint out joy, though but in black and white.
Cease, eager Muse; peace, pen, for my sake stay,
I give you here my hand for truth of this,-
Wise silence is best music unto bliss.

(Astrophel and Stella, LXX.)

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