LOVE, still a boy, and oft a wanton is,
Schooled only by his mother's tender eye.
What wonder then if he his lesson miss,
When for so soft a rod dear play he try?
And yet my Star, because a sugared kiss
In sport I sucked while she asleep did lie,
Doth lower, nay, chide, nay threat for only this!
"Sweet, it was saucy Love, not humble I."
But no 'scuse serves; she makes her wrath appear
In Beauty's throne: see now, who dares come near
Those scarlet judges, threat'ning bloody pain?
O heav'nly fool, thy most kiss-worthy face
Anger invests with such a lovely grace,
That Anger's self I needs must kill again!
(Astrophel and Stella, LXXIII.)
'Inspired with Stella's Kiss "
I NEVER drank of Aganippe's well,
Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit,
And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell ;--
Poor layman I, for sacred rites unfit.
Some do I hear of poets' fury tell,
But God wot-wot not what they mean by it;
And this I swear by blackest brook of Hell,
I am no pick-purse of another's wit.
How falls it, then, that with so smooth an ease
My thoughts I speak; and what I speak doth flow
In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please?
Guess we the cause? What, is it this?" Fie, no!
"Or so?" Much less. "How then?" Sure thus it is,-
My lips are sweet, inspired with Stella's kiss.
(Astrophel and Stella, LXXIV.)
Senses all asunder breaks;
Stella, whose voice when it singeth
Angels' to acquaintance bringeth;
Stella, in whose body is
Writ each character of bliss,
Whose face all, all beauty passeth
Save thy mind, which yet surpasseth ;
Grant, O grant,-but speech, alas,
Fails me, fearing on to pass--
Grant-Ó me, what am I saying?—
But no fault there is in praying.
Grant, O dear-on knees I pray".
Knees on ground he then did stay-
(6 That, not I, but, since I love you,
Time and place for me may move you.
Never season was more fit,
Never room more apt for it;
Smiting air allows my reason;
These birds sing: 'Now use the season.'
This small wind which so sweet is,
See how it the leaves doth kiss,
Each tree in his best attiring,
Sense of love to love inspiring.
Love makes earth the water drink ;
Love to earth makes water sink:
And if dumb things be so witty,
Shall a heavenly grace want pity?”
There his hands in their speech fain
Would have made tongue's language plain,
But her hands, his hands repelling,
Gave repulse all grace excelling.
Then she spake,-her speech was such
As not ears but heart did touch;
While such-wise she love denièd
And yet love she signified.
"Astrophel," said she, "my love,
Cease in these effects to prove ;
Now be still, yet still believe me
Thy grief more than death would grieve me. If that any thought in me
Can taste comfort but of thee,
Let me, fed with hellish anguish,
Joyless, hopeless, endless languish.
If those eyes you praised be
Half so dear as you to me,
Let me home return stark-blinded
Of those eyes, and blinder-minded.
If to secret of my heart
I do any wish impart
Where thou art not foremost placed,
Be both wish and I defaced.
If more may be said, I say
All my bliss in thee I lay.
If thou love, my love content thee!
For all love, all faith, is meant thee.
Trust me, while I thee deny,
In myself the smart I try;
Tyrant Honour doth thus use thee,—
Stella's self might not refuse thee.
Therefore, dear, this no more move,
Lest-though I leave not thy love,
Which too deep in me is framèd-
I should blush when thou art namèd."
Therewithal away she went,
Leaving him so passion-rent,
With what she had done and spoken,
That therewith my song is broken.
(Astrophel and Stella: Eighth Song.)
The Woeful Shepherd's
Plaint
Go, my flock! go, get you hence!
Seek a better place of feeding,
Where you may have some defence
Fro the storms in my breast breeding,
And showers from mine eyes proceeding.
Leave a wretch in whom all woe
Can abide to keep no measure :
Merry flock, such one forego
Unto whom mirth is displeasure,
Only rich in mischiefs treasure.
Yet, alas, before you go,
Hear your woeful master's story, Which to stones I else would show : Sorrow only then hath glory When 'tis excellently sorry.
Stella, fiercest shepherdess,
Fiercest but yet fairest ever;
Stella, whom, Ó heavens, still bless,
Though against me she persèver,
Though I bliss inherit never ;—
Stella hath refusèd me ;
Stella, who more love hath provèd In this caitiff heart to be
Than can in good ewes be moved
Towards lambkins best beloved.
Stella hath refused me!
Astrophel, that so well servèd, In this pleasant Spring must see, While in pride flowers be preservèd, Himself only winter-starved.
Why, alas, doth she then swear
That she loveth me so dearly,
Seeing me so long to bear
Coals of love that burn so clearly,
And yet leave me helpless merely?
Is that Love? Forsooth, I trow,
If I saw my good dog grieved,
And a help for him did know,
My love should not be believed
But he were by me relieved.
No, she hates me,-welaway!
Feigning love somewhat to please me;
For she knows, if she display
All her hate, Death soon would seize me,
And of hideous torments ease me.
Then, adieu, dear flock, adieu !
But, alas, if in your straying,
Heavenly Stella meet with you,
Tell her, in your piteous blaying,
Her poor slave's unjust decaying.
(Astrophel and Stella: Ninth Song.)
Love's Herald-Thought
O DEAR life, when shall it be
That mine eyes thine eyes may see,
And in them thy mind discover,
Whether absence have had force
Thy remembrance to divorce
From the image of thy lover?
Or if I myself find not,
After parting, aught forgot,
Nor debarred from Beauty's treasure,
Let not tongue aspire to tell
In what high joys I shall dwell :
Only Thought aims at the pleasure.
Thought, therefore, I will send thee
To take up the place for me;
Long I will not after tarry.
There, unseen, thou may'st be bold
Those fair wonders to behold
Which in them my hopes do carry.
Thought, see thou no place forbear;
Enter bravely everywhere;
Seize on all to her belonging.
|