For, though he colours could devise at will,
And eke his learned hand at pleasure guide,
Lest, trembling, it his workmanship should spill;
Yet many wondrous things there are beside:
The sweet eye-glances, that like arrows glide,
The charming smiles, that rob sense from the heart,
The lovely pleasance, and the lofty pride,
Cannot expressed be by any art.
A greater craftsman's hand thereto doth need,
That can express the life of things indeed.
Was it the work of nature or of art,
Which tempered so the feature of her face,
That pride and meekness, mixed by equal part,
Do both appear to adorn her beauty's grace?
For with mild pleasance, which doth pride displace,
She to her love doth lookers' eyes allure;
And, with stern countenance, back again doth chase
Their looser looks that stir up lusts impure;
With such strange terms her eyes she doth inure,
That with one look she doth my life dismay,
And with another doth it straight recure;
Her smile me draws; her frown me drives away.
Thus doth she train and teach me with her looks;
Such art of eyes I never read in books.
Thrice happy she, that is so well assured
Unto herself, and settled so in heart,
That neither will for better be allured,
Ne feared with worse to any chance to start;
But, like a steady ship, doth strongly part
The raging waves, and keeps her course aright;
Ne aught for tempest doth from it depart,
Ne aught for fairer weather's false delight.
Such self-assurance need not fear the spite
Of grudging foes, ne favour seek of friends:
But, in the stay of her own steadfast might,
Neither to one herself nor other bends.
Most happy she, that most assured doth rest;
But he most happy, who such one loves best.
Spenser.
Away with these self-loving lads
Whom Cupid's arrow never glads;
Away, poor souls, that sigh and weep
In love of those that lie asleep;
For Cupid is a meadow-god,
And forceth none to kiss the rod.
Sweet Cupid's shafts, like Destiny,
Do causeless good or ill decree:
Desert is born out of his bow,
Reward upon his wing doth go:
What fools are they that have not known
That Love likes no laws but his own.
My songs they be of Cynthia's praise,
I wear her rings on holy-days,
In every tree I write her name,
And every day I read the same.
Where honour Cupid's rival is,
There miracles are seen of his.
If Cynthia crave her ring of me,
I blot her name out of the tree;
If doubt do darken things held dear,
Then well fare nothing once a year;
but
many run, one must win:
Fools only hedge the cuckoo in.
The worth that worthiness should move
Is love, that is the bow of Love;
And love as well the foster can
As can the mighty nobleman.
Sweet saint, 'tis true, you worthy be,
Yet without love nought worth to me.
Fulke Greville, Lora Brooke.
Love is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing;
A plant that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.
More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,
Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind
Not well, nor full nor fasting.
More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,
How in my thoughts shall I contrive
The image I am framing,
Which is so far superlative,
As 'tis beyond all naming?
I would Jove of my counsel make,
And have his judgment in it,
But that I doubt he would mistake
How rightly to begin it.
It must be builded in the air,
And 'tis my thoughts must do it,
And only they must be the stair
From earth to mount me to it.
For of my sex I frame my lay,
Each hour ourselves forsaking,
How should I then find out the way,
To this my undertaking,
When our weak fancies working still,
Yet changing every minute,
Will show that it requires some skill,
Such difficulties in it?
We would things, yet we know not what, And let our will be granted,
Yet instantly we find in that
Something unthought of wanted.
Our joys and hopes such shadows are
As with our motions vary,
Which when we oft have fetched from far,
With us they never tarry.
Some worldly cross doth still attend
What long we have been spinning,
And ere we fully get the end,
We lose of our beginning.
Our policies so peevish are
That with themselves they wrangle,
times become the snare
That soonest us entangle;
For that the love we bear our friends,
Though ne'er so strongly grounded,
Hath in it certain oblique ends,
If to the bottom sounded;
Our own well wishing making it
A pardonable treason,
For that it is derived from wit,
And underpropped with reason.
For our dear selves' beloved sake,
Even in the depth of passion,
Our centre though ourselves we make
Yet is not that our station;
For whilst our brows ambitious be,
And youth at hand awaits us,
It is a pretty thing to see
How finely beauty cheats us;
And whilst with time we trifling stand
To practise antique graces,
Age with a pale and withered hand
Draws furrows in our faces.
|