Be your words made, good Sir, of Indian ware, That you allow me them by so small rate? Or do you cutted 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 pastime time's journey she beguiled; If her lips deigned to sweeten my poor name: Say all; and, all well said, still say the same. Songs from Astrophel and Stella DOUBT YOU TO WHOM MY MUSE THESE NOTES INTENDETH 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 of 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 passions 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. DOUBT YOU TO WHOM 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? To you, to you, all song of praise is due: Only in you my song begins and endeth. here you are Only Joy, now here you are, Night hath closed all in her cloak, Twinkling stars love-thoughts provoke, Danger hence, good care doth keep, Jealousy itself doth sleep; Take me to thee, and thee to me. "No, no, no, no, my dear, let be." Better place no wit can find, |