Бесплатный фрагмент - Amoretti

I

Happy, ye leaves! when as those lilly hands

Which hold my life in their dead-doing might

Shall handle you, and hold in loves soft bands,

Lyke captives trembling at the victors sight.

And happy lines! on which, with starry light,

Those lamping eyes will deigne sometimes to look,

And reade the sorrowes of my dying spright,

And happy rymes! bath’d in the sacred brooke

Of Helicon, whence she derived is,

When ye behold that Angels blessed looke,

My soules long-lacked food, my heavens blis,

Leaves, lines, and rymes, seeke her to please alone,

Whom if ye please, I care for other none!

II

Unquiet thought! whom at the first I bred

Of th’inward bale of my love-pined hart,

And sithens have with sighes and sorrowes fed,

Till greater then my wombe thou woxen art,

Breake forth at length out of the inner part,

In which thou lurkest lyke to vipers brood,

And seeke some succour both to ease my smart,

And also to sustayne thy selfe with food.

But if in presence of that fayrest Proud

Thou chance to come, fall lowly at her feet;

And with meek humblesse and afflicted mood

Pardon for thee, and grace for me, intreat:

 Which if she graunt, then live, and my love cherish:

If not, die soone, and I with thee will perish.

III

The soverayne beauty which I doo admyre,

Witnesse the world how worthy to be prayzed!

The light wherof hath kindled heavenly fyre

In my fraile spirit, by her from basenesse raysed;

That being now with her huge brightnesse dazed,

Base thing I can no more endure to view:

But, looking still on her, I stand amazed

At wondrous sight of so celestiall hew.

So when my toung would speak her praises dew,

It stopped is with thoughts astonishment;

And when my pen would write her titles true,

It ravisht is with fancies wonderment:

Yet in my hart I then both speak and write

The wonder that my wit cannot endite.

IV

New yeare, forth looking out of Ianus gate,

Doth seeme to promise hope of new delight,

And, bidding th’old adieu, his passed date

Bids all old thoughts to die in dumpish* spright;

And calling forth out of sad Winters night

Fresh Love, that long hath slept in cheerlesse bower,

Wils him awake, and soone about him dight

His wanton wings and darts of deadly power.

For lusty Spring now in his timely howre

Is ready to come forth, him to receive;

And warns the Earth with divers colord flowre

To decke hir selfe, and her faire mantle weave.

Then you, faire flowre! in whom fresh youth doth raine,

Prepare your selfe new love to entertaine.

[l Dumpish, mournful.]

V

Rudely thou wrongest my deare harts desire,

In finding fault with her too portly pride:

The thing which I doo most in her admire,

Is of the world unworthy most envide.

For in those lofty lookes is close implide

Scorn of base things, and sdeigne of foul dishonor;

Thretning rash eies which gaze on her so wide,

That loosely they ne dare to looke upon her.

Such pride is praise, such portlinesse is honor,

That boldned innocence beares in hir eies,

And her faire countenaunce, like a goodly banner,

Spreds in defiaunce of all enemies.

Was never in this world ought worthy tride*,

Without some spark of such self-pleasing pride.

[* Tride, found.]

VI

Be nought dismayd that her unmoved mind

Doth still persist in her rebellious pride:

Such love, not lyke to lusts of baser kynd,

The harder wonne, the firmer will abide.

The durefull oake whose sap is not yet dride

Is long ere it conceive the kindling fyre;

But when it once doth burne, it doth divide

Great heat, and makes his flames to heaven aspire.

So hard it is to kindle new desire

In gentle brest, that shall endure for ever:

Deepe is the wound that dints the parts entire*

With chaste affects, that naught but death can sever.

Then thinke not long in taking litle paine

To knit the knot that ever shall remaine.

[* Entire, inward.]

VII

Fayre eyes! the myrrour of my mazed hart,

What wondrous vertue is contayn’d in you,

The which both lyfe and death forth from you dart

Into the obiect of your mighty view?

For when ye mildly looke with lovely hew,

Then is my soule with life and love inspired:

But when ye lowre, or looke on me askew,

Then do I die, as one with lightning fyred.

But since that lyfe is more then death desyred,

Looke ever lovely, as becomes you best;

That your bright beams, of my weak eies admyred,

May kindle living fire within my brest.

Such life should be the honor of your light,

Such death the sad ensample of your might.

VIII

More then most faire, full of the living fire

Kindled above unto the Maker nere,

No eies, but ioyes, in which al powers conspire,

That to the world naught else be counted deare!

Thrugh your bright beams doth not the blinded guest

Shoot out his darts to base affections wound;

But angels come, to lead fraile mindes to rest

In chast desires, on heavenly beauty bound.

You frame my thoughts, and fashion me within;

You stop my toung, and teach my hart to speake;

You calme the storme that passion did begin,

Strong thrugh your cause, but by your vertue weak.

Dark is the world where your light shined never;

Well is he borne that may behold you ever.

IX

Long-while I sought to what I might compare

Those powrefull eies which lighten my dark spright;

Yet find I nought on earth, to which I dare

Resemble th’ymage of their goodly light.

Not to the sun, for they doo shine by night;

Nor to the moone, for they are changed never;

Nor to the starres, for they have purer sight;

Nor to the fire, for they consume not ever;

Nor to the lightning, for they still persever;

Nor to the diamond, for they are more tender;

Nor unto cristall, for nought may them sever;

Nor unto glasse, such basenesse mought offend her.

Then to the Maker selfe they likest be,

Whose light doth lighten all that here we see.

X

Unrighteous Lord of love, what law is this,

That me thou makest thus tormented be,

The whiles she lordeth in licentious blisse

Of her freewill, scorning both thee and me?

See! how the Tyrannesse doth ioy to see

The hugh massácres which her eyes do make,

And humbled harts brings captive unto thee,

That thou of them mayst mightie vengeance take.

But her proud hart doe thou a little shake,

And that high look, with which she doth comptroll

All this worlds pride, bow to a baser make*,

And al her faults in thy black booke enroll:

That I may laugh at her in equall sort

As she doth laugh at me, and makes my pain her sport.

[* Make, mate.]

XI

Dayly when I do seeke and sew for peace,

And hostages doe offer for my truth,

She, cruell warriour, doth her selfe addresse

To battell, and the weary war renew’th;

Ne wilbe moov’d, with reason or with rewth*,

To graunt small respit to my restlesse toile;

But greedily her fell intent poursewth,

Of my poore life to make unpittied spoile.

Yet my poore life, all sorrowes to assoyle,

I would her yield, her wrath to pacify;

But then she seeks, with torment and turmoyle,

To force me live, and will not let me dy.

All paine hath end, and every war hath peace;

But mine, no price nor prayer may surcease.

[* Rewth, ruth, pity.]

XII

One day I sought with her hart-thrilling eies

To make a truce, and termes to entertaine;

All fearlesse then of so false enimies,

Which sought me to entrap in treasons traine.

So, as I then disarmed did remaine,

A wicked ambush, which lay hidden long

In the close covert of her guilful eyen,

Thence breaking forth, did thick about me throng.

Too feeble I t’abide the brunt so strong,

Was forst to yield my selfe into their hands;

Who, me captiving streight with rigorous wrong,

Have ever since kept me in cruell bands.

So, Ladie, now to you I doo complaine

Against your eies, that iustice I may gaine.

XIII

In that proud port which her so goodly graceth,

Whiles her faire face she reares up to the skie,

And to the ground her eie-lids low embaseth,

Most goodly temperature ye may descry;

Myld humblesse mixt with awfull maiestie.

For, looking on the earth whence she was borne,

Her minde remembreth her mortalitie,

Whatso is fayrest shall to earth returne.

But that same lofty countenance seemes to scorne

Base thing, and thinke how she to heaven may clime;

Treading downe earth as lothsome and forlorne,

That hinders heavenly thoughts with drossy slime.

Yet lowly still vouchsafe to looke on me;

Such lowlinesse shall make you lofty be.

XIV

Retourne agayne, my forces late dismayd,

Unto the siege by you abandon’d quite.

Great shame it is to leave, like one afrayd,

So fayre a peece* for one repulse so light.

«Gaynst such strong castles needeth greater might

Then those small forts which ye were wont belay**:

Such haughty mynds, enur’d to hardy fight,

Disdayne to yield unto the first assay.

Bring therefore all the forces that ye may,

And lay incessant battery to her heart;

Playnts, prayers, vowes, ruth, sorrow, and dismay;

Those engins can the proudest love convert:

And, if those fayle, fall down and dy before her;

So dying live, and living do adore her.

[l Peece, fortress.]
[** Belay, beleaguer.]

XV

Ye tradefull Merchants, that, with weary toyle,

Do seeke most pretious things to make your gain,

And both the Indias of their treasure spoile,

What needeth you to seeke so farre in vaine?

For loe, my Love doth in her selfe containe

All this worlds riches that may farre be found:

If saphyres, loe, her eies be saphyres plaine;

If rubies, loe, hir lips be rubies sound;

If pearles, hir teeth be pearles, both pure and round;

If yvorie, her forhead yvory weene;

If gold, her locks are finest gold on ground;

If silver, her faire hands are silver sheene:

But that which fairest is but few behold:

— Her mind adornd with vertues manifold.

XVI

One day as I unwarily did gaze

On those fayre eyes, my loves immortall light,

The whiles my stonisht hart stood in amaze,

Through sweet illusion of her lookes delight,

I mote perceive how, in her glauncing sight,

Legions of Loves with little wings did fly,

Darting their deadly arrows, fyry bright,

At every rash beholder passing by.

One of those archers closely I did spy,

Ayming his arrow at my very hart:

When suddenly, with twincle of her eye,

The damzell broke his misintended dart.

Had she not so doon, sure I had bene slayne;

Yet as it was, I hardly scap’t with paine.

XVII

The glorious pourtraict of that angels face,

Made to amaze weake mens confused skil,

And this worlds worthlesse glory to embase,

 What pen, what pencill, can expresse her fill?

For though he colours could devize at will,

And eke his learned hand at pleasure guide,

Least, trembling, it his workmanship should spill*,

Yet many wondrous things there are beside:

The sweet eye-glaunces, that like arrowes glide,

The charming smiles, that rob sence from the hart,

The lovely pleasance, and the lofty pride,

Cannot expressed be by any art.

A greater craftesmans hand thereto doth neede,

That can expresse the life of things indeed.

[l Spill, spoil.]

XVIII

The rolling wheele that runneth often round,

The hardest steele, in tract of time doth teare:

And drizling drops, that often doe redound*,

The firmest flint doth in continuance weare:

Yet cannot I, with many a drooping teare

And long intreaty, soften her hard hart,

That she will once vouchsafe my plaint to heare,

 Or looke with pitty on my payneful smart.

But when I pleade, she bids me play my part;

And when I weep, she sayes, teares are but water;

And when I sigh, she sayes, I know the art;

And when I waile, she turnes hir selfe to laughter.

So do I weepe, and wayle, and pleade in vaine,

Whiles she as steele and flint doth still remayne.

 [* Redound, overflow.]

XIX

The merry cuckow, messenger of Spring,

His trompet shrill hath thrise already sounded.

That warnes al lovers wayte upon their king,

Who now is coming forth with girland crouned.

With noyse whereof the quyre of byrds resounded
Their anthemes sweet, devized of loves prayse,

That all the woods theyr ecchoes back rebounded,

As if they knew the meaning of their layes.

But mongst them all which did Loves honor rayse,

No word was heard of her that most it ought;

But she his precept proudly disobayes,

And doth his ydle message set at nought. Therefore,

O Love, unlesse she turne to thee

Ere cuckow end, let her a rebell be!

XX

In vaine I seeke and sew to her for grace,

And doe myne humbled hart before her poure,

The whiles her foot she in my necke doth place,

And tread my life downe in the lowly floure*.

And yet the lyon, that is lord of power,

And reigneth over every beast in field,

In his most pride disdeigneth to devoure

The silly lambe that to his might doth yield.

But she, more cruell and more salvage wylde

Than either lyon or the lyonesse,

Shames not to be with guiltlesse bloud defylde,

But taketh glory in her cruelnesse.

Fayrer then fayrest! let none ever say

That ye were blooded in a yeelded pray.

 [*Floure, floor, ground.]

XXI

Was it the worke of Nature or of Art,

Which tempred so the feature of her face,

That pride and meeknesse, mist by equall part,

Doe both appeare t’adorne her beauties grace?

For with mild pleasance, which doth pride displace,

She to her love doth lookers eyes allure;

And with stern countenance back again doth chace

Their looser lookes that stir up lustes impure.

With such strange termes* her eyes she doth inure,

That with one looke she doth my life dismay,

And with another doth it streight recure:

Her smile me drawes; her frowne me drives away.

Thus doth she traine and teach me with her lookes;

Such art of eyes I never read in bookes!
[* Termes, extremes (?).]

XXII

This holy season*, fit to fast and pray,

Men to devotion ought to be inclynd:

Therefore, I lykewise, on so holy day,

For my sweet saynt some service fit will find.

Her temple fayre is built within my mind,

In which her glorious ymage placed is;

On which my thoughts doo day and night attend,