Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fayre,
Of fowles, so lovely, that they sure did deeme
Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre
Which through the skie draw Venus silver teeme ;
For sure they did not seeme
To be begot of any earthly seede,
But rather angels, or of angels breede;
Yet were they bred of somers-heat, they say,
CALME was the day, and through the trembling ayre In sweetest season, when each flower and weede
Sweete-breathing Zephyrus did softly play
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre;
When I, (whom [whose] sullein care,
Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay
In princes court, and expectation vayne
Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away,
Like empty shadowes, did afflict my brayne)
Walkt forth to ease my payne
Along the shoare of silver streaming Themmes;
Whose rutty bank, the which his river hemmes,
Was paynted all with variable flowers,
And all the meades adornd with dainty gemmes,
Fit to decke maydens bowres,
And crowne their paramours
Against the brydale-day, which is not long:
Sweet Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my song.
There, in a meadow, by the rivers side,
A flocke of nymphes I chaunced to espy,
All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,
With goodly greenish locks, all loose untyde,
As each had bene a bryde ;
And each one had a little wicker basket,
Made of fine twigs, entrayled curiously,
In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket,
And with fine fingers cropt full feateously
The tender stalkes on hye.
Of every sort, which in that meadow grew,
They gathered some; the violet, pallid blew,
The little dazie, that at evening closes,
The virgin lillie, and the primrose trew,
With store of vermeil roses,
To deck their bridegroomes posies
Against the brydale-day, which was not long:
Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
With that I saw two swannes of goodly hewe
Come softly swimming downe along the lee;
Two fairer birds I yet did never see;
The snow, which doth the top of Pindus strew,
Did never whiter shew,
Nor Jove himselfe, when he a swan would be
For love of Leda, whiter did appeare;
Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,
Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near;
So purely white they were,
That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,
Seem'd foule to them, and bad his billowes spare
To wet their silken feathers, least they might
Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre,
And marre their beauties bright,
That shone as Heavens light,
Against their brydale day, which was not long;
Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
The earth did fresh aray;
So fresh they seem'd as day,
Even as their brydale day, which was not long :
Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
Then forth they all out of their baskets drew
Great store of flowers, the honour of the field,
That to the sense did fragrant odours yeild,
All which upon those goodly birds they threw,
And all the waves did strew,
That like old Peneus waters they did seeme,
When downe along by pleasant Tempes shore,
Scattred with flowres, through Thessaly they streeme,
That they appeare, through lillies plenteous store,
Like a brydes chamber flore.
Two of those nymphes, mean while, two garlands
bound
Of freshest flowres which in that mead they found,
The which presenting all in trim array,
Their snowie foreheads therewithall they crownd,
Whilst one did sing this lay,
Prepar'd against that day,
Against their brydale day, which was not long:
Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
"Ye gentle birdes! the worlds faire ornament,
And Heavens glorie, whom this happie hower
Doth leade unto your lovers blissfull bower,
Ioy may you have, and gentle hearts content
Of your loves couplement ;
And let faire Venus, that is queene of love,
With her heart-quelling sonne upon you smile,
Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to remove
All loves dislike, and friendships faultie guile
For ever to assoile.
Let endlesse peace your steadfast hearts accord,
And blessed plentie wait upon your bord;
And let your bed with pleasures chast abound,
That fruitfull issue may to you afford,
Which may your foes confound,
And make your ioyes redound
Upon your brydale day, which is not long :
Sweet Themmes! runne softlie, till I end my song."
So ended she; and all the rest around
To her redoubled that her undersong,
Which said, their brydale daye should not be long:
And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground
Their accents did resound.
So forth those ioyous birdes did passe along
Adowne the lee, that to them murmurde low,
As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong,
Yet did by signes his glad affection show,
Making his streame run slow.
And all the foule which in his flood did dwell
Gan flock about these twaine, that did excell
The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend The lesser stars. So they, enranged well, Did on those two attend,
And their best service lend
Against their wedding day, which was not long Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
At length they all to mery London came,
To mery London, my most kyndly nurse,
That to me gave this lifes first native sourse,
Though from another place I take my name,
An house of auncient fame:
There when they came, whereas those bricky towres
The which on Themmes brode aged backe doe ryde,
Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,
There whylome wont the Templer-knights to byde,
Till they decayd through pride;
Next whereunto there standes a stately place,
Where oft I gayned giftes and goodly grace
Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell.
Whose want too well now now feels my freendles case;
But ah! here fits not well
Olde woes, but ioyes, to tell
Against the bridale daye, which is not long:
Sweet Themmes: runne softly, till I end my song.
Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,
Great Englands glory, and the worlds wide wonder,
Whose dreadfull name late through all Spaine did
thunder,
And Hercules two pillors standing neere
Did make to quake and feare:
Faire branch of honor, flower of chevalrie!
That fillest England with thy triumphs fame,
Ioy have thou of thy noble victorie,
And endlesse happinesse of thine owne name
That promiseth the same;
That through thy prowesse, and victorious armes,
Thy country may be freed from forraine harmes,
And great Elisaes glorious name may ring
Through al the world, fil'd with thy wide alarmes,
Which some brave Muse may sing
Upon the brydale day, which is not long :
Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
From those high towers this noble lord issuing,
Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hayre
In th' ocean billowes he hath bathed fayre,
Descended to the rivers open vewing,
With a great raine ensuing.
Above the rest were goodly to bee seene
Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature,
Beseeming well the bower of any queene,
With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature,
Fit for so goodly stature,
That like the Twins of love they seem'd in sight,
Which decke the bauldricke of the Heavens bright;
They two, forth pacing to the rivers side,
Receiv'd those two faire brides, their loves delight;
Which, at th' appointed tyde,
Each one did make his bryde
Against their brydale day, which is not long :
Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
G. W. SENIOR', TO THE AUTHOR.
DARKE is the day, when Phoebus face is shrouded,
And weaker sights may wander soone astray:
But, when they see his glorious rays unclouded,
With steddy steps they keep the perfect way:
So, while this Muse in forraine land doth stay,
Invention weeps, and pens are cast aside;
The time, like night, depriv'd of chearfull day;
And few do write, but (ah !) too soon may slide.
Then, hie thee home, that art our perfect guide,
And with thy wit illustrate England's fame,
Daunting thereby our neighbours ancient pride,
That do, for poesie, challenge chiefest name:
So we that live, and ages that succeed,
With great applause thy learned works shall read.
Perhaps George Whetstone, a poetaster and dramatic writer in the reign of Elizabeth; for he is characterised by a contemporary writer, "as one of the most passionate amongst us to bewail the perplexities of love." These Amoretti, or Sonnets, we
G. W. JUNIOR, TO THE AUTHOR.
Au! Colin, whether on the lowly plaine,
Piping to shepherds thy sweet roundelays;
Or whether singing, in some lofty vaine,
Heroicke deeds of past or present days;
Or whether, in thy lovely mistresse praise,
Thou list to exercise thy learned quill;
Thy Muse hath got such grace and power to please
With rare invention, beautified by skill,
As who therein can ever ioy their fill?
O! therefore let that happy Muse proceed
To clime the height of Vertues sacred hill,
Where endlesse honour shall be made thy meed:
Because no malice of succeeding daies
Can rase those records of thy lasting praise.
may therefore suppose quite suited to his taste. If this address to Spenser be written by Whetstone, we may suppose G. W. jun. by whom the other address is signed, to be his son. Todd.
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,
Written with teares in harts close bleeding book.
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 !
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 che-
If not, die soone; and I with thee will perish.
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.
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 cheerelesse 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
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.
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
But angels come to lead fraile mindes to rest
Shoot out his darts to base affections wound;
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;
Prepare your selfe new love to entertaine. [raine, Well is he borne, that may behold you ever.
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 countenance, 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.
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.
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.
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 huge massacres 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, [sport.
As she doth laugh at me, and makes my pain her
· SONNET 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.
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 herselfe 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.
ONE day I sought with her bart-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.
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,
One of those archers closely I did spy,
At every rash beholder passing by.
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.
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.
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.
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.
VOL. III.
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 fiint 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.
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