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EDMUND SPENSER | So oft as I her beauty do behold,
And therewith do her cruelty compare,
I marvel of what substance was the mould
The which her made at once so cruel-fair.
Not earth; for her high thoughts more heavenly are:
Not water; for her love doth burn like fire:
Not air; for she is not so light or rare:
Not fire; for she doth freeze with faint desire.
Then needs another element inquire
Whereof she might be made; that is, the sky.
For to the heaven her haughty looks aspire,
And eke her love is pure immortal high.
Then since to heaven ye likened are the best,
Be like in mercy as in all the rest. | Amoretti LV: So oft as I her beauty do behold | Renaissance | Love |
EDMUND SPENSER | The weary yeare his race now having run,
The new begins his compast course anew:
With shew of morning mylde he hath begun,
Betokening peace and plenty to ensew.
So let us, which this chaunge of weather vew,
Chaunge eeke our mynds and former lives amend,
The old yeares sinnes forepast let us eschew,
And fly the faults with which we did offend.
Then shall the new yeares joy forth freshly send,
Into the glooming world his gladsome ray:
And all these stormes which now his beauty blend,
Shall turne to caulmes and tymely cleare away.
So likewise love cheare you your heavy spright,
And chaunge old yeares annoy to new delight. | Amoretti LXII: "The weary yeare his race now having run" | Renaissance | Love |
EDMUND SPENSER | To all those happy blessings which ye have,
With plenteous hand by heaven upon you thrown:
This one disparagement they to you gave,
That ye your love lent to so meane a one.
Yee whose high worths surpassing paragon,
Could not on earth have found one fit for mate,
Ne but in heaven matchable to none,
Why did ye stoup unto so lowly state.
But ye thereby much greater glory gate,
Then had ye sorted with a princes pere:
For now your light doth more it selfe dilate,
And in my darknesse greater doth appeare.
Yet since your light hath once enlumind me,
With my reflex yours shall encreased be. | Amoretti LXVI: "To all those happy blessings which ye have" | Renaissance | Love |
EDMUND SPENSER | Fresh spring the herald of loves mighty king,
In whose cote armour richly are displayed
All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring
In goodly colours gloriously arrayd:
Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd,
Yet in her winters bowre not well awake:
Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid
Unless she doe him by the forelock take.
Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make,
To wayt on love amongst his lovely crew:
Where every one that misseth then her make,
Shall be by him amearst with penance dew.
Make hast therefore sweet love, whilest it is prime,
For none can call againe the passed time. | Amoretti LXX: Fresh spring the herald of loves mighty king | Renaissance | Love |
EDMUND SPENSER | I joy to see how in your drawen work,
Your selfe unto the Bee ye doe compare;
And me unto the Spyder that doth lurke,
In close awayt to catch her unaware.
Right so your selfe were caught in cunning snare
Of a deare for, and thralled to his love:
In whose streight bands ye now captived are
So firmely, that ye never may remove.
But as your whole worke is woven all about,
With woodbynd flowers and fragrant Enlantine:
So sweet your prison you in time shall prove,
With many deare delights bedecked fyne,
And all thensforth eternall peace shall see
Betweene the Spyder and the gentle Bee. | Amoretti LXXI: I joy to see how in your drawen work | Renaissance | Love |
EDMUND SPENSER | Fayre is my love, when her fayre golden heares,
With the loose wynd ye waving chance to marke:
Fayre when the rose in her red cheekes appears,
Or in her eyes the fyre of love does sparke.
Fayre when her brest lyke a rich laden barke,
With pretious merchandize she forth doth lay:
Fayre when that cloud of pryde which oft doth dark
Her goodly light with smiles she drives away,
But fayrest she, when so she doth display
The gate with pearles and rubyes richly dight:
Throgh which her words so wise do make their way
To beare the message of her gentle spright.
The rest be works of natures wonderment,
But this the worke of harts astonishment. | Amoretti LXXXI: Fayre is my love, when her fayre golden heares | Renaissance | Love |
EDMUND SPENSER | Lyke as the Culver on the bared bough,
Sits mourning for the absence of her mate:
And in her songs sends many a wishfull vow,
For his returne that seemes to linger late,
So I alone now left disconsolate,
Mourne to my selfe the absence of my love:
And wandring here and there all desolate,
Seek with my playnts to match that mournful dove:
Ne joy of ought that under heaven doth hove,
Can comfort me, but her owne joyous sight:
Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move,
In her unspotted pleasauns to delight.
Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis,
And dead my life that wants such lively blis. | Amoretti LXXXIX: Lyke as the Culver on the bared bough | Renaissance | Love |
EDMUND SPENSER | More then most faire, full of the living fire,
Kindled above unto the maker neere:
No eies but joyes, 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. | Amoretti VIII: More then most faire, full of the living fire | Renaissance | Love |
EDMUND SPENSER | 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 majesty,
For looking on the earth whence she was borne:
Her minde remembreth her mortalitie,
What so 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. | Amoretti XIII: "In that proud port, which her so goodly graceth" | Renaissance | Love |
EDMUND SPENSER | Ye tradefull Merchants that with weary toyle,
Do seeke most pretious things to make your gain:
And both the Indias of their treasures 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 hir 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. | Amoretti XV: Ye tradefull Merchants that with weary toyle | Renaissance | Love |
EDMUND SPENSER | Penelope for her Ulisses sake,
Devizd a Web her wooers to deceave:
In which the worke that she all day did make
The same at night she did again unreave:
Such subtile craft my Damzell doth conceave,
Th importune suit of my desire to shnone:
For all that I in many dayes doo weave,
In one short houre I find by her undonne.
So when I thinke to end that I begonne,
I must begin and never bring to end:
For with one looke she spils that long I sponne,
And with one word my whole years work doth rend.
Such labour like the Spyders web I fynd,
Whose fruitless worke is broken with least wynd. | Amoretti XXIII: Penelope for her Ulisses sake | Renaissance | Love |
EDMUND SPENSER | My Love is like to ice, and I to fire:
How comes it then that this her cold so great
Is not dissolved through my so hot desire,
But harder grows the more I her entreat?
Or how comes it that my exceeding heat
Is not allayed by her heart-frozen cold,
But that I burn much more in boiling sweat,
And feel my flames augmented manifold?
What more miraculous thing may be told,
That fire, which all things melts, should harden ice,
And ice, which is congeald with senseless cold,
Should kindle fire by wonderful device?
Such is the power of love in gentle mind,
That it can alter all the course of kind. | Amoretti XXX: My Love is like to ice, and I to fire | Renaissance | Love |
EN JONSON | Though beauty be the mark of praise,
And yours of whom I sing be such
As not the world can praise too much,
Yet tis your virtue now I raise.
A virtue, like allay, so gone
Throughout your form, as, though that move
And draw and conquer all mens love,
This subjects you to love of one.
Wherein you triumph yet; because
Tis of yourself, and that you use
The noblest freedom, not to choose
Against or faith or honors laws.
But who should less expect from you,
In whom alone Love lives again?
By whom he is restored to men,
And kept, and bred, and brought up true.
His falling temples you have reared,
The withered garlands taen away;
His altars kept from the decay
That envy wished, and nature feared;
And on them burn so chaste a flame,
With so much loyalties expense,
As Love, t acquit such excellence,
Is gone himself into your name.
And you are he; the deity
To whom all lovers are designed
That would their better objects find;
Among which faithful troop am I.
Who, as an offspring at your shrine,
Have sung this hymn, and here entreat
One spark of your diviner heat
To light upon a love of mine.
Which, if it kindle not, but scant
Appear, and that to shortest view,
Yet give me leave t adore in you
What I in her am grieved to want. | An Elegy | Renaissance | Love |
GEORGE GASCOIGNE | And if I did, what then?
Are you aggrievd therefore?
The sea hath fish for every man,
And what would you have more?
Thus did my mistress once,
Amaze my mind with doubt;
And poppd a question for the nonce
To beat my brains about.
Whereto I thus replied:
Each fisherman can wish
That all the seas at every tide
Were his alone to fish.
And so did I (in vain)
But since it may not be,
Let such fish there as find the gain,
And leave the loss for me.
And with such luck and loss
I will content myself,
Till tides of turning time may toss
Such fishers on the shelf.
And when they stick on sands,
That every man may see,
Then will I laugh and clap my hands,
As they do now at me. | And If I Did, What Then? | Renaissance | Love |
JOHN DONNE | All Kings, and all their favourites,
All glory of honours, beauties, wits,
The sun itself, which makes times, as they pass,
Is elder by a year now than it was
When thou and I first one another saw:
All other things to their destruction draw,
Only our love hath no decay;
This no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday,
Running it never runs from us away,
But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.
Two graves must hide thine and my corse;
If one might, death were no divorce.
Alas, as well as other Princes, we
(Who Prince enough in one another be)
Must leave at last in death these eyes and ears,
Oft fed with true oaths, and with sweet salt tears;
But souls where nothing dwells but love
(All other thoughts being inmates) then shall prove
This, or a love increased there above,
When bodies to their graves, souls from their graves remove.
And then we shall be throughly blessed;
But we no more than all the rest.
Here upon earth were Kings, and none but we
Can be such Kings, nor of such subjects be;
Who is so safe as we? where none can do
Treason to us, except one of us two.
True and false fears let us refrain,
Let us love nobly, and live, and add again
Years and years unto years, till we attain
To write threescore: this is the second of our reign. | The Anniversary | Renaissance | Love |
SIR WALTER RALEGH | As you came from the holy land
Of Walsingham,
Met you not with my true love
By the way as you came?
How shall I know your true love,
That have met many one,
I went to the holy land,
That have come, that have gone?
She is neither white, nor brown,
But as the heavens fair;
There is none hath a form so divine
In the earth, or the air.
Such a one did I meet, good sir,
Such an angelic face,
Who like a queen, like a nymph, did appear
By her gait, by her grace.
She hath left me here all alone,
All alone, as unknown,
Who sometimes did me lead with herself,
And me loved as her own.
Whats the cause that she leaves you alone,
And a new way doth take,
Who loved you once as her own,
And her joy did you make?
I have lovd her all my youth;
But now old, as you see,
Love likes not the falling fruit
From the withered tree.
Know that Love is a careless child,
And forgets promise past;
He is blind, he is deaf when he list,
And in faith never fast.
His desire is a dureless content,
And a trustless joy:
He is won with a world of despair,
And is lost with a toy.
Of womenkind such indeed is the love,
Or the word love abusd,
Under which many childish desires
And conceits are excusd.
But true love is a durable fire,
In the mind ever burning,
Never sick, never old, never dead,
From itself never turning. | As You Came from the Holy Land (attributed) | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | Stella is sick, and in that sick-bed lies
Sweetness, that breathes and pants as oft as she;
And grace, sick too, such fine conclusions tries
That sickness brags itself best graced to be.
Beauty is sick, but sick in so fair guise
That in that paleness beautys white we see;
And joy, which is inseparate from these eyes,
Stella now learns (strange case!) to weep in thee.
Love moves thy pain, and like a faithful page,
As thy looks stir, runs up and down, to make
All folks prest at thy will thy pain to assuage;
Nature with care sweats for her darlings sake,
Knowing worlds pass, ere she enough can find
Of such heaven stuff, to clothe so heavenly mind. | Astrophil and Stella 101: Stella is sick, and in that sick-bed lies | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | Where be the roses gone, which sweetened so our eyes?
Where those red cheeks, which oft with fair increase did frame
The height of honor in the kindly badge of shame?
Who hath the crimson weeds stolen from my morning skies?
How doth the color vade of those vermilion dyes,
Which Nature's self did make, and self engrained the same!
I would know by what right this paleness overcame
That hue, whose force my heart still unto thraldom ties?
Galen's adoptive sons, who by a beaten way
Their judgements hackney on, the fault on sickness lay;
But feeling proof makes me say they mistake it far:
It is but love, which makes his paper perfect white
To write therein more fresh the story of delight,
Whiles beauty's reddest ink Venus for him doth stir. | Astrophil and Stella 102: Where be the roses gone, which sweetened so our eyes? | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | O absent presence, Stella is not here;
False flattering hope, that with so fair a face
Bare me in hand, that in this orphan place
Stella, I say my Stella, should appear.
What sayst thou now? Where is that dainty cheer
Thou toldst mine eyes should help their famished case?
But thou art gone, now that self-felt disgrace
Doth make me most to wish thy comfort near.
But here I do store of fair ladies meet,
Who may with charm of conversation sweet
Make in my heavy mould new thoughts to grow:
Sure they prevail as much with me, as he
That bade his friend, but then new maimed, to be
Merry with him, and not think of his woe. | Astrophil and Stella 106: O absent presence, Stella is not here | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | Stella, since thou so right a princess art
Of all the powers which life bestows on me,
There ere by them aught undertaken be
They first resort unto that sovereign part;
Sweet, for a while give respite to my heart,
Which pants as though it still should leap to thee,
And on my thoughts give thy lieutenancy
To this great cause, which needs both use and art,
And as a queen, who from her presence sends
Whom she employs, dismiss from thee my wit,
Till it have wrought what thy own will attends.
On servants shame oft masters blame doth sit.
Oh let not fools in me thy works reprove,
And scorning say, See what it is to love. | Astrophil and Stella 107: Stella, since thou so right a princess art | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | Alas, have I not pain enough, my friend,
Upon whose breast a fiercer gripe doth tire
Than did on him who first stale down the fire,
While Love on me doth all his quiver spend,
But with your rhubarb words you must contend
To grieve me worse, in saying that Desire
Doth plunge my well-formed soul even in the mire
Of sinful thoughts, which do in ruin end?
If that be sin which doth the manners frame,
Well stayed with truth in word and faith of deed,
Ready of wit, and fearing naught but shame;
If that be sin which in fixed hearts doth breed
A loathing of all loose unchastity,
Then love is sin, and let me sinful be. | Astrophil and Stella 14: Alas, have I not pain enough, my friend | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | Not at first sight, nor with a dribbed shot,
Love gave the wound which while I breathe will bleed:
But known worth did in mine of time proceed,
Till by degrees it had full conquest got.
I saw, and liked; I liked, but loved not;
I loved, but straight did not what love decreed:
At length to loves decrees I, forced, agreed,
Yet with repining at so partial lot.
Now even that footstep of lost liberty
Is gone, and now like slave-born Muscovite
I call it praise to suffer tyranny;
And now employ the remnant of my wit
To make myself believe that all is well,
While with a feeling skill I paint my hell. | Astrophil and Stella 2: Not at first sight, nor with a dribbed shot | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | Your words my friend (right healthful caustics) blame
My young mind marred, whom Love doth windlass so,
That mine own writings like bad servants show
My wits, quick in vain thoughts, in virtue lame,
That Plato I read for nought, but if he tame
Such coltish gyres, that to my birth I owe
Nobler desires, least else that friendly foe,
Great expectation, wear a train of shame.
For since mad March great promise made of me,
If now the May of my years much decline,
What can be hoped my harvest time will be?
Sure you say well, your wisdoms golden mine
Dig deep with learnings spade, now tell me this,
Hath this world ought so fair as Stella is? | Astrophil and Stella 21: Your words my friend (right healthful caustics) blame | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | The wisest scholar of the wight most wise
By Phoebus doom, with sugared sentence says
That Virtue, if it once met with our eyes,
Strange flames of love it in our souls would raise;
But, for that man with pain this truth descries,
While he each thing in senses balance weighs,
And so nor will nor can behold those skies
Which inward sun to heroic mind displays,
Virtue of late, with virtuous care to stir
Love of herself, takes Stellas shape, that she
To mortal eyes might sweetly shine in her.
It is most true, for since I her did see,
Virtues great beauty in that face I prove,
And find theffect, for I do burn in love. | Astrophil and Stella 25: The wisest scholar of the wight most wise | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | With how sad steps, O moon, thou climbst the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What! may it be that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feelst a lovers case:
I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue thereungratefulness? | Astrophil and Stella 30: With how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | What, have I thus betrayed my liberty?
Can those black beams such burning marks engrave
In my free side? or am I born a slave,
Whose neck becomes such yoke of tyranny?
Or want I sense to feel my misery?
Or sprite, disdain of such disdain to have?
Who for long faith, though daily help I crave,
May get no alms but scorn of beggary.
Virtue, awake! Beauty but beauty is;
I may, I must, I can, I will, I do
Leave following that which it is gain to miss.
Let her go. Soft, but here she comes. Go to,
Unkind, I love you not! O me, that eye
Doth make my heart give to my tongue the lie! | Astrophil and Stella 47: What, have I thus betrayed my liberty? | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | Souls joy, bend not those morning stars from me,
Where virtue is made strong by beautys might,
Where love is chasteness, pain doth learn delight,
And humbleness grows one with majesty.
Whatever may ensue, O let me be
Co-partner of the riches of that sight;
Let not mine eyes be hell-drivn from that light;
O look, O shine, O let me die and see.
For though I oft my self of them bemoan,
That through my heart their beamy darts be gone,
Whose cureless wounds even now most freshly bleed,
Yet since my death wound is already got,
Dear killer, spare not they sweet cruel shot;
A kind of grace it is to slay with speed. | Astrophil and Stella 48: Souls joy, bend not those morning stars from me | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | I on my horse, and Love on me, doth try
Our horsemanships, while by strange work I prove
A horseman to my horse, a horse to Love,
And now mans wrongs in me, poor beast, descry.
The reins wherewith my rider doth me tie
Are humbled thoughts, which bit of reverence move,
Curbed in with fear, but with gilt boss above
Of hope, which makes it seem fair to the eye.
The wand is will; thou, fancy, saddle art,
Girt fast by memory; and while I spur
My horse, he spurs with sharp desire to my heart;
He sits me fast, however I do stir;
And now hath made me to his hand so right
That in the manage myself takes delight. | Astrophil and Stella 49: I on my horse, and Love on me, doth try | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | It is most true, that eyes are formed to serve
The inward light; and that the heavenly part
Ought to be king, from whose rules who do swerve,
Rebels to Nature, strive for their own smart.
It is most true, what we call Cupids dart,
An image is, which for ourselves we carve;
And, fools, adore in temple of our heart,
Till that good god make Church and churchman starve.
True, that true beauty virtue is indeed,
Whereof this beauty can be but a shade,
Which elements with mortal mixture breed;
True, that on earth we are but pilgrims made,
And should in soul up to our country move;
True; and yet true, that I must Stella love. | Astrophil and Stella 5: It is most true, that eyes are formed to serve | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | A strife is grown between Virtue and Love,
While each pretends that Stella must be his:
Her eyes, her lips, her all, saith Love, do this,
Since they do wear his badge, most firmly prove.
But Virtue thus that title doth disprove,
That Stella (O dear name) that Stella is
That virtuous soul, sure heir of heavnly bliss;
Not this fair outside, which our hearts doth move.
And therefore, though her beauty and her grace
Be Loves indeed, in Stellas self he may
By no pretense claim any manner place.
Well, Love, since this demur our suit doth stay,
Let Virtue have that Stella's self; yet thus,
Let Virtue but that body grant to us. | Astrophil and Stella 52: A strife is grown between Virtue and Love | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | O Grammar rules, O now your virtues show;
So children still read you with awful eyes,
As my young Dove may in your precepts wise
Her grant to me, by her own virtue know.
For late with heart most high, with eyes most low,
I cravd the thing which ever she denies:
She lightning Love, displaying Venus skies,
Least once should not be heard, twice said, No, No.
Sing then my Muse, now Io Pan sing,
Heavns envy not at my high triumphing:
But Grammars force with sweet success confirm,
For Grammar says (O this dear Stella weigh,)
For Grammar says (to Grammar who says nay)
That in one speech two Negatives affirm. | Astrophil and Stella 63: O Grammar rules, O now your virtues show | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | Desire, though thou my old companion art,
And oft so clings to my pure Love that I
One from the other scarcely can descry,
While each doth blow the fire of my heart,
Now from thy fellowship I needs must part;
Venus is taught with Dians wings to fly;
I must no more in thy sweet passions lie;
Virtues gold now must head my Cupids dart.
Service and honor, wonder with delight,
Fear to offend, will worthy to appear,
Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my sprite:
These things are let me by my only dear;
But thou, Desire, because thou wouldst have all,
Now banished art. But yet alas how shall? | Astrophil and Stella 72: Desire, though thou my old companion art | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame,
Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee;
Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my history;
If thou praise not, all other praise is shame.
Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame
A nest for my young praise in laurel tree:
In truth I sweare, I wish not there should be
Graved in mine epitaph a Poets name:
Nay if I would, could I just title make,
That any laud to me thereof should grow,
Without my plumes from others wings I take.
For nothing from my wit or will doth flow,
Since all my words thy beauty doth endite,
And love doth hold my hand, and makes me write. | Astrophil and Stella 90: Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame | Renaissance | Love |
GEORGE CHAPMAN | O come, soft rest of cares! come, Night!
Come, naked Virtues only tire,
The reaped harvest of the light
Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire,
Love calls to war:
Sighs his alarms,
Lips his swords are,
The fields his arms.
Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand
On glorious Days outfacing face;
And all thy crowned flames command
For torches to our nuptial grace.
Love calls to war:
Sighs his alarms,
Lips his swords are,
The field his arms. | Bridal Song | Renaissance | Love |
THOMAS CAMPION | There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies blow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow:
There cherries grow which none may buy
Till Cherry-ripe themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds filled with snow;
Yet them no peer nor prince can buy
Till Cherry-ripe themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till Cherry-ripe themselves do cry. | Cherry-Ripe | Renaissance | Love |
ISABELLA WHITNEY | The time is come, I must depart
from thee, ah famous city;
I never yet to rue my smart,
did find that thou hadst pity.
Wherefore small cause there is, that I
should grieve from thee to go;
But many women foolishly,
like me, and other moe,
Do such a fixed fancy set,
on those which least deserve,
That long it is ere wit we get
away from them to swerve.
But time with pity oft will tell
to those that will her try,
Whether it best be more to mell,
or utterly defy.
And now hath time me put in mind
of thy great cruelness,
That never once a help would find,
to ease me in distress.
Thou never yet wouldst credit give
to board me for a year;
Nor with apparel me relieve,
except thou payed were.
No, no, thou never didst me good,
nor ever wilt, I know.
Yet am I in no angry mood,
but will, or ere I go,
In perfect love and charity,
my testament here write,
And leave to thee such treasury,
as I in it recite.
Now stand aside and give me leave
to write my latest will;
And see that none you do deceive
of that I leave them till. | A Communication Which the Author Had to London, Before She Made Her Will | Renaissance | Love |
HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY | O happy dames, that may embrace
The fruit of your delight,
Help to bewail the woeful case
And eke the heavy plight
Of me, that wonted to rejoice
The fortune of my pleasant choice;
Good ladies, help to fill my mourning voice.
In ship, freight with remembrance
Of thoughts and pleasures past,
He sails that hath in governance
My life while it will last;
With scalding sighs, for lack of gale,
Furthering his hope, that is his sail,
Toward me, the sweet port of his avail.
Alas! how oft in dreams I see
Those eyes that were my food;
Which sometime so delighted me,
That yet they do me good;
Wherewith I wake with his return,
Whose absent flame did make me burn:
But when I find the lack, Lord, how I mourn!
When other lovers in arms across
Rejoice their chief delight.
Drowned in tears, to mourn my loss
I stand the bitter night
In my window, where I may see
Before the winds how the clouds flee.
Lo! what a mariner love hath made of me!
And in green waves when the salt flood
Doth rise by rage of wind,
A thousand fancies in that mood
Assail my restless mind.
Alas! now drencheth my sweet foe,
That with the spoil of my heart did go,
And left me; but, alas! why did he so?
And when the seas wax calm again
To chase fro me annoy,
My doubtful hope doth cause me pain;
So dread cuts off my joy.
Thus is my wealth mingled with woe,
And of each thought a doubt doth grow;
Now he comes! Will he come? Alas, no, no!
| Complaint of the Absence of Her Love Being Upon the Sea | Renaissance | Love |
SAMUEL DANIEL | Unto the boundless Ocean of thy beauty
Runs this poor river, charged with streams of zeal:
Returning thee the tribute of my duty,
Which here my love, my youth, my plaints reveal.
Here I unclasp the book of my charged soul,
Where I have cast th'accounts of all my care:
Here have I summed my sighs, here I enroll
How they were spent for thee; look what they are.
Look on the dear expenses of my youth,
And see how just I reckon with thine eyes:
Examine well thy beauty with my truth,
And cross my cares ere greater sum arise.
Read it sweet maid, though it be done but slightly;
Who can show all his love, doth love but lightly. | Delia 1: Unto the boundless Ocean of thy beauty | Renaissance | Love |
SAMUEL DANIEL | Go wailing verse, the infants of my love,
Minerva-like, brought forth without a Mother:
Present the image of the cares I prove,
Witness your Fathers grief exceeds all other.
Sigh out a story of her cruel deeds,
With interrupted accents of despair:
A monument that whosoever reads,
May justly praise, and blame my loveless Fair.
Say her disdain hath dried up my blood,
And starved you, in succours still denying:
Press to her eyes, importune me some good;
Waken her sleeping pity with your crying.
Knock at that hard heart, beg till you have moved her;
And tell thunkind, how dearly I have loved her. | Delia 2: Go wailing verse, the infants of my love | Renaissance | Love |
SAMUEL DANIEL | But love whilst that thou mayst be loved again,
Now whilst thy May hath filed thy lap with flowers,
Now whilst thy beauty bears without a stain,
Now use the summer smiles, ere winter lowers.
And whilst thou spreadst unto the rising sun
The fairest flower that ever saw the light,
Now joy thy time before thy sweet be done,
And, Delia, think thy morning must have night,
And that thy brightness sets at length to west,
When thou wilt close up that which now thou shewst;
And think the same becomes they fading best
Which then shall most inveil and shadow most.
Men do not weigh the stalk for what it was,
When once they find her flower, her glory, pass. | Delia 32: But love whilst that thou mayst be loved again | Renaissance | Love |
SAMUEL DANIEL | But love whilst that thou mayst be loved again,
Now whilst thy May hath filled thy lap with flowers,
Now whilst thy beauty bears without a stain,
Now use the summer smiles, ere winter lowers.
And whilst thou spreadst unto the rising sun
The fairest flower that ever saw the light,
Now joy thy time before thy sweet be done,
And, Delia, think thy morning must have night,
And that thy brightness sets at length to west,
When thou wilt close up that which now thou shewst;
And think the same becomes thy fading best
Which then shall most inveil and shadow most.
Men do not weigh the stalk for what it was,
When once they find her flower, her glory, pass. | Delia 36: But love whilst that thou mayst be loved again | Renaissance | Love |
SAMUEL DANIEL | When men shall find thy flower, thy glory pass,
And thou, with careful brow sitting alone,
Received hast this message from thy glass,
That tells thee truth, and says that all is gone,
Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou madest,
Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining,
I that have loved thee thus before thou fadest,
My faith shall wax, when thou art in thy waning.
The world shall find this miracle in me,
That fire can burn when all the matters spent;
Then what my faith hath been thyself shall see,
And that thou wast unkind thou mayst repent.
Thou mayst repent that thou hast scorned my tears,
When Winter snows upon thy golden hairs. | Delia 37: When men shall find thy flower, thy glory pass | Renaissance | Love |
SAMUEL DANIEL | Unhappy pen and ill accepted papers,
That intimate in vain my chaste desires,
My chaste desires, the ever burning tapers,
Enkindled by her eyes celestial fires.
Celestial fires and unrespecting powers,
That deign not view the glory of your might,
In humble lines the work of careful hours,
The sacrifice I offer to her sight.
But since she scorns her own, this rests for me,
Ill moan my self, and hide the wrong I have:
And so content me that her frowns should be
To my infant style the cradle, and the grave.
What though my self no honor get thereby,
Each bird sings therself, and so will I. | Delia 53: Unhappy pen and ill accepted papers | Renaissance | Love |
SIR THOMAS WYATT | A face that should content me wondrous well
Should not be fair but lovely to behold,
With gladsome cheer all grief for to expel;
With sober looks so would I that it should
Speak without words such words as none can tell;
Her tress also should be of crisped gold;
With wit; and thus might chance I might be tied,
And knit again the knot that should not slide. | A Description of Such a One As He Would Love | Renaissance | Love |
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE | In summers heat and mid-time of the day
To rest my limbs upon a bed I lay,
One window shut, the other open stood,
Which gave such light as twinkles in a wood,
Like twilight glimpse at setting of the sun
Or night being past, and yet not day begun.
Such light to shamefaced maidens must be shown,
Where they may sport, and seem to be unknown.
Then came Corinna in a long loose gown,
Her white neck hid with tresses hanging down:
Resembling fair Semiramis going to bed
Or Lais of a thousand wooers sped.
I snatched her gown, being thin, the harm was small,
Yet strived she to be covered therewithal.
And striving thus as one that would be cast,
Betrayed herself, and yielded at the last.
Stark naked as she stood before mine eye,
Not one wen in her body could I spy.
What arms and shoulders did I touch and see,
How apt her breasts were to be pressed by me?
How smooth a belly under her waist saw I?
How large a leg, and what a lusty thigh?
To leave the rest, all liked me passing well,
I clinged her naked body, down she fell,
Judge you the rest: being tired she bad me kiss,
Jove send me more such afternoons as this. | Elegies, Book One, 5 | Renaissance | Love |
JOHN DONNE | So, so breake off this last lamenting kisse,
Which sucks two soules, and vapours Both away,
Turne thou ghost that way, and let mee turne this,
And let our selves benight our happiest day,
We askd none leave to love; nor will we owe
Any, so cheape a death, as saying, Goe;
Goe; and if that word have not quite kild thee,
Ease mee with death, by bidding mee goe too.
Oh, if it have, let my word worke on mee,
And a just office on a murderer doe.
Except it be too late, to kill me so,
Being double dead, going, and bidding, goe. | The Expiration | Renaissance | Love |
SIR WALTER RALEGH | Farewell, false love, the oracle of lies,
A mortal foe and enemy to rest,
An envious boy, from whom all cares arise,
A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed,
A way of error, a temple full of treason,
In all effects contrary unto reason.
A poisoned serpent covered all with flowers,
Mother of sighs, and murderer of repose,
A sea of sorrows whence are drawn such showers
As moisture lend to every grief that grows;
A school of guile, a net of deep deceit,
A gilded hook that holds a poisoned bait.
A fortress foiled, which reason did defend,
A siren song, a fever of the mind,
A maze wherein affection finds no end,
A raging cloud that runs before the wind,
A substance like the shadow of the sun,
A goal of grief for which the wisest run.
A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear,
A path that leads to peril and mishap,
A true retreat of sorrow and despair,
An idle boy that sleeps in pleasure's lap,
A deep mistrust of that which certain seems,
A hope of that which reason doubtful deems.
Sith then thy trains my younger years betrayed,
And for my faith ingratitude I find;
And sith repentance hath my wrongs bewrayed,
Whose course was ever contrary to kind:
False love, desire, and beauty frail, adieu!
Dead is the root whence all these fancies grew. | A Farewell to False Love | Renaissance | Love |
JOHN DONNE | Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;
Thou knowst that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead,
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pampered swells with one blood made of two,
And this, alas, is more than we would do.
Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, nay more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our mariage bed, and marriage temple is;
Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met,
And cloistered in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that, self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.
Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?
Yet thou triumphst, and say'st that thou
Findst not thy self, nor me the weaker now;
Tis true; then learn how false, fears be:
Just so much honor, when thou yieldst to me,
Will waste, as this fleas death took life from thee. | The Flea | Renaissance | Love |
GEORGE GASCOIGNE | You must not wonder, though you think it strange,
To see me hold my louring head so low,
And that mine eyes take no delight to range
About the gleams which on your face do grow.
The mouse which once hath broken out of trap
Is seldom ticed with the trustless bait,
But lies aloof for fear of more mishap,
And feedeth still in doubt of deep deceit.
The scorched fly, which once hath scaped the flame,
Will hardly come to play again with fire,
Whereby I learn that grievous is the game
Which follows fancy dazzled by desire:
So that I wink or else hold down my head,
Because your blazing eyes my bale have bred. | For That He Looked Not upon Her | Renaissance | Love |
SIR WALTER RALEGH | Fortune hath taken thee away, my love,
My lifes soul and my souls heaven above;
Fortune hath taken thee away, my princess;
My only light and my true fancys mistress.
Fortune hath taken all away from me,
Fortune hath taken all by taking thee.
Dead to all joy, I only live to woe,
So fortune now becomes my mortal foe.
In vain you eyes, you eyes do waste your tears,
In vain you sighs do smoke forth my despairs,
In vain you search the earth and heaven above,
In vain you search, for fortune rules in love.
Thus now I leave my love in fortunes hands,
Thus now I leave my love in fortunes bands,
And only love the sorrows due to me;
Sorrow henceforth it shall my princess be.
I joy in this, that fortune conquers kings;
Fortune that rules on earth and earthly things
Hath taken my love in spite of Cupids might;
So blind a dame did never Cupid right.
With wisdoms eyes had but blind Cupid seen,
Then had my love my love for ever been;
But love farewell; though fortune conquer thee,
No fortune base shall ever alter me. | [Fortune Hath Taken Thee Away, My Love] | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | Only joy, now here you are,
Fit to hear and ease my care;
Let my whispering voice obtain,
Sweet reward for sharpest pain;
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.
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,
Cupids yoke to loose or bind:
These sweet flowers on fine bed too,
Us in their best language woo;
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.
This small light the moon bestows,
Serves thy beams but to disclose,
So to raise my hap more high;
Fear not else, none can us spy:
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.
That you heard was but a mouse,
Dumb sleep holdeth all the house;
Yet asleep, methinks they say,
Young folks, take time while you may:
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.
Niggard Time threats, if we miss
This large offer of our bliss,
Long stay ere he grant the same;
Sweet then, while each thing doth frame,
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.
Your fair mother is abed,
Candles out, and curtains spread:
She thinks you do letters write.
Write, but first let me indite:
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.
Sweet, alas, why strive you thus?
Concord better fitteth us:
Leave to Mars the force of hands,
Your power in your beauty stands;
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.
Woe to me, and do you swear
Me to hate, but I forbear,
Cursed by my destines all
That brought me so high to fall:
Soon with my death I will please thee.
No, no, no, no, my dear, let be. | Fourth Song | Renaissance | Love |
HENRY VIII, KING OF ENGLAND | Green groweth the holly,
So doth the ivy.
Though winter blasts blow never so high,
Green groweth the holly.
As the holly groweth green
And never changeth hue,
So I am, ever hath been,
Unto my lady true.
As the holly groweth green
With ivy all alone
When flowers cannot be seen
And greenwood leaves be gone,
Now unto my lady
Promise to her I make,
From all other only
To her I me betake.
Adieu, mine own lady,
Adieu, my special
Who hath my heart truly
Be sure, and ever shall. | Green Groweth the Holly | Renaissance | Love |
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE | It lies not in our power to love or hate,
For will in us is overruled by fate.
When two are stripped, long ere the course begin,
We wish that one should lose, the other win;
And one especially do we affect
Of two gold ingots, like in each respect:
The reason no man knows; let it suffice
What we behold is censured by our eyes.
Where both deliberate, the love is slight:
Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight? | from Hero and Leander: "It lies not in our power to love or hate" | Renaissance | Love |
THOMAS CAMPION | I care not for these ladies,
That must be wooed and prayed:
Give me kind Amaryllis,
The wanton country maid.
Nature art disdaineth,
Her beauty is her own.
Her when we court and kiss,
She cries, Forsooth, let go!
But when we come where comfort is,
She never will say no.
If I love Amaryllis,
She gives me fruit and flowers:
But if we love these ladies,
We must give golden showers.
Give them gold, that sell love,
Give me the nut-brown lass,
Who, when we court and kiss,
She cries, Forsooth, let go!
But when we come where comfort is,
She never will say no.
These ladies must have pillows,
And beds by strangers wrought;
Give me a bower of willows,
Of moss and leaves unbought,
And fresh Amaryllis,
With milk and honey fed;
Who, when we court and kiss,
She cries, Forsooth, let go!
But when we come where comfort is,
She never will say no. | I Care Not for These Ladies | Renaissance | Love |
HENRY VIII, KING OF ENGLAND | If love now reigned as it hath been
And were rewarded as it hath sin,
Noble men then would sure ensearch
All ways whereby they might it reach,
But envy reigneth with such disdain
And causeth lovers outwardly to refrain,
Which puts them to more and more
Inwardly most grievous and sore.
The fault in whom I cannot set,
But let them tell which love doth get
To lovers I put now sure this case:
Which of their loves doth get them grace?
And unto them which doth it know
Better than do I, I think it so. | If Love Now Reigned As It Hath Been | Renaissance | Love |
THOMAS NASHE | Adieu, farewell, earths bliss;
This world uncertain is;
Fond are lifes lustful joys;
Death proves them all but toys;
None from his darts can fly;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physic himself must fade.
All things to end are made,
The plague full swift goes by;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Beauty is but a flower
Which wrinkles will devour;
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair;
Dust hath closed Helens eye.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Strength stoops unto the grave,
Worms feed on Hectors brave;
Swords may not fight with fate,
Earth still holds ope her gate.
Come, come! the bells do cry.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us.
Wit with his wantonness
Tasteth deaths bitterness;
Hells executioner
Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us.
Haste, therefore, each degree,
To welcome destiny;
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a players stage;
Mount we unto the sky.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us. | In Time of Plague [Adieu, farewell, earths bliss] | Renaissance | Love |
EN JONSON | Tonight, grave sir, both my poor house, and I
Do equally desire your company;
Not that we think us worthy such a guest,
But that your worth will dignify our feast
With those that come, whose grace may make that seem
Something, which else could hope for no esteem.
It is the fair acceptance, sir, creates
The entertainment perfect, not the cates.
Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate,
An olive, capers, or some better salad
Ushering the mutton; with a short-legged hen,
If we can get her, full of eggs, and then
Lemons, and wine for sauce; to these a cony
Is not to be despaired of, for our money;
And, though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks,
The sky not falling, think we may have larks.
Ill tell you of more, and lie, so you will come:
Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some
May yet be there, and godwit, if we can;
Knat, rail, and ruff too. Howsoeer, my man
Shall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus,
Livy, or of some better book to us,
Of which well speak our minds, amidst our meat;
And Ill profess no verses to repeat.
To this, if ought appear which I not know of,
That will the pastry, not my paper, show of.
Digestive cheese and fruit there sure will be;
But that which most doth take my Muse and me,
Is a pure cup of rich Canary wine,
Which is the Mermaids now, but shall be mine;
Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted,
Their lives, as so their lines, till now had lasted.
Tobacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring,
Are all but Luther's beer to this I sing.
Of this we will sup free, but moderately,
And we will have no Pooley, or Parrot by,
Nor shall our cups make any guilty men;
But, at our parting we will be as when
We innocently met. No simple word
That shall be uttered at our mirthful board,
Shall make us sad next morning or affright
The liberty that well enjoy tonight. | Inviting a Friend to Supper | Renaissance | Love |
THOMAS CAMPION | Kind are her answers,
But her performance keeps no day;
Breaks time, as dancers
From their own music when they stray:
All her free favors
And smooth words wing my hopes in vain.
O did ever voice so sweet but only feign?
Can true love yield such delay,
Converting joy to pain?
Lost is our freedom,
When we submit to women so:
Why do we need em,
When in their best they work our woe?
There is no wisdom
Can alter ends, by Fate prefixed.
O why is the good of man with evil mixed?
Never were days yet called two,
But one night went betwixt. | Kind Are Her Answers | Renaissance | Love |
SAMUEL DANIEL | Love is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing;
A plant that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.
Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighting cries,
Heigh ho!
Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind
Not well, not full, nor fasting.
Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,
Heigh ho! | Love Is A Sickness Full of Woes | Renaissance | Love |
THOMAS HEYWOOD | Pack, clouds away! and welcome day!
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air, blow soft, mount larks aloft
To give my love good-morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark Ill borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
To give my love good-morrow;
To give my love good-morrow;
Notes from them both Ill borrow.
Wake from thy nest, Robin Redbreast,
Sing birds in every furrow;
And from each hill, let music shrill
Give my fair love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow;
To give my love good-morrow,
Sing birds in every furrow. | Love's Good-Morrow | Renaissance | Love |
JOHN DONNE | I scarce believe my love to be so pure
As I had thought it was,
Because it doth endure
Vicissitude, and season, as the grass;
Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore
My love was infinite, if spring make it more.
But if medicine, love, which cures all sorrow
With more, not only be no quintessence,
But mixed of all stuffs paining soul or sense,
And of the sun his working vigor borrow,
Loves not so pure, and abstract, as they use
To say, which have no mistress but their muse,
But as all else, being elemented too,
Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.
And yet no greater, but more eminent,
Love by the spring is grown;
As, in the firmament,
Stars by the sun are not enlarged, but shown,
Gentle love deeds, as blossoms on a bough,
From loves awakened root do bud out now.
If, as water stirred more circles be
Produced by one, love such additions take,
Those, like so many spheres, but one heaven make,
For they are all concentric unto thee;
And though each spring do add to love new heat,
As princes do in time of action get
New taxes, and remit them not in peace,
No winter shall abate the springs increase. | Love's Growth | Renaissance | Love |
JOHN SKELTON | Ay, beshrew you! by my fay,
These wanton clerks be nice alway!
Avaunt, avaunt, my popinjay!
What, will ye do nothing but play?
Tilly, vally, straw, let be I say!
Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!
With Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale.
By God, ye be a pretty pode,
And I love you an whole cart-load.
Straw, James Foder, ye play the fode,
I am no hackney for your rod:
Go watch a bull, your back is broad!
Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!
With Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale.
Ywis ye deal uncourteously;
What, would ye frumple me? now fy!
What, and ye shall be my pigesnye?
By Christ, ye shall not, no hardely:
I will not be japed bodily!
Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!
With Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale.
Walk forth your way, ye cost me nought;
Now have I found that I have sought:
The best cheap flesh that I ever bought.
Yet, for his love that all hath wrought,
Wed me, or else I die for thought.
Gup, Christian Clout, your breath is stale!
Go, Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale!
Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!
With Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale. | Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale | Renaissance | Love |
GIOVANNI BATTISTA GUARINI | Man of himselfs a little world, but joind
With woman, woman for that end designd,
(Hear cruel fair one whilst I this rehearse!)
He makes up then a complete universe.
Man, like this sublunary world, is born
The sport of two cross planets, love, and scorn:
Woman the other world resembles well,
In whose looks Heavn is, in whose breast Hell. | The Microcosm | Renaissance | Love |
SIR EDWARD DYER | The lowest trees have tops, the ant her gall,
The fly her spleen, the little sparks their heat;
The slender hairs cast shadows, though but small,
And bees have stings, although they be not great;
Seas have their source, and so have shallow springs;
And love is love, in beggars as in kings.
Where rivers smoothest run, deep are the fords;
The dial stirs, yet none perceives it move;
The firmest faith is in the fewest words;
The turtles cannot sing, and yet they love:
True hearts have eyes and ears, no tongues to speak;
They hear and see, and sigh, and then they break. | A Modest Love | Renaissance | Love |
THOMAS CAMPION | Come, O come, my lifes delight,
Let me not in languor pine!
Love loves no delay; thy sight,
The more enjoyed, the more divine:
O come, and take from me
The pain of being deprived of thee!
Thou all sweetness dost enclose,
Like a little world of bliss.
Beauty guards thy looks: the rose
In them pure and eternal is.
Come, then, and make thy flight
As swift to me, as heavenly light. | My Lifes Delight | Renaissance | Love |
THOMAS CAMPION | My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love,
And though the sager sort our deeds reprove,
Let us not weigh them. Heavens great lamps do dive
Into their west, and straight again revive,
But soon as once set is our little light,
Then must we sleep one ever-during night.
If all would lead their lives in love like me,
Then bloody swords and armor should not be;
No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move,
Unless alarm came from the camp of love.
But fools do live, and waste their little light,
And seek with pain their ever-during night.
When timely death my life and fortune ends,
Let not my hearse be vexed with mourning friends,
But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come
And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb;
And Lesbia, close up thou my little light,
And crown with love my ever-during night. | My Sweetest Lesbia | Renaissance | Love |
THOMAS CAMPION | Never love unless you can
Bear with all the faults of man:
Men sometimes will jealous be
Though but little cause they see;
And hang the head, as discontent,
And speak what straight they will repent.
Men that but one saint adore
Make a show of love to more.
Beauty must be scorned in none,
Though but truly served in one:
For what is courtship but disguise?
True hearts may have dissembling eyes.
Men, when their affairs require,
Must awhile themselves retire;
Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk,
And not ever sit and talk.
If these and such-like you can bear,
Then like, and love, and never fear! | Never Love Unless | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth
Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,
While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,
Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making,
And mournfully bewailing,
Her throat in tunes expresseth
What grief her breast oppresseth
For Tereus force on her chaste will prevailing.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness,
That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
Alas, she hath no other cause of anguish
But Tereus love, on her by strong hand wroken,
Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish;
Full womanlike complains her will was broken.
But I, who daily craving,
Cannot have to content me,
Have more cause to lament me,
Since wanting is more woe than too much having.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness,
That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth. | The Nightingale | Renaissance | Love |
THOMAS CAMPION | Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours;
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze
And cups oerflow with wine,
Let well-turned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love
While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
Sleeps leaden spells remove.
This time doth well dispense
With lovers long discourse;
Much speech hath some defense,
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well;
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys,
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights. | Now Winter Nights Enlarge | Renaissance | Love |
SIR WALTER RALEGH | If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherds tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.
Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When Rivers rage and Rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields,
To wayward winter reckoning yields,
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancys spring, but sorrows fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten:
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and Ivy buds,
The Coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.
But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love. | The Nymphs Reply to the Shepherd | Renaissance | Love |
QUEEN ELIZABETH I | I grieve and dare not show my discontent,
I love and yet am forced to seem to hate,
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant,
I seem stark mute but inwardly do prate.
I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned,
Since from myself another self I turned.
My care is like my shadow in the sun,
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,
Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done.
His too familiar care doth make me rue it.
No means I find to rid him from my breast,
Till by the end of things it be supprest.
Some gentler passion slide into my mind,
For I am soft and made of melting snow;
Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind.
Let me or float or sink, be high or low.
Or let me live with some more sweet content,
Or die and so forget what love ere meant. | On Monsieurs Departure | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under,
Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss;
Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder,
Swelling on either side to want his bliss;
Between whose hills her head entombed is;
Where like a virtuous monument she lies,
To be admired of lewd unhallowed eyes.
Without the bed her other fair hand was,
On the green coverlet, whose perfect white
Showed like an April daisy on the grass,
With pearly sweat resembling dew of night.
Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheathed their light,
And canopied in darkness sweetly lay
Till they might open to adorn the day.
Her hair like golden threads played with her breath
O modest wantons, wanton modesty!
Showing lifes triumph in the map of death,
And deaths dim look in lifes mortality.
Each in her sleep themselves so beautify
As if between them twain there were no strife,
But that life lived in death, and death in life.
Her breasts like ivory globes circled with blue,
A pair of maiden worlds unconquered,
Save of their lord no bearing yoke they knew,
And him by oath they truly honoured.
These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred,
Who like a foul usurper went about
From this fair throne to heave the owner out.
What could he see but mightily he noted?
What did he note but strongly he desired?
What he beheld, on that he firmly doted,
And in his will his willful eye he tired.
With more than admiration he admired
Her azure veins, her alabaster skin,
Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin.
As the grim lion fawneth oer his prey
Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied,
So oer this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay,
His rage of lust by gazing qualified;
Slacked, not suppressed; for, standing by her side,
His eye, which late this mutiny restrains,
Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins.
And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting,
Obdurate vassals fell exploits effecting.
In bloody death and ravishment delighting,
Nor childrens tears nor mothers groans respecting,
Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting.
Anon his beating heart, alarum striking,
Gives the hot charge and bids them do their liking.
His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye,
His eye commends the leading to his hand;
His hand, as proud of such a dignity,
Smoking with pride, marched on to make his stand
On her bare breast, the heart of all her land,
Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale,
Left their round turrets destitute and pale.
They, mustering to the quiet cabinet
Where their dear governess and lady lies,
Do tell her she is dreadfully beset
And fright her with confusion of their cries.
She, much amazed, breaks ope her locked-up eyes,
Who, peeping forth this tumult to behold,
Are by his flaming torch dimmed and controlled.
Imagine her as one in dead of night
From forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking,
That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly sprite,
Whose grim aspect sets every joint a-shaking.
What terror tis! but she, in worser taking,
From sleep disturbed, heedfully doth view
The sight which makes supposed terror true.
Wrapped and confounded in a thousand fears,
Like to a new-killed bird she trembling lies.
She dares not look; yet, winking, there appears
Quick-shifting antics ugly in her eyes.
Such shadows are the weak brains forgeries,
Who, angry that the eyes fly from their lights,
In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights.
His hand, that yet remains upon her breast
(Rude ram, to batter such an ivory wall!)
May feel her heart (poor citizen) distressed,
Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall,
Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal.
This moves in him more rage and lesser pity,
To make the breach and enter this sweet city. | from The Rape of Lucrece | Renaissance | Love |
THOMAS LODGE | Love in my bosom like a bee
Doth suck his sweet;
Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest.
Ah, wanton, will ye?
And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee
The livelong night.
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays if so I sing;
He lends me every lovely thing;
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting.
Whist, wanton, still ye!
Else I with roses every day
Will whip you hence,
And bind you, when you long to play,
For your offense.
Ill shut mine eyes to keep you in,
Ill make you fast it for your sin,
Ill count your power not worth a pin.
Alas! what hereby shall I win
If he gainsay me?
What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod?
He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee.
O Cupid, so thou pity me,
Spare not, but play thee! | Rosalinds Madrigal | Renaissance | Love |
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY | Whose sense in so evil consort, their stepdame Nature lays,
That ravishing delight in them most sweet tunes do not raise;
Or if they do delight therein, yet are so cloyed with wit,
As with sententious lips to set a title vain on it:
O let them hear these sacred tunes, and learn in wonders schools,
To be (in things past bounds of wit) fools, if they be not fools.
Who have so leaden eyes, as not to see sweet beautys show,
Or seeing, have so wooden wits, as not that worth to know;
Or knowing, have so muddy minds, as not to be in love;
Or loving, have so frothy thoughts, as easly thence to move:
Or let them see these heavenly beams, and in fair letters read
A lesson fit, both sight and skill, love and firm love to breed.
Hear then, but then with wonder hear; see but adoring see,
No mortal gifts, no earthly fruits, now here descended be;
See, do you see this face? a face? nay, image of the skies,
Of which the two life-giving lights are figured in her eyes:
Hear you this soul-invading voice, and count it but a voice?
The very essence of their tunes, when Angels do rejoice. | Seventh Song | Renaissance | Love |
EN JONSON | Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;
Yet slower, yet, O faintly, gentle springs!
List to the heavy part the music bears,
Woe weeps out her division, when she sings.
Droop herbs and flowers;
Fall grief in showers;
Our beauties are not ours.
O, I could still,
Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
Drop, drop, drop, drop,
Since natures pride is now a withered daffodil. | Slow, Slow, Fresh Fount | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid.
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown.
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O, where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there! | Song: Come away, come away, death | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That oer the green cornfield did pass,
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the rye,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
Those pretty country folks would lie,
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
This carol they began that hour,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
How that a life was but a flower
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
And therefore take the present time,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
For love is crowned with the prime
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring. | Song: It was a lover and his lass | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more.
Men were deceivers ever,
One foot in sea, and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into hey nonny, nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no more
Of dumps so dull and heavy.
The fraud of men was ever so
Since summer first was leafy.
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into hey, nonny, nonny. | Song: Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more | Renaissance | Love |
EN JONSON | Come, my Celia, let us prove,
While we can, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours forever;
He at length our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain.
Suns that set may rise again;
But if once we lose this light,
Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys?
Fame and rumor are but toys.
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies,
Or his easier ears beguile,
So removed by our wile?
Tis no sin loves fruit to steal;
But the sweet thefts to reveal,
To be taken, to be seen,
These have crimes accounted been. | Song: to Celia [Come, my Celia, let us prove] | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | Who is Silvia? what is she,
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;
The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admired be.
Is she kind as she is fair?
For beauty lives with kindness.
Love doth to her eyes repair,
To help him of his blindness;
And, being helped, inhabits there.
Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling;
To her let us garlands bring | Song: Who is Silvia? what is she | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beautys rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory;
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feedst thy lights flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Though that art now the worlds fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And, tender churl, makst waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the worlds due, by the grave and thee. | Sonnet 1: From fairest creatures we desire increase | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | When forty winters shall besiege thy brow
And dig deep trenches in thy beautys field,
Thy youths proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tattered weed, of small worth held.
Then being asked where all thy beauty lies
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days
To say within thine own deep-sunken eyes
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beautys use
If thou couldst answer "This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse",
Proving his beauty by succession thine.
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feelst it cold. | Sonnet 2: When forty winters shall besiege thy brow | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
Now is the time that face should form another,
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mothers glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
But if thou live remembred not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee. | Sonnet 3: Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | Shall I compare thee to a summers day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summers lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or natures changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owst;
Nor shall death brag thou wanderst in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growst:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. | Sonnet 18: Shall I compare thee to a summers day? | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | A womans face with natures own hand painted
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
A womans gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change as is false womens fashion;
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue, all hues in his controlling,
Which steals mens eyes and womens souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created,
Till nature as she wrought thee fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she pricked thee out for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy loves use their treasure. | Sonnet 20: A womans face with natures own hand painted | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud,
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are:
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense
Thy adverse party is thy advocate
And gainst myself a lawful plea commence.
Such civil war is in my love and hate,
That I an accessory needs must be
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me. | Sonnet 35: No more be grieved at that which thou hast done | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all:
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;
But yet be blamed if thou this self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robbry, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet love knows it is a greater grief
To bear loves wrong than hates known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes. | Sonnet 40: Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | Not marble nor the gilded monuments
Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme,
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor wars quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the Judgement that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers eyes. | Sonnet 55: Not marble nor the gilded monuments | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you.
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But like a sad slave, stay and think of nought,
Save, where you are how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love that in your will
Though you do anything, he thinks no ill. | Sonnet 57: Being your slave, what should I do but tend | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
But sad mortality oer-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summers honey breath hold out
Against the wrackful siege of battring days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall times best jewel from times chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright. | Sonnet 65: Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods, and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?
O know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument,
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told. | Sonnet 76: Why is my verse so barren of new pride | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou knowst thy estimate.
The Charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting,
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thy self thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking,
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgement making.
Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter:
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter. | Sonnet 87: Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summers story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lilys white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seemd it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play. | Sonnet 98: From you have I been absent in the spring | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah, yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred:
Ere you were born was beautys summer dead. | Sonnet 104: To me, fair friend, you never can be old | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | O! never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seemed my flame to qualify.
As easy might I from myself depart
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love; if I have ranged,
Like him that travels, I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe, though in my nature reigned
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stained,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all. | Sonnet 109: O! never say that I was false of heart | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy powr
Dost hold times fickle glass his sickle hour,
Who hast by waning grown, and therein showst
Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self growst
In nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,
As thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back,
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May time disgrace, and wretched minute kill.
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure;
She may detain but not still keep her treasure.
Her audit, though delayed, answered must be,
And her quietus is to render thee. | Sonnet 126: O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy powr | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,
And Will to boot, and Will in overplus;
More than enough am I that vex thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou being rich in Will add to thy Will
One will of mine, to make thy large Will more.
Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;
Think all but one, and me in that one Will. | Sonnet 135: Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth,
Unlearned in the worlds false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
Oh, loves best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told.
Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flattered be. | Sonnet 138: When my love swears that she is made of truth | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote;
Nor are mine ears with thy tongues tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud hearts slave and vassal wretch to be.
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain. | Sonnet 141: In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes | Renaissance | Love |
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE | Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still
The better angel is a man right fair,
The worser spirit a woman coloured ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And, whether that my angel be turnd fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell,
But being both from me both to each friend,
I guess one angel in anothers hell.
Yet this shall I neer know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out. | Sonnet 144: Two loves I have of comfort and despair | Renaissance | Love |