severo/love-poems huggingface dataset:
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds oertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offenders sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offences cross.
   Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
   And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.
Weret aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring,
Or laid great bases for eternity,
Which proves more short than waste or ruining;
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent,
For compound sweet forgoing simple savour,
Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent?
No;let me be obsequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
Which is not mixd with seconds, knows no art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.
   Hence, thou subornd informer! a true soul,
   When most impeachd, stands least in thy control.
Let the bird of loudest lay
On the sole Arabian tree
Herald sad and trumpet be,
To whose sound chaste wings obey.

But thou shrieking harbinger,
Foul precurrer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever's end,
To this troop come thou not near.

From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wing,
Save the eagle, feather'd king;
Keep the obsequy so strict.

Let the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right.

And thou treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender mak'st
With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st,
'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.

Here the anthem doth commence:
Love and constancy is dead;
Phoenix and the Turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.

So they lov'd, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none:
Number there in love was slain.

Hearts remote, yet not asunder;
Distance and no space was seen
'Twixt this Turtle and his queen:
But in them it were a wonder.

So between them love did shine
That the Turtle saw his right
Flaming in the Phoenix' sight:
Either was the other's mine.

Property was thus appalled
That the self was not the same;
Single nature's double name
Neither two nor one was called.

Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together,
To themselves yet either neither,
Simple were so well compounded;

That it cried, "How true a twain
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love has reason, reason none,
If what parts can so remain."

Whereupon it made this threne
To the Phoenix and the Dove,
Co-supremes and stars of love,
As chorus to their tragic scene:

                 threnos

Beauty, truth, and rarity,
Grace in all simplicity,
Here enclos'd, in cinders lie.

Death is now the Phoenix' nest,
And the Turtle's loyal breast
To eternity doth rest,

Leaving no posterity:
'Twas not their infirmity,
It was married chastity.

Truth may seem but cannot be;
Beauty brag but 'tis not she;
Truth and beauty buried be.

To this urn let those repair
That are either true or fair;
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
Sing lullaby, as women do,
Wherewith they bring their babes to rest,
And lullaby can I sing too
As womanly as can the best.
With lullaby they still the child,
And if I be not much beguiled,
Full many wanton babes have I
Which must be stilled with lullaby.

     First lullaby my youthful years;
It is now time to go to bed,
For crooked age and hoary hairs
Have won the haven within my head.
With lullaby, then, youth be still;
With lullaby content thy will;
Since courage quails and comes behind,
Go sleep, and so beguile thy mind.

     Next, lullaby my gazing eyes,
Which wonted were to glance apace.
For every glass may now suffice
To show the furrows in my face;
With lullaby then wink awhile,
With lullaby your looks beguile;
Let no fair face nor beauty bright
Entice you eft with vain delight.

     And lullaby, my wanton will;
Let reason's rule now reign thy thought,
Since all too late I find by skill
How dear I have thy fancies bought;
With lullaby now take thine ease,
With lullaby thy doubts appease.
For trust to this: if thou be still,
My body shall obey thy will.

     Eke lullaby, my loving boy,
My little Robin, take thy rest;
Since age is cold and nothing coy,
Keep close thy coin, for so is best;
With lullaby be thou content,
With lullaby thy lusts relent,
Let others pay which hath mo pence;
Thou art too poor for such expense.

     Thus lullaby, my youth, mine eyes,
My will, my ware, and all that was.
I can no mo delays devise,
But welcome pain, let pleasure pass;
With lullaby now take your leave,
With lullaby your dreams deceive;
And when you rise with waking eye,
Remember then this lullaby.
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me:
Ist not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to slavery my sweetst friend must be?
Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,
And my next self thou harder hast engrossed;
Of him, myself, and thee I am forsaken,
A torment thrice threefold thus to be crossed.
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward,
But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail;
Whoeer keeps me, let my heart be his guard:
Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail.
    And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,
    Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.
O, call not me to justify the wrong
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;
Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue;
Use power with power, and slay me not by art.
Tell me thou lovst elsewhere; but in my sight,
Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside;
What needst thou wound with cunning when thy might
Is more than my oerpressed defense can bide?
Let me excuse thee: ah, my love well knows
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies;
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries
    Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,
    Kill me outright with looks and rid my pain.
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.
O, but with mine compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;
Or if it do, not from those lips of thine,
That have profaned their scarlet ornaments
And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robbed others beds revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful I love thee as thou lovst those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:
Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows,
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
    If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
    By self-example mayst thou be denied.
My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmens are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed:
    For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
    Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
A Poet am I neither born nor bred,
But to a witty poet married:
Whose brain is fresh and pleasant as the Spring,
Where Fancies grow and where the Muses sing.
There oft I lean my head, and listening, hark,
To catch his words and all his fancies mark:
And from that garden show of beauties take
Whereof a posy I in verse may make.
Thus I, that have no gardens of my own,
There gather flowers that are newly blown.
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain,
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburned brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Inventions stay:
Invention, Natures child, fled step-dame Studys blows,
And others feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:
Fool, said my Muse to me, look in thy heart and write.
Joy of my life, full oft for loving you
    I bless my lot, that was so lucky placed:
    But then the more your own mishap I rue,
    That are so much by so mean love embased.
For had the equal heavens so much you graced
    In this as in the rest, ye might invent
    Some heavenly wit, whose verse could have enchased
    Your glorious name in golden monument.
But since ye deignd so goodly to relent
    To me your thrall, in whom is little worth,
    That little that I am shall all be spent
    In setting your immortal praises forth;
Whose lofty argument uplifting me
    Shall lift you up unto an high degree.
Sweet shades why doe you seeke to give delight
    To mee who deeme delight in this vilde place
    Butt torment, sorrow, and mine owne disgrace
    To taste of joy, or your vaine pleasing sight;

Show them your pleasures who saw never night
    Of greife, wher joyings fauning, smiling face
    Appeers as day, wher griefe found never space
    Yett for a sigh, a grone, or envies spite;

Butt O on mee a world of woes doe ly,
    Or els on mee all harmes strive to rely,
    And to attend like servants bound to mee,

Heat in desire, while frosts of care I prove,
    Wanting my love, yett surfett doe with love
    Burne, and yett freeze, better in hell to bee.
Come darkest night, becoming sorrow best;
    Light; leave thy light; fitt for a lightsome soule;
    Darknes doth truly sure with mee oprest
    Whom absence power doth from mirthe controle:

The very trees with hanging heads condole
    Sweet sommers parting, and of leaves distrest
    In dying coulers make a griefe-full role;
    Soe much (alas) to sorrow are they prest,

Thus of dead leaves her farewell carpetts made:
    Theyr fall, theyr branches, all theyr mournings prove;
    With leavles, naked bodies, whose huese vade
    From hopefull greene, to wither in theyr love,

If trees, and leaves for absence, mourners bee
Noe mervaile that I grieve, who like want see.
Love like a jugler, comes to play his prise,
    And all minds draw his wonders to admire,
    To see how cuningly hee, wanting eyes,
    Can yett deseave the best sight of desire:

 The wanton child, how hee can faine his fire
    So pretely, as none sees his disguise!
    How finely doe his tricks, while wee fooles hire
    The badge, and office of his tirannies,

For in the end, such jugling hee doth make
    As hee our harts, in stead of eyes doth take
    For men can only by theyr slieghts abuse

The sight with nimble, and delightful skill;
    Butt if hee play, his gaine is our lost will:
    Yett childlike, wee can nott his sports refuse.
Time only cause of my unrest
By whom I hopd once to bee blest
    How cruell art thou turned?
That first gavst lyfe unto my love,
And still a pleasure nott to move
    Or change though ever burned;

Have I thee slackd, or left undun
One loving rite, and soe have wunn
    Thy rage or bitter changing?
That now noe minutes I shall see,
Wherein I may least happy bee
    Thy favors soe estranging.

Blame thy self, and nott my folly,
Time gave time butt to bee holly;
    True love such ends best loveth
Unworhty love doth seeke for ends
A worthy love butt worth pretends
    Nor other thoughts itt proveth:

Then stay thy swiftnes cruell time,
And lett mee once more blessed clime
    To joy, that I may prayse thee:
Lett mee pleasure sweetly tasting
Joy in love, and faith nott wasting
    And on fames wings Ile rayse thee:

Never shall thy glory dying
Bee untill thine owne untying
    That time noe longer liveth;
Tis a gaine such tyme to lend:
Since soe thy fame shall never end
    Butt joy for what she giveth.
Love peruse me, seeke, and finde
How each corner of my minde
            Is a twine
            Woven to shine.
Not a Webb ill made, foule framd,
Bastard not by Father namd,
            Such in me
            Cannot bee.
Deare behold me, you shall see
Faith the Hive, and love the Bee,
            Which doe bring.
            Gaine and sting.
Pray desect me, sinewes, vaines,
Hold, and loves life in those gaines;
            Lying bare
            To despaire,
When you thus anotamise
All my body, my heart prise;
            Being true
            Just to you.
Close the Truncke, embalme the Chest,
Where your power still shall rest,
            Joy entombe,
            Loves just doome.
When I beeheld the Image of my deere
    With greedy lookes mine eyes would that way bend,
    Fear, and desire did inwardly contend;
    Feare to bee markd, desire to drawe still neere,

And in my soule a speritt wowld apeer,
    Which boldnes waranted, and did pretend
    To bee my genius, yett I durst nott lend
    My eyes in trust wher others seemed soe cleere,

Then did I search from whence this danger rose,
    If such unworthynes in mee did rest
    As my stervd eyes must nott with sight bee blest;
    When jealousie her poyson did disclose;

Yett in my hart unseense of jealous eye
The truer Image shall in triumph lye.
Love leave to urge, thou knowst thou hast the hand;
    Tis cowardise, to strive wher none resist:
    Pray thee leave off, I yeeld unto thy band;
    Doe nott thus, still, in thine owne powre persist,

Beehold I yeeld: lett forces bee dismist;
    I ame thy subject, conquerd, bound to stand,
    Never thy foe, butt did thy claime assist
    Seeking thy due of those who did withstand;

Butt now, itt seemes, thou wouldst I should thee love;
    I doe confess, twas thy will made mee chuse;
    And thy faire showes made mee a lover prove
    When I my freedome did, for paine refuse.

Yett this Sir God, your boyship I dispise;
Your charmes I obay, butt love nott want of eyes.
Long have I longd to see my love againe,
Still have I wisht, but never could obtaine it;
Rather than all the world (if I might gaine it)
Would I desire my loves sweet precious gaine.
Yet in my soule I see him everie day,
See him, and see his still sterne countenaunce,
But (ah) what is of long continuance,
Where majestie and beautie beares the sway?
Sometimes, when I imagine that I see him,
(As love is full of foolish fantasies)
Weening to kisse his lips, as my loves fees,
I feele but aire: nothing but aire to bee him.
Thus with Ixion, kisse I clouds in vaine:
Thus with Ixion, feele I endles paine.
Cherry-lipt Adonis in his snowie shape,
    Might not compare with his pure ivorie white,
    On whose faire front a poets pen may write,
Whose roseate red excels the crimson grape,
His love-enticing delicate soft limbs,
    Are rarely framd tintrap poore gazine eies:
    His cheeks, the lillie and carnation dies,
With lovely tincture which Apollos dims.
His lips ripe strawberries in nectar wet,
    His mouth a Hive, his tongue a hony-combe,
    Where Muses (like bees) make their mansion.
His teeth pure pearle in blushing correll set.
    Oh how can such a body sinne-procuring,
    Be slow to love, and quicke to hate, enduring?
They flee from me, that sometime did me seek
    With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,
    That now are wild, and do not remember
    That sometime they put themselves in danger
         To take bread at my hand; and now they range
         Busily seeking with a continual change.

Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise
    Twenty times better; but once, in special,
In thin array, after a pleasant guise,
    When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,
    And she me caught in her arms long and small;
         Therewith all sweetly did me kiss,
         And softly said, Dear heart, how like you this?

It was no dream: I lay broad waking:
    But all is turned, thorough my gentleness,
Into a strange fashion of forsaking;
    And I have leave to go of her goodness,
    And she also to use newfangleness.
         But since that I so kindly am served,
         I would fain know what she hath deserved.
Tis true, tis day, what though it be?
O wilt thou therefore rise from me?
Why should we rise because tis light?
Did we lie down because twas night?
Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
Should in despite of light keep us together.

Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst that it could say,
That being well I fain would stay,
And that I loved my heart and honour so,
That I would not from him, that had them, go.

Must business thee from hence remove?
Oh, thats the worst disease of love,
The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit, but not the busied man.
He which hath business, and makes love, doth do
Such wrong, as when a married man doth woo.
I loathe that I did love,
In youth that I thought sweet,
As time requires for my behove,
Methinks they are not meet.

My lusts they do me leave,
My fancies all be fled,
And tract of time begins to weave
Grey hairs upon my head,

For age with stealing steps
Hath clawed me with his crutch,
And lusty life away she leaps
As there had been none such.

My Muse doth not delight
Me as she did before;
My hand and pen are not in plight,
As they have been of yore.

For reason me denies
This youthly idle rhyme;
And day by day to me she cries,
Leave off these toys in time.

The wrinkles in my brow,
The furrows in my face,
Say, limping age will lodge him now
Where youth must give him place.

The harbinger of death,
To me I see him ride,
The cough, the cold, the gasping breath
Doth bid me provide

A pickaxe and a spade,
And eke a shrouding sheet,
A house of clay for to be made
For such a guest most meet.

Methinks I hear the clark
That knolls the careful knell,
And bids me leave my woeful wark,
Ere nature me compel.

My keepers knit the knot
That youth did laugh to scorn,
Of me that clean shall be forgot
As I had not been born.

Thus must I youth give up,
Whose badge I long did wear;
To them I yield the wanton cup
That better may it bear.

Lo, here the bared skull,
By whose bald sign I know
That stooping age away shall pull
Which youthful years did sow.

For beauty with her band
These crooked cares hath wrought,
And shipped me into the land
From whence I first was brought.

And ye that bide behind,
Have ye none other trust:
As ye of clay were cast by kind,
So shall ye waste to dust.
Alas, so all things now do hold their peace!
   Heaven and earth disturbed in no thing;
The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease,
   The nightes car the stars about doth bring;
Calm is the sea; the waves work less and less:
   So am not I, whom love, alas! doth wring,
Bringing before my face the great increase
   Of my desires, whereat I weep and sing,
In joy and woe, as in a doubtful case.
   For my sweet thoughts sometime do pleasure bring:
But by and by, the cause of my disease
   Gives me a pang that inwardly doth sting,
When that I think what grief it is again
To live and lack the thing should rid my pain.
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 bathd in the sacred brooke,
Of Helicon whence she derived is,
When ye behold that Angels blessed looke,
My soules long lacked foode, my heavens blis.
Leaves, lines, and rymes, seeke her to please alone,
Whom if ye please, I care for other none.
Of this worlds Theatre in which we stay,
My love lyke the Spectator ydly sits
Beholding me that all the pageants play,
Disguysing diversly my troubled wits.
Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits,
And mask in myrth lyke to a Comedy:
Soone after when my joy to sorrow flits,
I waile and make my woes a Tragedy.
Yet she beholding me with constant eye,
Delights not in my merth nor rues my smart:
But when I laugh she mocks, and when I cry
She laughes, and hardens evermore her hart.
What then can move her? if not merth nor mone,
She is no woman, but a sencelesse stone.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.