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
the 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.
HIGHWAY, since you my chief Parnassus be,
And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,
Tempers
her words to trampling horses’ feet
More oft than to a chamber-melody,—
Now blessàd you bear onward
blessàd me
To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet;
My Muse and I must you of duty greet
With
thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully;
Be you still fair, honour’d by public heed;
By no encroachment
wrong’d, nor time forgot;
Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;
And that you know I envy you
no lot
Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,
Hundreds of years you Stella’s feet may kiss!
WITH how sad steps, O moon, thou climb’st 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 feel’st a lover’s case:
I read it in thy looks; thy languish’d
grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant
love deem’d 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’ there—ungratefulness?
COME, Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace.
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The
poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release,
Th’ indifferent judge between the high and low;
With shield of
proof shield me from out the prease1
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:
O make in me those
civil wars to cease;
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A
chamber deaf to noise and blind of light,
A rosy garland and a weary head;
And if these things, as being
thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella’s image see.
LEAVE me, O Love, which reachest but to dust,
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things!
Grow
rich in that which never taketh rust:
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and
humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;
Which breaks the clouds and opens
forth the light
That doth both shine and give us sight to see.
O take fast hold! let that light be thy guide
In
this small course which birth draws out to death,
And think how evil becometh him to slide
Who seeketh
Heaven, and comes of heavenly breath.
Then farewell, world! thy uttermost I see:
Eternal Love, maintain
thy life in me!
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