Samuel Daniel.

1562-1619

121   Love is a Sickness

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 enjoy’d, it sighing cries—
                               Heigh ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,
    A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind
    Not well, nor full nor fasting.
                                  Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies;
    If not enjoy’d, it sighing cries—
                                  Heigh ho!

122   Ulysses and the Siren

            Siren.    COME, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come,
                             Possess these shores with me:
                         The winds and seas are troublesome,
                             And here we may be free.
                         Here may we sit and view their toil
                             That travail in the deep,
                         And joy the day in mirth the while,
                             And spend the night in sleep.

        Ulysses.    Fair Nymph, if fame or honour were
                             To be attain’d with ease,
                         Then would I come and rest me there,
                             And leave such toils as these.
                         But here it dwells, and here must I
                             With danger seek it forth:
                         To spend the time luxuriously
                             Becomes not men of worth.

            Siren.    Ulysses, O be not deceived
                             With that unreal name;
                         This honour is a thing conceived,
                             And rests on others’ fame:
                         Begotten only to molest
                             Our peace, and to beguile
                         The best thing of our life—our rest,
                             And give us up to toil.

        Ulysses.    Delicious Nymph, suppose there were
                             No honour nor report,
                         Yet manliness would scorn to wear
                             The time in idle sport:
                         For toil doth give a better touch
                             To make us feel our joy,
                         And ease finds tediousness as much
                             As labour yields annoy.

            Siren.    Then pleasure likewise seems the shore
                             Whereto tends all your toil,
                         Which you forgo to make it more,
                             And perish oft the while.
                         Who may disport them diversely
                             Find never tedious day,
                         And ease may have variety
                             As well as action may.

        Ulysses.    But natures of the noblest frame
                             These toils and dangers please;
                         And they take comfort in the same
                             As much as you in ease;
                         And with the thought of actions past
                             Are recreated still:
                         When Pleasure leaves a touch at last
                            To show that it was ill.

            Siren.    That doth Opinion only cause
                            That’s out of Custom bred,
                         Which makes us many other laws
                            Than ever Nature did.
                         No widows wail for our delights,
                            Our sports are without blood;
                         The world we see by warlike wights
                            Receives more hurt than good.

        Ulysses.    But yet the state of things require
                            These motions of unrest:
                         And these great Spirits of high desire
                            Seem born to turn them best:
                         To purge the mischiefs that increase
                            And all good order mar:
                         For oft we see a wicked peace
                            To be well changed for war.

            Siren.    Well, well, Ulysses, then I see
                            I shall not have thee here:
                         And therefore I will come to thee,
                            And take my fortune there.
                         I must be won, that cannot win,
                            Yet lost were I not won;
                         For beauty hath created been
                            T’ undo, or be undone.

123   Beauty, Time, and Love

SONNETS.I

FAIR is my Love and cruel as she’s fair;
Her brow-shades frown, although her eyes are sunny.
Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair,
And her disdains are gall, her favours honey:
A modest maid, deck’d with a blush of honour,
Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love;
The wonder of all eyes that look upon her,
Sacred on earth, design’d a Saint above.
Chastity and Beauty, which were