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النشر الإلكتروني

[From the First Part.]

SONNET.

In my first years, and prime yet not at
height,

When sweet conceits my wits did entertain,
Ere beauty's force I knew, or false delight,
Or to what oar she did her captives chain,
Led by a sacred troop of Phoebus' train,
I first began to read, then lov'd to write,
And so to praise a perfect red and white,
But, God wot, wist not what was in my
brain :

SONNET.

Fair is my yoke, though grievous be my pains,

Sweet are my wounds, although they

deeply smart,

My bit is gold, though shortened be the reins,

My bondage brave, though I may not depart :

Although I burn, the fire which doth impart

Those flames, so sweet reviving force
contains,

That, like Arabia's bird, my wasted heart,
Made quick by death, more lively still

Love smil'd to see in what an awful guise
I turn'd those antiques of the age of gold,
And, that I might more mysteries behold,
He set so fair a volume to mine eyes,
That I (quires clos'd which dead, dead I joy, though oft my waking eyes spend

sighs but breath)

Joy on this living book to read my death.

SONNET.

I know that all beneath the moon decays, And what by mortals in this world is brought,

In Time's great periods shall return to nought;

That fairest states have fatal nights and days;

I know how all the Muse's heavenly lays,
With toil of spright which are so dearly
bought,

As idle sounds, of few or none are sought,
And that nought lighter is than airy praise;
I know frail beauty's like the purple flower,
To which one morn oft birth and death
affords;

That love a jarring is of minds' accords,
Where sense and will invassal reason's

power:

Know what I list, this all can not me

move,

remains.

tears,

I never want delight, even when I groan, Best companied when most I am alone; A heaven of hopes I have midst hells of fears,

Thus every way contentment strange I find,

But most in her rare beauty, my rare mind.

SONNET.

How that vast heaven intitled First is
roll'd,

If any other worlds beyond it lie,
And people living in eternity,
Or essence pure that doth this all uphold;
What motion have those fired sparks of
gold,

The wand'ring carbuncles which shine
from high,

By sprights, or bodies, contrariwise in sky
If they be turn'd, and mortal things behold;
How sun posts heaven about, how night's
pale queen

But that, O me! I both must write and With borrowed beams looks on this hang

love.

ing round,

What cause fair Iris hath, and monsters

seen

Her either cheek resembl'd a blushing morn,

In air's large fields of light, and seas pro- Or roses gules in field of lilies borne,
found,
Betwixt the which a wall so fair is raised,
Did hold my wand'ring thoughts, when That it is but abased even when praised;
thy sweet eye
Her lips like rows of coral soft did swell,
Bade me leave all, and only think on thee. And th' one like th' other only doth excel :
The Tyrian fish looks pale, pale look the

SONNET.

That learned Grecian, who did so excel
In knowledge passing sense, that he is

nam'd

Of all the after-worlds divine, doth tell, That at the time when first our souls are fram'd,

Ere in these mansions blind they come to dwell,

They live bright rays of that eternal light,
And others see, know, love, in heaven's
great height,

Not toil'd with aught to reason doth rebel.
Most true it is, for straight at the first sight
My mind me told, that in some other place
It elsewhere saw the idea of that face,
And lov'd a love of heavenly pure delight;
No wonder now I feel so fair a flame,
Sith I her lov'dere on this earth she came.

SONG.

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Her hair, more bright than are the I, who yet human weakness did not know,

morning's beams,

Hang in a golden shower above the streams,
And, sweetly tous'd, her forehead sought

to cover,

Which seen did straight a sky of milk dis

cover,

For yet I had not felt that archer's bow,
Nor could I think that from the coldest

water

The winged youngling burning flames could scatter,

On every part my vagabonding sight With two fair brows, love's bows, which Did cast, and drown mine eyes in sweet

never bend,

But that a golden arrow forth they send;
Beneath the which two burning planets

glancing,

delight.

What wondrous thing is this that beauty's named?

Said I; I find I heretofore have dreamed,

Flash'd flames of love, for love there still And never known in all my flying days

is dancing.

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Good unto this, that only merits praise.

My pleasures have been pains, my com- A lady sat miraculously fair,

forts crosses,

My treasures poverty, my gains but losses. O precious sight! which none doth else descry,

Except the burning sun, and quivering I. And yet, O dear-bought sight! O would for ever

I might enjoy you, or had joy'd you never!
O happy flood! if so ye might abide,
Yet ever glory of this moment's pride,
Adjure your rillets all now to behold her,
And in their crystal arms to come and
fold her;

And sith ye may not aye your bliss embrace, Draw thousand portraits of her on your face,

Portraits which in my heart be more apparent,

If like to yours my breast but were transparent.

O that I were, while she doth in you play,
A dolphin to transport her to the sea,
To none of all those gods I would her
render,

From Thule to Ind though I should with her wander.

Oh! what is this? the more I fix mine eye, Mine eye the more new wonders doth espy; The more I spy, the more in uncouth fashion

My soul is ravish'd in a pleasant passion. But look not, eyes: as more I would have said,

A sound of whirling wheels me all dismay'd, And with the sound forth from the

timorous bushes,

With storm-like course, a sumptuous chariot rushes:

A chariot all of gold, the wheels were gold, The nails and axle gold on which it roll'd; The upmost part a scarlet veil did cover, More rich than Danaë's lap spread with her lover:

in midst of it, in a triumphing chair,

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And you her words, words! no, but golden Earth's silent daughter, night, is fair, chains, though brown ; Which did captive mine ears, ensnare my Fair is the moon though in love's livery soul,

Wise image of her mind, mind that contains A power, all power of senses to control; Ye all from love dissuade so sweetly me, That I love more, if more my love could be.

SONNET.

If crost with all mishaps be my poor life,
If one short day I never spent in mirth,
If my spright with itself holds lasting strife,
If sorrow's death is but new sorrow's birth;
If this vain world but be a sable stage
Where slave-born man plays to the scoffing

stars;

If youth be toss'd with love, with weakness age,

cled;

Fair Chloris is when she doth paint Aprile,

Fair are the meads, the woods, the floods

are fair;

Fair looketh Ceres with her yellow hair, And apples' queen when rose-cheek'd she doth smile.

That heaven, and earth, and seas are fair is true,

Yet true that all not please so much as you.

MADRIGAL.

When as she smiles I find More light before mine eyes, Nor when the sun from Ind

If knowledge serve to hold our thoughts Brings to our world a flow'ry Paradise :

in wars;

If time can close the hundred mouths of fame,

And make, what long since past, like that to be ;

If virtue only be an idle name,

If I, when I was born, was born to die; Why seek I to prolong these loathsome days?

The fairest rose in shortest time decays.

SONNET.

The sun is fair when he with crimson crown,

And flaming rubies, leaves his eastern bed; Fair is Thaumantius in her crystal gown, When clouds engemm'd hang azure, green,

and red :

But when she gently weeps,
And pours forth pearly showers,
On cheeks' fair blushing flowers,
A sweet melancholy my senses keeps.
Both feed so my disease,

So much both do me please,

That oft I doubt, which more my heart doth burn,

Like love to see her smile, or pity mourn.

[From the Second Part.]
SONG.

Leave then laments, and think thou didst not live,

Laws to that first eternal cause to give, But to obey those laws which he hath given, And bow unto the just decrees of Heaven,

To western worlds when wearied day Which can not err, whatever foggy mists

goes down,

And from Heaven's windows each star

shows her head,

Do blind men in these sublunary lists. But what if she for whom thou spend'st those groans,

And wastest life's dear torch in ruthful It hath an earth, as hath this world of moans,

yours,

She for whose sake thou hat'st the joyful With creatures peopled, stor'd with trees

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Lift thy dimm'd lights, and look upon Moon, sun and stars, heavens wonderfully

this face,

Look if those eyes which, fool, thou didst adore,

Shine not more bright than they were wont before;

fair:

But there flow'rs do not fade, trees grow not old,

The creatures do not die through heat nor cold;

Look if those roses death could aught Sea there not tossèd is, nor air made black, Fire doth not nurse itself on others' wrack; There heavens be not constrain'd about to

impair,

Those roses to thee once which seem'd so

fair;

And if those locks have lost aught of that gold,

Which erst they had when thou them didst behold.

I live, and happy live, but thou art dead, And still shalt be, till thou be like me made, Alas! while we are wrapt in gowns of earth, And blind, here suck the air of woe beneath,

Each thing in sense's balances we weigh, And but with toil and pain the truth descry.

Above this vast and admirable frame, This temple visible, which world we name, Within those walls so many lamps do burn, So many arches opposite do turn, Where elemental brethren nurse their

strife,

And by intestine wars maintain their life, There is a world, a world of perfect bliss, Pure, immaterial, bright, more far from this

Than that high circle, which the rest enspheres,

Is from this dull ignoble vale of tears; A world, where all is found, that here is found,

range,

For this world hath no need of any change; The minutes grow not hours, hours rise not days,

Days make no months but ever-blooming Mays.

Here I remain, but hitherward do tend All who their span of days in virtue spend: Whatever pleasure this low place con

tains,

It is a glance but of what high remains. Those who, perchance, think there can nothing be

Without this wide expansion which they

see,

And that nought else mounts stars' circumference,

For that nought else is subject to their

sense,

Feel such a case, as one whom some abysm Of the deep ocean kept had all his time; Who born and nourish'd there, can scarcely dream

That aught can live without that briny stream;

Cannot believe that there be temples, towers,

But further discrepant than heaven and That go beyond his caves and dampish

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