I that obscured have fled the scene of fame,
Intitling my conceits to nought but care,
I that have lived a phoenix in love's flame,
And felt that death I never would declare,
Now mount the theater of this our age,
To plead my faith and Cupid's cursed rage.
Oh you high sp'rited paragons of wit,
That fly to fame beyond our earthly pitch,
Whose sense is sound, whose words are feat and fit,
Able to make the coyest ear to itch;
Shroud with your mighty wings that mount so well,
These little loves, new crept from out the shell.
And thou the true Octavia of our time,
Under whose worth beauty was never matched,
The genius of my muse and ragged rime,
Smile on these little loves but lately hatched,
Who from the wrastling waves have made retreat,
To plead for life before thy judgment seat.
And though the fore-bred brothers they have had,
Who in their swan-like songs Amintas wept,
For all their sweet-thought sighs had fortune bad,
And twice obscured in Cinthia's circle slept,
Yet these I hope, under your kind aspect,
Most worthy Lady, shall escape neglect.
And if these infants of mine artless brain,
Not by their worth but by thy worthiness,
A mean good liking of the learnèd gain,
My Muse enfranchised from forgetfulness
Shall hatch such breed in honour of thy name,
As modern poets shall admire the same.
As modern poets shall admire the same;
I mean not you (you never matchèd men)
Who brought the chaos of our tongue in frame,
Through these Herculean labours of your pen;
I mean the mean, I mean no men divine,
But such whose feathers are but waxed like mine.
Go, weeping truce-men in your sighing weeds,
Under a great Maecenas I have passed you;
If so you come where learnèd Colin feeds
His lovely flock, pack thence and quickly haste you;
You are but mists before so bright a sun,
Who hath the palm for deep invention won.
Kiss Delia's hand for her sweet prophet's sake,
Whose not affected but well couchèd tears
Have power, have worth, a marble mind to shake,
Whose fame no iron-age or time outwears.
Then lay you down in Phillis' lap and sleep,
Until the weeping read, and reading weep.
I
Oh pleasing thoughts, apprentices of love,
Fore-runners of desire, sweet mithridates
The poison of my sorrows to remove,
With whom my hopes and fear full oft debates!
Enrich yourselves and me by your self riches,
Which are the thoughts you spend on heaven-bred beauty,
Rouse you my muse beyond our poets' pitches,
And, working wonders, yet say all is duty!
Use you no eaglets' eyes, nor phoenix' feathers,
To tower the heaven from whence heaven's wonder sallies.
For why? Your sun sings sweetly to her weathers,
Making a spring of winter in the valleys.
Show to the world though poor and scant my skill is
How sweet thoughts be, that are but thought on Phillis!