_Where each peasant mates with him!_
_Shall I haunt the throngèd valleys,_
_Whilst there's noble hills to climb?_
_No, no! Though clowns_
_Are scared with frowns;_
_I know the best can but disdain:_
_And those I'll prove!_
_So shall your love_
_Be all bestowed on me in vain!_
_Yet I would not deign embraces_
_With the greatest fairest She;_
_If another shared those graces_
_Which had been bestowed on me!_
_I gave that One_
_My love, where none_
_Shall come to rob me of my gain._
_Your fickle hearts_
_Make tears and Arts!_
_And all bestowed on me in vain._
_I do scorn, to vow a duty,_
_Where each lustful lad may woo:_
_Give me Her, whose sun-like beauty,_
_Buzzards dare not soar unto!_
_She! She it is_
_Affords that bliss!_
_For which, I would refuse no pain._
_But such as you!_
_Fond fools! adieu!_
_You seek to capture me in vain!_
_Proud she seemed, in the beginning,_
_And disdained my looking on;_
_But that "Coy One in the winning,_
_Proves a True One, being won!"_
_Whate'er betide_
_She'll ne'er divide_
_The favour She to me shall deign;_
_But your fond love_
_Will fickle prove!_
_And all that trust in you, are vain!_
_Therefore know! When I enjoy One,_
_And for love employ my breath;_
_She I court, shall be a Coy One,_
_Though I win her with my death!_
_A favour there,_
_Few aim at, dare._
_And if, perhaps, some lover plain;_
_She is not won_
_Nor I undone_
_By placing of my love in vain._
_Leave me! then, you Syrens! leave me!_
_Seek no more to work my harms!_
_Crafty wiles cannot deceive me;_
_Who am proof against your charms!_
_You labour may_
_To lead astray_
_The heart, that constant shall remain:_
_And I, the while,_
_Will sit and smile,_
_To see you spend your time in vain._
_SONNET III._
_When PHILOMELA, with her strains,_
_The Spring had welcomed in;_
_And FLORA to bestrew the plains,_
_With daisies did begin:_
_My Love and I (on whom suspicious eyes_
_Had set a thousand spies)_
_To cozen ARGOS strove;_
_And seen of none,_
_We got alone_
_Into a shady grove._
_On every bush, the eglantine,_
_With leaves perfumèd hung:_
_The primrose made the hedgerows fine;_
_The woods, of music rung:_
_The earth, the air, and all things did conspire_
_To raise contentment higher;_
_That, had I come to woo,_
_Nor means of grace,_
_Nor time, nor place_
_Were wanting thereunto._
_With hand in hand, alone we walked,_
_And oft each other eyed;_
_Of Love and Passions past we talked,_
_Which our poor hearts had tried:_
_Our souls infused into each other were._
_And what may be her care_
_Did my more sorrow breed._
_One mind we bore,_
_One faith we swore,_
_And both in one agreed._
_Her dainty palm, I gently prest,_
_And with her lips I played;_
_My cheek, upon her panting breast,_
_And on her neck, I laid;_
_And yet we had no sense of wanton lust;_
_Nor did we then mistrust_
_The Poison in the Sweet._
_Our bodies wrought_
_So close, we thought,_
_Because our souls should meet._
_With pleasant toil, we breathless grew,_
_And kist in warmer blood:_
_Upon her lips, the honey dew,_
_Like drops on roses stood._
_And on those flowers, played I the busy bee,_
_Whose sweets, were such to me,_
_Them could I not forego._
_No, not to feast_
_On VENUS' breast,_
_Whence streams of sweetness flow._
_But kissing and embracing, we_
_So long together lay;_
_Her touches all inflamèd me,_
_And I began to stray._
_My hands presumed so far, they were too bold!_
_My tongue unwisely told_
_How much my heart was changed._
_And Virtue quite_
_Was put to flight;_
_Or, for the time, estranged._
_O, what are we, if in our strength_
_We over boldly trust?_
_The strongest forts will yield at length,_
_And so our virtues must._
_In Me, no force of Reason had prevailed,_
_If She had also failed._
_But ere I further strayed,_
_She, sighing, kist_
_My naked wrist:_
_And thus, in tears, she said._
_"Sweet Heart!" quoth she, "if in thy breast_
_Those virtues real be,_
_Which, hitherto, thou hast profest,_
_And I believed in thee;_
_Thyself and Me, O seek not to abuse!_
_Whilst thee I thus refuse,_
_In hotter flames I fry!_
_Yet let us not,_
_Our true love, spot!_
_O, rather, let me die!"_
_"For if thy heart should fall from good,_
_What would become of mine?_
_As strong a Passion stirs my blood,_
_As can distemper thine!_
_Yet in my breast, this rage I smother would,_
_Though it consume me, should;_
_And my desires contain._
_For where we see_
_Such breaches be,_
_They seldom stop again."_
_"Are we the two that have so long_
_Each other's loves embraced;_
_And never did Affection wrong_
_Nor think a thought unchaste?_
_And shall, O shall we, now, our matchless Joy_
_For one poor touch destroy?_
_And all Content forego?_
_O no, my Dear!_
_Sweet Heart, forbear!_
_I will not lose thee so!"_
_"For should we do a deed so base_
_As it can never be,_
_I could no more have seen thy face!_
_Nor wouldst thou look on me!_
_I should, of all our Passions grow ashamed;_
_And blush, when thou art named._
_Yea, though thou constant wert,_
_I being nought,_
_A jealous thought_
_Would still torment my heart._
_"What goodly thing, do we obtain_
_If I consent to thee?_
_Rare joys we lose, and what we gain_
_But common pleasures be._
_Yea, 'those,' some say, 'who are to lust inclined,_
_Drive Love out of the mind!_
_And so much Reason miss_
_That they admire_
_What kind of fire_
_A chaste affection is.'"_
_"No vulgar bliss I aimèd at,_
_When first I heard thee woo;_
_I'll never prize a Man for that_
_Which every groom can do._
_If that be love, the basest men that be_
_Do love as well as we!_
_Who, if we bear us well,_
_Do pass them then,_
_As Angels, men_
_In glory do excel."_
_Whilst thus she spake, a cruel Band_
_Of Passions seized my soul;_
_And what one seemèd to command,_
_Another did control._
_'Twixt Good and Ill, I did, divided lie._
_But as I raised mine eye,_
_In her, methought, I saw_
_Those Virtues shine,_
_Whose rays divine_
_First gave Desire, a Law._
_With that, I felt the blush of shame_
_Into my cheek return._
_And Love did, with a chaster flame,_
_Within my bosom burn._
_My Soul, her light of Reason had renewed;_
_And by those beams, I viewed_
_How slily Lust ensnares!_
_And all the fires_
_Of ill Desires,_
_I quenchèd with my tears._
_Go, wantons, now, and flout at this!_
_My coldness, if you list!_
_Vain fools! You never knew the bliss_
_That doth in Love consist!_
_You sigh, and weep, and labour to enjoy_
_A Shade, a Dream, a Toy!_
_Poor Folly, you pursue!_
_And are unblest;_
_Since every beast,_
_In pleasure, equals you!_
_You never took so rich content_
_In all your wanton play;_
_As this to me, hath pleasure lent,_
_That chaste, She went away._
_For as some sins, which we committed have,_
_Sharp stings behind them leave;_
_Whereby we vexèd are:_
_So, Ill supprest,_
_Begetteth rest,_
_And peace without compare._
_But lest this conquest slight you make,_
_Which on Myself I won;_
_Twelve labours I will undertake_
_With JOVE's victorious son,_
_Ere I will such another brunt endure!_
_For had DIANA pure,_
_Thus tempted been to sin;_
_That Queen of Night_
_(With her chaste light)_
_Had scarce a maiden been!_
[_Fair VIRTUE's Mind._]
O, how honoured are my Songs,
Graced by your melodious tongues!
And how pleasing do they seem,
Now your voices carol them!
Were not, yet, that task to do,
Which my word enjoins me to;
I would beg of you, to hear
What your own inventions are?
But, before I aught will crave,
What I promised, you shall have!
And as I, on mortal creatures
Called, to view her body's features!
Shewing how to make the Senses
Apprehend her excellences:
Now, I speak of no worse subject
Than a Soul's, and Reason's object;
And relate a Beauty's glories
Fitting heavenly auditories.
Therefore, whilst I sit and sing,
Hem me, Angels! in a ring!
Come, ye Spirits! which have eyes
That can gaze on Deity's!
And unclogged with brutish senses
Comprehend such excellences!
Or if any mortal ear
Would be granted leave to hear,
And find profit with delight,
In what now I shall indite;
Let him, first, be sure to season
A preparèd heart with Reason!
And, with judgement, drawing nigh,
Lay all fond affections by!
So, through all her veilings, he
Shall the Soul of Beauty see!
But, avoid! you earth-bred wights
Cloyed with sensual appetites!
On base objects, glut your eyes!
Till your starveling pleasure dies.
Feed your ears with such delights
As may match your gross conceits
For, within your muddy brain,
These, you never can contain!
Think not, you, who by the Sense,
Only judge of excellence!
Or do all contentment place
In the beauty of a face!
That these higher thoughts of ours
Soar so base a pitch as yours!
I can give, as well as you,
Outward beauties all their due!
I can, most contentments see,
That, in love, or women be!
Though I dote not on the features
Of our dantiest female creatures,
(Nor was e'er so void of shames,
As to play their lawless games!)
I more prize a snowy hand,
Than the gold on Tagus strand!
And a dainty lip before
All the greatest Monarch's store!
Yea, from these, I reap as true,
And as large contents as you!
Yet, to them I am not tied!
I have rarer sweets espied;
Wider prospects of true Pleasure,
Than your curbèd thoughts can measure!
In her Soul, my soul descries
Objects that may feed her eyes;
And the beauty of her Mind
Shews my Reason where to find
All my former pleasure doubled;
Neither with such Passion troubled
As wherewith it oft was crost,
Nor so easy to be lost.
I that ravished lay, well nigh,
By the lustre of her eye;
(And had almost sworn affection
To the fore-expressed perfection;
As if nothing had been higher,
Whereunto I might aspire);
Now, have found, by seeking nearer,
Inward Worth, that shining clearer,
(By a sweet and secret moving)
Draws me to a dearer loving.
And whilst I, that love conceive;
Such impressions it doth leave
In the intellective part,
As defaceth from my heart
Every thought of those delights
Which allure base appetites:
And my mind so much employs
In contemplating those joys,
Which a purer sight doth find
In the beauty of her Mind;
That I, so thereon am set
As, methinks, I could forget
All her sweetest outward graces,
Though I lay in her embraces.
But some thinking, with a smile,
What they would have done the while;
Now suppose my words are such
As exceed my power too much.
For all those--our wantons hold
Void of vigour, dull and cold;
Or, at best, but fools--whose flame
Makes not way unto their shame.
Though, at length, with grief they see,
_They_, the fools do prove to be!
These, the body so much minded,
That their Reason, over blinded
By the pleasures of the Sense,
Hides from them, that Excellence,
And that Sweetness, whose true worth
I am here, to blazon forth!
'Tis not, 'tis not those rare graces
That do lurk in women's faces;
'Tis not a displayed perfection,
Youthful eyes, nor clear complexion;
Nor a skin, smooth, satin-like;
Nor a dainty rosy cheek;
That to wantonness can move
Such as virtuously do love.
Beauty, rather, gently draws
Wild Desires to Reason's Laws!
And oft frights men from that sin,
They had else, transgressèd in;
Through a sweet amazement, stroke
From an overruling look.
Beauty never tempteth men
To lasciviousness; but when
Careless Idleness hath brought
Wicked longings into thought.
Nor doth Youth, or heat of blood
Make men prove what is not good.
Nor the strength, of which they vaunt,
'Tis the strength and power they _want_!
And the baseness of the mind
Makes their brute desires inclined
To pursue those vain delights
Which affect their appetites;
And so blinded! do they grow,
(Who are overtaken so)
As their dulness cannot see,
Nor believe that better be!
Some have blood as hot as theirs
Whose affections loosest are;
Bodies that require no Art
To supply weak Nature's part;
Youth, they have; and, sure, might, too,
Boast of what some, shameless, do:
Yet their minds, that aim more high
Than those baser pleasures lie,
Taught by Virtue, can suppress
All attempts of wantonness;
And such powerful motives frame
To extinguish Passions' flame,
That, by Reason's good direction,
Qualifying loose affection
They'll, in midst of beauty's fires,
Walk unscorched with ill Desires.
Yet no such, as stupid Shame
Keeps from actions worthy blame.
But, in all, so truly Man!
That their apprehensions can
Prize the body's utmost worth;
And find many pleasures forth
In those beauties, more than you,
That abuse them, ever knew!
But, perhaps, her outward grace,
Here described, hath ta'en such place
In some o'er-enamoured breast;
And so much his heart possest,
As he thinks, it passeth telling,
How she may be more excelling!
Or what worth I can prefer
To be more admired in her.
Therefore, now, I will be brief
To prevent that misbelief;
And if there be present here,
Any one whose nicer ear
Tasks my Measures, as offending
In too seriously commending
What affects the Sense, or may
Injure Virtue any way:
Let them know, 'tis understood,
That if they were truly good,
It could never breed offence,
That I shewed the excellence;
With the power of GOD and Nature,
In the beauty of His creature.
They, from thence, would rather raise
Cause to meditate His praise:
And thus think, "How fair must He,
That hath made this Fair One, be!"
That was my proposèd end:
And to make them more attend
Unto this! so much excelling
As it passeth means of telling.
But, at worst, if any Strain
Makes your memories retain
Sparks of such a baneful fire
As may kindle ill Desire:
This, that follows after, shall,
Not alone extinguish all;
But e'en make you blush with shame,
That your thoughts were so to blame.
Yet I know, when I have done,
In respect of that bright Sun,
Whose inestimable light
I would blazon to your sight!
These ensuing flashes are
As to CYNTHIA's beams, a star;
Or a petty comet's ray,
To the glorious Eye of Day.
For what power of Words, or Art,
Can her Worth at full, impart?
Or what is there, may be found,
Placed within the Sense's bound,
That can paint those sweets to me,
Which the Eyes of Love do see?
Or the beauties of her Mind
Which her body hath enshrined?
Can I think, the Guide of Heaven
Hath so bountifully given
Outward features, 'cause He meant
To have made less excellent
Her divine part? or suppose
Beauty, Goodness doth oppose!
Like those fools who do despair
To find any Good and Fair?
Rather, there, I seek a Mind
Most excelling; where I find
GOD hath to the Body lent
Most beseeming ornament.
But though He that did inspire
First, the true Promethean fire,
In each several soul did place
Equal excellence and grace;
As some think: yet, have not they
Equal beauties, every way!
For they, more or less appear
As the outward organs are;
Following much the temp'rature
Of the body, gross or pure.
And I do believe it true
That as we the Body view,
Nearer to perfection grow:
So the Soul herself doth shew
Others, more and more excelling,
In her Power, as in her Dwelling.
For that pureness giveth way
Better to disclose each ray
To the dull conceit of man;
Than a grosser substance can.
Thus, through spotless crystal, we
May the day's full glory see,
When, if clearest sunbeams pass
Through a foul polluted glass;
So discoloured they'll appear,
As those stains they shone through, were.
Let no critics cavil then,
If I dare affirm again,
That her Mind's perfections are
Fairer than her Body's, far!
And I need not prove it by
Axioms of Philosophy;
Since no proof can better be
Than their rare effect in me!
For, while other men complaining,
Tell their Mistress's disdaining:
Free from care, I write a Story
Only of her Worth, and Glory!
While most lovers pining, sit,
Robbed of liberty and wit,
Vassaling themselves with shame
To some proud imperious Dame;
Or, in Songs, their fate bewailing,
Shew the world, their faithless failing;
I, enwreathed with boughs of myrtle,
Fare like the beloved Turtle.
Yea, while most are most untoward!
Peevish! vain! inconstant! froward!
While their best contentments bring
Nought but after sorrowing:
She (those childish humours slighting)
Hath conditions so delighting,
And doth so my bliss endeavour,
As my joy increaseth ever.
By her actions, I can see
That her Passions so agree
Unto Reason, as they err,
Seldom, to distemper her.
Love She can, and doth; but so
As She will not overthrow
Love's content, by any folly,
Or by deeds that are unholy.
Dotingly, She ne'er affects;
Neither willingly neglects
Honest love: but means doth find,
With discretion to be kind.
'Tis not thundering phrase, nor oaths,
Honours, wealth, nor painted clothes,
That can her goodliking gain;
If no other Worth remain.
Never took her heart delight
In your Court Hermaphrodite,
Or such frothy gallants as
For the Times, heroès pass:
Such who, still in love, do all,
"Fair!" and "Sweet!" and "Lady!" call;
And where'er they hap to stray,
Either prate the rest away,
Or, of all discourse to seek,
Shuffle in at _Cent_ or _Gleek_.
Goodness more delights her, than
All their Mask of Folly can.
Fond, She hateth to appear;
Though She hold her Friend as dear
As her part of life unspent,
Or the best of her content.
If the heat of youthful fires
Warm her blood with those desires,
Which are, by the course of Nature,
Stirred in every perfect creature;
As those Passions kindle, so
Doth Heaven's grace, and Reason grow
Abler to suppress in her
Those rebellions; and they stir
Never more affection, than
One good thought allays again.
I could say, so chaste is She
As the new blown roses be;
Or the drifts of snow that none
Ever touched, or looked upon:
But that were not worth a fly,
Seeing so much chastity
Old PIGMALION's picture had!
Yea, those eunuchs born, or made
Ne'er to know Desire, might say
"She deserved no more than they!"
Whereas, while their worth proceeds
From such wants, as they must needs
Be unmoved ('cause Nature framed
No affections to be tamed)
Through her dainty limbs are spread
Vigour, heat; and freely shed
Life blood into every vein
Till they fill, and swell again:
And no doubt they strive to force
Way in some forbidden course;
Which by Grace, She still resists,
And so curbs within their lists
Those Desires, that She is chaster
Than if she had none to master.
Malice, never lets She in;
Neither hates She ought, but sin.
Envy, if She could admit,
There's no means to nourish it:
For her gentle heart is pleased
When She knows another's eased;
And there's none whoever got
That perfection, she hath not.
So that no cause is there, why
She should any one envy.
Mildly Angry She'll appear;
That the baser rout may fear,
Through presumption, to misdo.
Yet, She often feigns that too:
But let wrong be whatsoever,
She gives way to Choler, never!
If She e'er, of Vengeance thought,
'Twas nor life, nor blood was sought;
But, at most, some prayer to move
Justice for abusèd love;
Or that Fate would pay again
Love's neglectors with disdain.
If she ever craved of Fate
To obtain a higher state;
Or, ambitiously were given:
Sure, 'twas but to climb to heaven!
Pride is from her heart, as far
As the poles in distance are.
For her Worth, nor all this Praise
Can her humble spirit raise;
Less to prize me than before,
Or herself to value more.
Were She Vain, She might allege
'Twere her sex's privilege;
But She's such, as, doubtless, no man
Knows less folly in a woman.
To prevent a being Idle,
Sometimes with her curious needle,
Though it be her meanest glory,
She so limns an antique Story,
As MINERVA (would she take it!)
Might her richest Sample[r] make it.
Otherwhile, again, she rather
Labours with delight, to gather
Knowledge from such learned writs
As are left by famous wits:
Where, She chiefly seeks to know
GOD! Herself! and what we owe
To our neighbour! since, with these,
Come all needful knowledges.
She, with ADAM, never will
Long to learn both Good and Ill;
But her state well understood,
Rests herself content with Good.
Avarice, abhorreth She,
As the loathsom'st things that be;
Since she knows it is an Ill
That doth ripest virtue kill.
And where'er it comes to rest,
Though in some strict matron's breast;
But she ne'er so seeming just,
I'll no shews of goodness trust!
For if you, but gold can bring;
Such are hired to anything!
If you think She Jealous be,
You are wide! For, credit me!
Her strong'st jealousies nought are
Other than an honest care
Of her friends. And most can tell,
Whoso wants that, loves not well!
Though some little Fear she shows;
'Tis no more than Love allows,
So the Passion do not move her
Till she grieve or wrong her lover!
She may think he may do ill,
Though She'll not believe he will!
Nor can such a harmless thought
Blemish true affection ought;
Rather, when as else it would,
Through security, grow cold;
This, her Passion, keeping measure,
Strengthens Love, and sweetens Pleasure!
Cruelty, her soul detests!
For, within her bosom rests
Noblest Pity; ushered by
An unequalled Courtesy:
And is grieved at good men's moan,
As the grief were all her own.
Just, She is. So just, that I
Know she would not wrong a fly;
Or oppress the meanest thing,
To be Mistress to a King.
If our painters would include
Temperance and Fortitude
In one picture; She would fit,
For the nonce, to pattern it!
Patient as the lamb is She!
Harmless, as the turtles be!
Yea, so largely stored with all
Which we mortals, Goodness call;
That if ever Virtue were,
Or may be incarnate here
This is She! whose praises I
Offer to Eternity.
She's no Image trimmed about,
Fair within, and foul without!
But a Gem that doth appear,
Like a diamond, everywhere
Sparkling rays of beauty forth!
All of such unblemished worth,
That wer 't possible, your eye
Might her inmost thoughts espy,
And behold the dimmest part
Of the lustre in her heart:
It would find that Centre 'pass
What the Superficies was;
And that every angle there,
Like a diamond's inside were.
For although that excellence
Pass the piercing'st eye of Sense;
By their operations, we
Guess at things, that hidden be.
So, beyond our common reach,
Wise men can, by reason teach,
What the influences been
Of a Planet, when unseen;
Or the beauty of a star
That doth shine above us far.
So by that wide beaming light,
Wherewith TITAN courts our sight;
By his clothing of the earth;
By the wondrous, various birth
Of new creatures, yearly bred
Through his heat, and nourished:
And by many virtues mo[r]e
Which our Senses reach unto,
We conclude, they are not all,
Which make fair that goodly Ball.
Though she prize her Honour more
Than the far-fetched precious store
Of the rich Moluccas, or
All the wealth was trafficed for,
Since our vessels passage knew
Unto Mexico, Peru,
Or those spacious kingdoms which
Made the proud Iberians rich.
'Tis not that uncertain blast
Keeps my Mistress Good, or Chaste!
She, that but for Honour's sake,
Doth of Ill a conscience make
(More in fear what rumour says,
Than in love to virtuous ways);
Though she seemed more civil than
You have seen a courtezan,
For an honour; and cries "O, fie!"
At each shew of vanity;
Though she censure all that be
Not so foolish coy as she;
Though she, with the Roman Dame
Kill herself, to purchase fame:
She would prostitute become,
To the meanest, basest groom;
If so closely they may do it,
As the world should never know it.
So, at best, those women prove
That for Honour, Virtue love.