SONNET LIX.

THRISE happie she! that is so well assured Unto her selfe, and setled so in hart, 'I'hat neither will for better be allured,

Ne feard with worse to any chaunce to start;
But, like a steddy ship, doth strongly part
The raging waves, and keepes her course aright;
Ne ought for tempest doth from it depart,
Ne ought for fayrer weathers false delight.
Such selfe-assurance need not feare the spight
Of grudging foes, ne favour seek of friends:
But, in the stay of her owne stedfast might,
Neither to one her selfe nor other bends.
Most happy she, that most assur'd doth rest;
But he most happy, who such one loves best.

SONNET LX.

SONNET LXIII.

[store

AFTER long stormes and tempests sad assay,
Which hardly I endured heretofore,
In dread of death, and daungerous dismay,
With which my silly bark was tossed sore;
I doe at length descry the happy shore,
In which I hope ere long for to arryve:
Fayre soyle it seemes from far, and fraught with
Of all that deare and daynty is alyve.
Most happy he! that can at last atchyve
The ioyous safety of so sweet a rest;
Whose least delight sufficeth to deprive
Remembrance of all paines which him opprest.
All paines are nothing in respect of this;
All sorrowes short that gaine eternall blisse.

SONNET LXIV.

As Mars in threescore yeares doth run his spheare.
So, since the winged god his planet cleare
Began in me to move, one yeare is spent:
The which doth longer unto me appeare,
Then al those fourty which my life out-went.
Then by that count, which lovers books invent,
The spheare of Cupid fourty yeares containes :
Which I have wasted in long languishment,
That seem'd the longer for my greater paines.
But let my loves fayre planet short her wayes,
This yeare ensuing, or else short my dayes.

Me seemd, I smelt a gardin of sweet flowres,
That dainty odours from them threw around,
For damzels fit to decke their lovers bowres.
Her lips did smell lyke unto gilly flowers;
Her ruddy cheekes, lyke unto roses red;
Her snowy browes, lyke budded bellamoures;
Her lovely eyes, lyke pincks but newly spred;
Her goodly bosome, lyke a strawberry bed;
Her neck, lyke to a bounch of cullambynes;
Her brest, lyke lillyes, ere their leaves be shed;
Her nipples, lyke young blossomd jessemynes:
Such fragrant flowres doe give most odorous smell;
But her sweet odour did them all excell.

SONNET LXI.

THE glorious image of the Makers beautie,
My soverayne saynt, the idoll of my thought,
Dare not henceforth, above the bounds of dewtie,
T'accuse of pride, or rashly blame for ought.
For, being as she is, divinely wrought,
And of the brood of angels heavenly born;
And with the crew of blessed saynts upbrought,
Each of which did her with theyr guifts adorne;
The bud of ioy, the blossome of the morne,
The beame of light, whom mortal eyes admyre;
What reason is it then but she should scorne
Base things, that to her love too bold aspire!
Such heavenly formes ought rather worshipt be,
Then dare be lov'd by men of meane degree.

SONNET LXV.

THE doubt which ye misdeeme, fayre love, is vaine,
That fondly feare to lose your liberty;
When, losing one, two liberties ye gayne,
And make him bond that bondage earst did fly.
Sweet be the bands, the which true Love doth tye
Without constraynt, or dread of any ill:
The gentle birde feeles no captivity
Within her cage; but sings, and feeds her fill.
There Pride dare not approch, nor Discord spill
The league twixt them, that loyal Love hath bound:
But simple Truth, and mutual Good-will,
Seeks, with sweet Peace, to salve each others wound:
There Fayth doth fearless dwell in brasen towre,
And spotlesse Pleasure builds her sacred bowre.

SONNET LXII.

THE Weary yeare his race now having run,
The new begins his compast course anew:
With shew of morning mylde he hath begun,
Betokening peace and plenty to ensew.

So let us, which this chaunge of weather vew,
Chaunge eke our mynds, and former lives amend;
The old yeares sinnes forepast let us eschew,
And fly the faults with which we did offend.
Then shall the new yeares ioy forth freshly send,
Into the glooming world, his gladsome ray:
And all these stormes, which now his beauty blend,
Shall turne to calmes, and tymely cleare away.
So, likewise, love! cheare you your heavy spright,
And chaunge old yeares annoy to new delight.

SONNET LXVI.

To all those happy blessings, which ye have
With plenteous hand by Heaven upon you thrown ;
This one disparagement they to you gave,
That ye your love lent to so meane a one.
Ye, whose high worths surpassing paragon
Could not on Earth have found one fit for mate,
Ne but in Heaven matchable to none,
Why did ye stoup unto so lowly state?
But ye thereby much greater glory gate,
Then had ye sorted with a princes pere:
For, now your light doth more it selfe dilate,
And, in my darknesse, greater doth appeare.
Yet, since your light hath once enlumind me,
With my reflex yours shall encreased be.

SONNET LXVII.

LYKE as a huntsman after weary chace,
Seeing the game from him escapt away,
Sits downe to rest him in some shady place,
With panting hounds beguiled of their pray :
So, after long pursuit and vaine assay,
When I all weary had the chace forsooke,
The gentle deer retornd the selfe-same way,
Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brooke :
There she, beholding me with mylder looke,
Sought not to fly, but fearlesse still did bide;
Till I in hand her yet halfe trembling tooke,
And with her owne goodwill her fyrmely tyde.
S range thing, me seemd, to see a beast so wyld,
So goodly wonne, with her owne will beguyld.

SONNET LXXI.

I JOY to see how, in your drawen work,
Your selfe unto the bee ye doe compare;
And me unto the yder, that doth lurke
In close awayt, to catch her unaware:
Right to your selfe were caught in cunning snare
Of a deare foe, and thralled to his love;
In whose streight bands ye now captived are
So firmely, that ye never may remove.
But as your worke is woven all about
With woodbynd flowers and fragrant eglantine;
So sweet your prison you in time shall prove,
With many deare delights bedecked fyne.
And all thenceforth eternall peace shall see
Betweene the spyder and the gentle bee.

SONNET LXVIII.

Most glorious Lord of lyfe! that, on this day,
Dids make thy triumph over death and sin;
And, having harrowd Hell, didst bring away
Captivity thence captive, us to win:

This ioyous day, deare Lord, with ioy begin;
And grant that we, for whom thou diddest dy,
Being with thy deare blood clene washt from sin,
May live for ever in felicity!

And that thy love we weighing worthily,
May likewise love thee for the same againe ;
And for thy sake, that all lyke deare didst buy,
With love may one another entertayne!
So let us love, deare love, lyke as we ought:
Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.

SONNET LXXII.

Orr, when my spirit doth spred her holder winges,
In mind to mount up to the purest sky;
It down is weighd with thought of earthly things,
And clogd with burden of mortality;
Where, when that soverayne beauty it doth spy,
Resembling Heavens glory in her light,
Drawn with sweet pleasures bayt, it back doth fly,
And unto Heaven forgets her former flight.
There my fraile fancy, fed with full delight,
Doth bathe in blisse, and mantleth most at ease;
Ne thinks of other Heaven, but how it might
Her harts desire with most contentment please.
Hart need not wish none other happinesse,
But here on Earth to have such Hevens blisse.

SONNET LXIX.

THE famous warriors of the anticke world
Us'd trophees to erect in stately wize;
In which they would the records have enrold
Of theyre great deeds and valorous emprize.
What trophee then shall I most fit devize,
In which I may record the memory
Of my loves counquest, peerlesse beauties prise,
Adorn'd with honour, love, and chastity!
Even this verse, vowd to eternity,
Shall be thereof immortall moniment;
And tell her praise to all posterity,

That may admire such worlds rare wonderment;
The happy parchase of my glorious spoile,
Gotten at last with labour and long toyle.

SONNET LXXIII.

BEING my self captyved here in care,

My hart, (whom none with servile bands can tye,
But the fayre tresses of your golden hayre)
Breaking his prison, forth to you doth fly.
Like as a byrd, that in ones hand doth spy
Desired food, to it doth make bis flight:
Even so my hart, that wont on your fayre eye
To feed his fill, flyes backe unto your sight.
Doe you him take, and in your bosome bright
Gently encage, that he may be your thrall:
Perhaps he there may learne, with rare delight,
To sing your name and praises over all:
That it hereafter may you not repent,
Him lodging in your bosome to have lent.

SONNET LXX.

FRESH Spring, the herald of loves mighty king,
In whose cote-armour richly are displayd
All sorts of dowres, the which on earth do spring,
In goodly colours glorious'y arrayd;
Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd,
Yet in her winters bowre not well awake;
Tell her the joyous Time will not be staid,
Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take;
Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make,
To wayt on Love amongst his lovely crew;
Where every one, that misseth then her make,
Shall be by him amearst with penance dew.
Make hast therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime;
For none can call againe the passed time.

SONNET LXXIV.

MOST happy letters! fram'd by skilfull trade,
With which that happy name was first desynd,
The which three times thrise happy hath me made,
With gifts of body, fortune, and of mind.
The first my being to me gave by kind,
From mothers womb deriv'd by dew descent:
The second is my sovereigne queene most kind,
That honour and large richesse to me lent:
The third, my love, my lives last ornament,
By whom my spirit out of dust was raysed:
To speake her prayse and glory excelleut,
Of all alive most worthy to be praysed.
Ye three Elizabeths! for ever live,
That three such graces did unto me give,

SONNET LXXV.

ONE day I wrote her name upon the strand;
But came the waves, and washed it away:
Agayne, I wrote it with a second hand;

But came the tyde, and made my paynes his pray.
"Vayne man," sayd she, "that doest in vaine assay
A mortall thing so to immortalize;
For I my selve shall lyke to this decay,
And eke my name bee wyped out lykewize."
"Not so," quod I; "let baser things devize
To dy in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse your vertues rare shall éternize,
And in the Hevens wryte your glorious name.
Where, when as death shall all the world subdew,
Our love shall live, and later life renew."

SONNET LXXIX.

MEN call you fayre, and you doe credit it,
For that your selfe ye daily such doe see :
But the trew fayre, that is the gentle wit,
And vertuous mind, is much more praysd of me:
For all the rest, how ever fayre it be,
Shall turne to nought and lose that glorious hew;
But onely that is permanent and free
From frayle corruption, that doth flesh ensew.
That is true beautie: that doth argue you
To be divine, and born of heavenly seed;
Deriv'd from that fayre Spirit, from whom all true
And perfect beauty did at first proceed:
He only fayre, and what he fayre hath made;
All other fayre, lyke flowres, untymely fade.

SONNET LXXVI.

FAYRE bosome! fraught with vertues richest tresure,
The neast of love, the lodging of delight,
The bowre of blisse, the paradice of pleasure,
The sacred harbour of that hevenly spright;
How was I ravisht with your lovely sight,
And my frayle thoughts too rashly led astray !
Whiles diving deepe through amorous insight,
On the sweet spoyle of beautie they did pray;
And twixt her paps, (like early fruit in May,
Whose harvest seemd to hasten now apace)
They loosely did theyr wanton winges display,
And there to rest themselves did boldly place.
Sweet thoughts! I envy your so happy rest,
Which oft I wisht, yet never was so blest.

SONNET LXXX.

AFTER so long a race as I have run
Through Faery-land, which those six books compile,
Give leave to rest me being half foredonne,
And gather to my se'fe new breath awhile.
Then, as a steed refreshed after toyle,
Out of my prison I will break anew;
And stoutly will that second work assoyle,
With strong endevour and attention dew.
Till then give leave to me, in pleasant mew
To sport my Muse, and sing my loves sweet praise;
The contemplation of whose heavenly hew,
My spirit to an higher pitch will rayse.
But let her prayses yet be low and meane,
Fit for the handmayd of the Faery queene.

SONNET LXXVII.

WAS it a dreame, or did I see it playne;
A goodly table of pure yvory,
All spred with juncats, fit to entertayne
The greatest prince with pompous roialty:
Mongst which, there in a silver dish did ly
Two golden apples of unvalewd price;
Far passing those which Hercules came by,
Or those which Atalanta did entice;
Exceeding sweet, yet voyd of sinfull vice;
That manie sought, yet none could ever taste;
Sweet fruit of pleasure, brought from Paradice
By Love himselfe, and in his garden plaste.
Her brest that table was, so richly spredd ;
My thoughts the guests, which would thereon have
fedd.

SONNET LXXXI.

FAYRE is my love, when her fayre golden haires
With the loose wynd ye waving chance to marke;
Fayre, when the rose in her red cheekes appeares;
Or in her eyes the fyre of love does sparke.
Fayre, when her brest, lyke a rich laden barke,
With pretious merchandize she forth doth lay;
Fayre, when that cloud of pryde, which oft doth
dark

Her goodly light, with smiles she drives away.
But fayrest she, when so she doth display
The gate with pearles and rubyes richly dight;
Throgh which her words so wise do make their way
To beare the message of her gentle spright.
The rest be works of Natures wonderment;
But this the worke of harts astonishment.

SONNET LXXVIII.

LACKYNG my love, I go from place to place,
Lyke a young fawne, that late hath lost the hynd;
And seeke each where, where last I sawe her face,
Whose ymage yet I carry fresh in mynd.

1 seeke the fields with her late footing synd;
I seeke her bowre with her late presence deckt;
Yet nor in field nor bowre I can her fynd;
Yet field and bowre are full of her aspect:
But, when myne eyes I therunto direct,
They ydly back return to me agayne:
And, when I hope to see theyr trew obiect,
I fynd my self but fed with fancies vayne.
Cease then, myne eyes, to seeke her selfe to see;
And let my thoughts behold her selfe in mee.

SONNET LXXXII.

Joy of my life! full oft for loving you
I blesse my lot, that was so lucky plac'd:
But then the more your owne mishap I rew,
That are so much by so meane love embased.
For, had the equall Hevens so much you graced
In this as in the rest, ye mote invent

Some hevenly wit, whose verse could have enchased
Your glorious name in golden moniment.

But since ye deignd so goodly to relent
To me your thrall, in whom is little worth;
That little, that I am, shall all be spent
In setting your immortal prayses forth:
Whose lofty argument, uplifting me,
Shall lift you up unto an high degree.

SONNET LXXXIII.

LET not one sparke of filthy lustfull fyre
Breake out, that may her sacred peace molest;
Ne one light glance of sensuall desyre
Attempt to work her gentle mindes unrest:
But pure affections bred in spotlesse brest,
And modest thoughts breathd from well tempred
Goe visit her, in her chaste bowre of rest, [spirits,
Accompanyde with ángelick delightes.

There fill your selfe with those most ioyous sights,
The which my selfe could never yet attayne:
But speake no word to her of these sad plights,
Which her too constant stiffnesse doth constrayn.
Onely behold her rare perfection,

And blesse your fortunes fayre election.

SONNET LXXXVII.

SINCE I have lackt the comfort of that light,
The which was wont to lead my thoughts astray;
I wander as in darknesse of the night,
Affrayd of every dangers least dismay.
Ne ought I see, though in the clearest day,
When others gaze upon theyr shadowes vayne,
But th' only image of that heavenly ray,
Whereof some glance doth in mine eie remayne.'
Of which beholding the idæa playne,
Through contemplation of my purest part,
With light thereof I doe my self sustayne,
And thereon feed my love-affamisht hart.
But, with such brightnesse whylest I fill my mind,
I starve my body and mine eyes doe blynd.

SONNET LXXXIV.

THE world that cannot deeme of worthy things,
When I doe praise her, say I doe but flatter:
So does the cuckow, when the mavis sings,
Begin his willesse note apace to clatter.
But they that skill not of so heavenly matter,
All that they know not, envy or admyre;
Rather then envy, let them wonder at her,
But not to deeme of her desert aspyre.
Deepe, in the closet of my parts entyre,
Her worth is written with a golden quill,
That me with heavenly fury doth inspire,
And my glad mouth with her sweet prayses fill.
Which whenas Fame in her shril trump shall thun-

der,

Let the world chuse to envy or to wonder.

SONNET LXXXVIII.

LYKE as the culver, on the bared bough,
Sits mourning for the absence of her mate;
And, in her songs, sends many a wishful vow
For his returne that seemes to linger late:
So I alone, now left disconsolate,

Mourne to my selfe the absence of my love;
And, wandring here and there all desolate,
Seek with my playnts to match that mournful dove:
Ne ioy of ought, that under Heaven doth hove,
Can comfort me, but her owne ioyous sight:
Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move,
In her unspotted pleasauns to delight.
Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis,
And dead my life that wants such lively blis.

SONNET LXXXV.

VENEMOUS tongue, tipt with vile adders sting,
Of that self kynd with which the Furies fell
Their snaky heads doe combe, from which a spring
Of poysoned words and spightfull specches well;
Let all the plagues, and horrid paines, of Hell
Upon thee fall for thine accursed hyre;
That with false forged lyes, which thou didst tell,
In my true love did stirre up coles of yre;
The sparkes whereof let kindle thine own fyre,
And, catching hold on thine own wicked hed,
Consume thee quite, that didst with guile conspire
In my sweet peace such breaches to have bred!
Shame be thy meed, and mischiefe thy reward,
Due to thy selfe, that it for me prepard!

SONNET LXXXVI.

SINCE I did leave the presence of my love,
Many long weary dayes I have outworne;
And many nights, that slowly seemd to move
Theyr sad protract from evening untill morn.
For, when as day the Heaven doth adorne,
I wish that night the noyous day would end:
And, when as night hath us of light forlorne,
I wish that day would shortly reascend.
Thus I the time with expectation spend,
And faine my griefe with chaunges to beguile,
That further seemes his terme still to extend,
And maketh every minute seem a myle.
So sorrowe still doth seem too long to last;
But ioyous houres do fly away too fast.

SONNETS

COLLECTED FROM THE ORIGINAL PUBLICATIONS IN WHICH THEY APPEARED.

I.

To the right worshipfull, my singular good friend, M. Gabriel Harvey, doctor of the lawes.

HARVEY, the happy above happiest men

I read; that, sitting like a looker-on
The sharpe dislikes of each condition :
Of this worldes stage, doest note with critique pen
And, as one carelesse of suspition,
Ne fawnest for the favour of the great;
Ne fearest foolish reprehension

Of faulty men, which daunger to thee threat:
But freely doest, of what thee list, entreat,
Like a great lord of peerelesse liberty;
Lifting the good up to high Honours seat,
And the evill damning evermore to dy:
For life and death, is in thy doomeful writing!
So thy renowme lives ever by endighting.
Dublin, this xviij. of July, 1586.

Your devoted friend, during life,

II.

EDMUND SPENSER.

WHOSO wil seeke, by right deserts, t' attaine Unto the type of true nobility;

And not by painted shewes, and titles vaine, Derived farre from famous auncestrie:

WHEREFORE doth vaine Antiquitie so vaunt
Her ancient moniments of mightie peeres,
And old herös, which their world did daunt
With their great deedes and fild their childrens
eares?

Who, rapt with wonder of their famous praise,
Admire their statues, their colossoes great:
Their rich triumphall arcks which they did raise,
Their huge pyramids, which do Heaven threat.
Lo! one whom later age hath brought to light,
Matchable to the greatest of those great;
Great both by name, and great in power and might,
And meriting a mere triumphant seate.
The scourge of Turkes, and plague of infidels,
Thy acts, O Scanderberg, this volume tels.

IV.

ED. SPENSER.

THE antique Babel, empresse of the east,
Upreard her buildinges to the threatned skie:
And second Babell, tyrant of the west,
Her ayry towers upraised much more high.
But, with the weight of their own surquedry,
They both are fallen, that all the Earth did feare,
And buried now in their own ashes ly;

Yet shewing, by their heapes, how great they were.
But in their place doth now a third appeare,
Fayre Venice, flower of the last worlds delight;
And next to them in beauty draweth neare,
But farre exceedes in policie of right.
Yet not so fayre her buildinges to behold
As Lewkenors stile that hath her beautie told.

POEMS.

POEM I.

EDM. SPENSER.

In youth, before I waxed old,
The blynd boy, Venus baby,
For want of cunning made me bold,
In bitter hyve to grope for honny :
But, when he saw me stung and cry,
He tooke his wings and away did fly.

POEM III.

I SAW, in secret to my dame
How little Cupid humbly came,

And said to her; "All hayle, my mother!"
But, when he saw me laugh, for shame
His face with bashfull blood did flame,
Not knowing Venus from the other.
"Then, never blush, Cupid," quoth I,
"For many have err'd in this beauty."

POEM IV.

UPON a day, as Love lay sweetly slumbring
All in his mothers lap;

A gentle bee, with his loud trumpet murm'ring,
About him flew by hap.

Whereof when he was wakened with the noyse,
And saw the beast so small;

"Whats this," quoth he, "that gives so great a That wakens mens withall?”

In angry wize he flies about,

And threatens all with corage stout.

To whom his mother closely smiling sayd, 'Twixt earnest and 'twixt game:

[voyce,

"See! thou thy selfe likewise art lyttle made,

If thou regard the same.

And yet thou suffrest neyther gods in sky,

Nor men in Earth, to rest:

But, when thou art disposed cruelly,
Theyre sleepe thou doost molest.
Then eyther change thy cruelty,
Or give like leave unto the fly."
Nathelesse, the cruell boy, not so content,
Would needs the fly pursue;

And in his hand, with heedlesse hardiment,
Him caught for to subdue.

But, when on it he hasty hand did lay,
The bee him stung therefore:

"Now out alas," he cryde," and welaway,
I wounded am full sore:

The fly, that I so much did scorne,

Hath hurt me with his little horne."

Unto his mother straight he weeping came,
And of his griefe complayned:

Who could not chuse but laugh at his fond game,
Though sad to see him pained.

"Think now," quoth she, " my son, how great the

smart

Of those whom thou dost wound:
Full many thou hast pricked to the hart,
That pitty never found:

Therefore, henceforth some pitty take,
When thou doest spoyle of lovers make."