SONNET LI.

DOE I not see that fayrest ymages

Of hardest marble are of purpose made,
For that they should endure through many ages,
Ne let theyr famous moniments to fade?
Why then doe 1, untrainde in lovers trade,
Her hardnes blame, which I should more commend?
S th never ought was excellent assayde
Which was not hard t' atchive and bring to end.
Ne ought so hard, but he, that would attend,
Mote soften it and to his will allure:
So do I hope her stubborne hart to bend,
And that it then more stedfast will endure.
Only my paines wil be the more to get her;
But, having her, my ioy wil be the greater.

SONNET LII.

So oft as homeward I from her depart,
I go lyke one that, having lost the field,
Is prisoner led away with heavy hart,
Despoyld of warlike armes and knowen shield.
So doe I now my self a prisoner yield
To sorrow and to solitary paine;
From presence of my dearest deare exylde,
Long-while alone in languor to remaine.
There let no thought of ioy, or pleasure vaine,
Dare to approch, that may my solace breed;
But sudden dumps, and drery sad disdayne
Of all worlds gladnesse, more my torment feed.
So I her absens will my penaunce make,
That of her presens I my meed may take.

SONNET LIII.

THE panther, knowing that his spotted hyde
Doth please all beasts, but that his looks them fray;
Within a bush his dreadful bead doth hide,
To let them gaze, whylst he on them may pray :
Right so my cruell fayre with me doth play.
For, with the goodly semblance of her hew,
She doth allure me to mine owne decay,
And then no mercy will unto me shew.
Great shame it is, thing so divine in view,
Made for to be the worlds most ornament,
To make the bayte her gazers to embrew:
Good shames to be to ill an instrument!
But mercy doth with beautie best agree,
As in theyr Maker ye them best may see.

SONNET LV.

So oft as I her beauty doe behold,
And therewith doe her cruelty compare,

I marvaile of what substance was the mould,
The which her made attonce so cruell faire. [are:
Not earth; for her high thoughts more heavenly
Not water; for her love doth burne like fyre:
Not ayre; for she is not so light or rare:
Not fyre; for she doth friese with faint desire.
Then needs another element inquire
Whereof she mote be made; that is, the skye.
For, to the Heaven her haughty looks aspire;
And eke her love is pure immortall bye.
Then, sith to Heaven ye lykened are the best,
Be lyke in mercy as in all the rest.

SONNET LVI.

FAYRE ye be sure, but cruell and unkind,
As is a tygre, that with greedinesse
Hunts after bloud; when he by chance doth find
A feeble beast, doth felly him oppr sse.
Fayre be ye sure, but proud and pitilesse,
As is a storme, that all things doth prostrate;
Finding a tree alone all comfortlesse,
Beats on it strongly, it to ruinate.
Fayre be ye sure, but hard and obstinate,
As is a rock amidst the raging floods;
Gainst which, a ship, of succour desolate,
Doth suffer wreck both of her selfe and goods.
That ship, that tree, and that same beast, am I,
Whom ye doe wreck, doe ruine, and destroy.

SONNET LVII.

SWEET warriour! when shall I have peace with you?
High time it is this warre now ended were;
Which I no lenger can endure to sue,
Ne your incessant battry more to beare:
So weake my powres, so sore my wounds, appear,
That wonder is how I should live a iot,
Seeing my hart through-launced every where
With thousand arrowes, which your eies have shot:
Yet shoot ye sharpely still, and spare me not,
But glory thinke to make these cruel stoures.
Ye cruell one! what glory can be got,
In slaying him that would live gladly yours!
Make peace therefore, and graunt me timely grace,
That al my wounds will heale in little space.

SONNET LIV.

Or this worlds theatre in which we stay,
My love, like the spectator, ydly sits;
Beholding me, that all the pageants play,
Disguysing diversly my troubled wits.
Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits,
And mask in myrth lyke to a comedy:
Soone after, when my ioy to sorrow flits,
I waile, and make my woes a tragedy.
Yet she, beholding me with constant eye,
Delights not in my merth, nor rues my smart:
But, when I laugh, she mocks; and, when I cry,
She laughs, and hardens evermore her hart.
What then can move her? if nor merth, nor mone,
She is no womar, but a sencelesse stone.

SONNET LVIII.

BY HER THAT IS MOST ASSURED TO HER SELFE. WEAKE is th' assurance that weake flesh reposeth In her own powre, and scorneth others ayde; That soonest fals, when as she most supposeth Her selfe assur'd, and is of nought affrayd. All flesh is frayle, and all her strength unstayd, Like a vaine bubble blowen up with ayre: Devouring tyme and changeful chance have prayd, Her glorious pride that none may it repayre. Ne none so rich or wise, so strong or fayre, But fayleth, trusting on his owne assurance: And he, that standeth on the hyghest stayre, Fals lowest for on Earth nought hath endurance. Why then doe ye, proud fayre, misdeeme so farre, That to your selfe ye most assured arre!

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 returnd 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.
Strange 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 spyder, 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 joy 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 bolder 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 conquest, 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 purchase 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 his 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 flowres, the which on earth do spring,
In goodly colours gloriously arrayd;
Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd,
Yet in her winters bowre not well awake;
Tell her the ioyous 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 excellent,
Of all alive most worthy to be praysed.
Ye three Elizabeths! for ever live,
That three such graces did unto me give.

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 due 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 witlesse 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 disconso.ate,

Mourne to my selfe the absence of my love;
And, wandring here and there all desolate,
Seek with my playpts to match that mouraful dove:
Ne joy 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 beads doe combe, from which a spring
Of poysoned words and spightfull speeches well;
Let all the piagues, 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 bed,

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

of this worldes stage, doest note with critique pen
The sharpe dislikes of each condition :
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: