Amoretti

I

Happy ye leaves when as those lily hands,

Which hold my life in their dead-doing might,

Shall handle you and hold in love's soft bands,

Like captives trembling at the victor's sight.

And happy lines, on which with starry light,

Those lamping eyes will deign sometimes to look

And read the sorrows of my dying sprite,

Written with tears in heart's close-bleeding book.

And happy rhymes bath'd in the sacred brook,

Of Helicon whence she derived is,

When ye behold that Angel's blessed look,

My soul's long-lacked food, my heaven's bliss.

Leaves, lines, and rhymes, seek her to please alone,

Whom if ye please, I care for other none.

II

Unquiet thought, whom at the first I bred,

Of th' inward bale of my love-pined heart:

And sithens have with sighs and sorrows fed,

Till greater then my womb thou woxen art.

Break forth at length out of the inner part,

In which thou lurkest like to viper's brood:

And seek some succour both to ease my smart

And also to sustain thy self with food.

But if in presence of that fairest proud

Thou chance to come, fall lowly at her feet:

And with meek humbless and afflicted mood,

Pardon for thee, and grace for me entreat.

Which if she grant, then live, and my love cherish,

If not, die soon, and I with thee will perish.

III

Thou sovereign beauty which I do admire,

Witness the world how worthy to be praised:

The light whereof hath kindled heavenly fire,

In my frail spirit by her from baseness raised.

That being now with her huge brightness dazed,

Base things I can no more endure to view;

But looking still on her I stand amazed,

At wondrous sight of so celestial hew.

So when my tongue would speak her praises due,

It stopped is with thought's astonishment:

And when my pen would write her titles true,

It ravished is with fancy's wonderment:

Yet in my heart I then both speak and write

The wonder that my wit cannot endite.

IV

New year forth looking out of Janus' gate,

Doth seem to promise hope of new delight:

And bidding th' old Adieu, his passed date

Bids all old thoughts to die in dumpish sprite.

And calling forth out of sad Winter's night,

Fresh love, that long hath slept in cheerless bower:

Wills him awake, and soon about him dight

His wanton wings and darts of deadly power.

For lusty spring now in his timely hour,

Is ready to come forth him to receive;

And warns the Earth with diverse colored flower,

To deck herself, and her fair mantle weave.

Then you fair flower, in whom fresh youth doth rain,

Prepare yourself new love to entertain.

V

Rudely thou wrongest my dear heart's desire,

In finding fault with her too portly pride:

The thing which I do most in her admire,

Is of the world unworthy most envied.

For in those lofty looks is close implied,

Scorn of base things, and sdeigne of foul dishonor:

Threatening rash eyes which gaze on her so wide,

That loosely they ne dare to look upon her.

Such pride is praise, such portliness is honor,

That boldened innocence bears in her eyes:

And her fair countenance like a goodly banner,

Spreads in defiance of all enemies.

Was never in this world ought worthy tried,

Without some spark of such self-pleasing pride.

VI

Be not dismayed that her unmoved mind

Doth still persist in her rebellious pride:

And love not like to lusts of baser kind,

The harder won, the firmer will abide.

The durefull Oak, whose sap is not yet dried,

Is long ere it conceive the kindling fire;

But when it once doth burn, it doth divide,

Great heat, and makes his flames to heaven aspire.

So hard it is to kindle new desire,

In gentle breast that shall endure for ever:

Deep is the wound, that dints the parts entire

With chaste affects, that naught but death can sever.

Then think not long in taking little pain,

To knit the knot, that ever shall remain.

VII

Fair eyes, the mirror of my mazed heart,

What wondrous virtue is contained in you,

The which both life and death forth from you dart

Into the object of your mighty view?

For when ye mildly look with lovely hew,

Then is my soul with life and love inspired

But when ye lour, or look on me askew,

Then do I die, as one with lightning fired.

But since that life is more than death desired,

Look ever lovely, as becomes you best,

That your bright beams of my weak eyes admired,

May kindle living fire within my breast.

Such life should be the honor of your light,

Such death the sad ensample of your might.

VIII

More than most fair, full of the living fire,

Kindled above unto the maker near:

No eyes but joys, in which all powers conspire,

That to the world naught else be counted dear.

Through your bright beams doth not the blinded guest,

Shoot out his darts to base affections wound:

But Angels come to lead frail minds to rest

In chaste desires on heavenly beauty bound.

You frame my thoughts and fashion me within,

You stop my tongue, and teach my heart to speak,

You calm the storm that passion did begin,

Strong through your cause, but by your virtue weak.

Dark is the world, where your light shined never;

Well is he born, that may behold you ever.

IX

Long-while I sought to what I might compare

Those powerful eyes, which lighten my dark sprite,

Yet find I nought on earth to which I dare

Resemble th'image of their goodly light.

Not to the sun: for they do shine by night;

Nor to the moon: for they are changed never;

Nor to the stars: for they have purer sight;

Nor to the fire: for they consume not ever;

Nor to the lightening: for they still persever;

Nor to the diamond: for they are more tender;

Nor unto crystal: for nought may them sever;

Nor unto glass: such baseness mought offend her;

Then to the Maker self they likest be,

Whose light doth lighten all that here we see.

X

Unrighteous lord of love, what law is this,

That me thou makest thus tormented be:

The whiles she lordeth in licentious bliss

Of her freewill, scorning both thee and me.

See how the Tyraness doth joy to see

The huge massacres which her eyes do make:

And humbled hearts brings captives unto thee,

That thou of them mayst mighty vengeance take.

But her proud heart do thou a little shake

And that high look, with which she doth comptroll

All this world's pride, bow to a baser make,

And all her faults in thy black book enroll.

That I may laugh at her in equal sort,

As she doth laugh at me and makes my pain her sport.

XI

Daily when I do seek and sew for peace,

And hostages do offer for my truth:

She cruel warrior doth herself address

To battle, and the weary war renew'th.

Nor will be moved with reason or with ruth,

To grant small respite to my restless toil:

But greedily her fell intent persueth,

Of my poor life to make unpityed spoil.

Yet my poor life, all sorrows to assoyle,

I would her yield, her wrath to pacify:

But then she seeks with torment and turmoil,

To force me live, and will not let me die.

All pain hath end and every war hath peace,

But mine no price nor prayer may surcease.

XII

One day I sought with her heart-thrilling eyes

To make a truce, and terms to entertain;

All fearless then of so false enemies,

Which sought me to entrap in treason's train.

So as I then disarmed did remain,

A wicked ambush which lay hidden long

In the close court of her guileful eyen,

Thence breaking forth did thick about me throng.

Too feeble I t'abide the brunt so strong,

Was forced to yield myself into their hands:

Who me captiving straight with rigorous wrong,

Have ever since me kept in cruel bands.

So Lady, now to you I do complain

Against your eyes that justice I may gain.

XIII

In that proud port, which her so goodly graceth,

Whiles her fair face she rears up to the sky:

And to the ground her eyelids low embaseth,

Most goodly temperature ye may descry,

Mild humbless mixed with awful majesty.

For looking on the earth whence she was born,

Her mind remembreth her mortality,

What so is fairest shall to earth return.

But that same lofty countenance seems to scorn

Base thing, and think how she to heaven may climb:

Treading down earth as lothsome and forlorn,

That hinders heavenly thoughts with drossy slime.

Yet lowly still vouchsafe to look on me,

Such lowliness shall make you lofty be.

XIV

Return again my forces late dismayed,

Unto the siege by you abondon'd quite,

Great shame it is to leave like one afraid,

So fair a peace for one repulse so light.

'Gainst such strong castles needeth greater might,

Than those small forts which ye were wont belay:

Such haughty minds enur'd to hardy fight

Disdain to yield unto the first assay.

Bring therefore all the forces that ye may,

And lay incessant battery to her heart,

Plaints, prayers, vows, ruth, sorrow, and dismay,

Those engines can the proudest love convert.

And if those fail, fall down and die before her,

So dying live, and living do adore her.

XV

Ye tradefull Merchants, that with weary toil,

Do seek most precious things to make your gain;

And both the Indias of their treasures spoil,

What needeth you to seek so far in vain?

For lo my love doth in her self contain

All this world's riches that may far be found,

If saphires, lo her eyes be saphires plain,

If rubies, lo her lips be rubies sound:

If pearls, her teeth be pearls both pure and round;

If ivory, her forhead ivory weene;

If gold, her locks are finest gold on ground;

If silver, her fair hands are silver sheen.

But that which fairest is, but few behold,

Her mind adorned with virtues manifold.

XVI

One day as I unwarily did gaze

On those fair eyes my love's immortal light:

The whiles my 'stonished heart stood in amaze,

Through sweet illusion of her look's delight.

I mote perceive how in her glancing sight,

Legions of loves with little wings did fly:

Darting their deadly arrows fiery bright,

At every rash beholder passing by.

One of those archers closely I did spy,

Aiming his arrow at my very heart:

When suddenly with twinkle of her eye,

The Damsel broke his misintended dart.

Had she not so done, sure I had been slain,

Yet as it was, I hardly 'scaped with pain.

XVII

The glorious portrait of that Angel's face,

Made to amaze weak men's confused skill:

And this world's worthless glory to embase,

What pen, what pencil can express her fill?

For though he colours could devise at will,

And eke his learned hand at pleasure guide,

Least trembling it his workmanship should spill,

Yet many wondrous things there are beside.

The sweet eye-glances, that like arrows glide,

The charming smiles, that rob sense from the heart:

The lovely pleasance and the lofty pride,

Cannot expressed be by any art.

A greater craftsman's hand thereto doth need,

That can express the life of things indeed.

XVIII

The rolling wheel that runneth often round,

The hardest steel in tract of time doth tear:

And drizling drops that often do redound,

The firmest flint doth in continuance wear.

Yet cannot I, with many a dropping tear,

And long entreaty, soften her hard heart:

That she will once vouchsafe my plaint to hear,

Or look with pity on my painful smart.

But when I plead, she bids me play my part,

And when I weep, she says tears are but water:

And when I sigh, she says I know the art,

And when I wail she turns herself to laughter.

So do I weep, and wail, and plead in vain,

Whiles she as steel and flint doth still remain.

XIX

The merry cuckoo, messenger of spring,

His trumpet shrill hath thrice already sounded:

That warns all lovers wait upon their king,

Who now is coming forth with garland crowned.

With noise whereof the choir of birds resounded

Their anthems sweet devised of love's praise,

That all the woods their echoes back rebounded,

As if they knew the meaning of their lays.

But 'mongst them all, which did Love's honor raise

No word was heard of her that most it ought,

But she his precept proudly disobeys,

And doth his idle message set at nought.

Therefore O love, unless she turn to thee

Ere cuckoo end, let her a rebel be.

XX

In vain I seek and sue to her for grace,

And do mine humbled heart before her pour,

The whiles her foot she in my neck doth place,

And tread my life down in the lowly floor.

And yet the lion that is lord of power,

And reighneth over every beast in field,

In his most pride disdaineth to devour

The silly lamb that to his might doth yield.

But she more cruel and more savage wild,

Then either lion or lioness:

Shames not to be with guiltless blood defiled,

But taketh glory in her cruelness.

Fairer than fairest, let none ever say,

That ye were blooded in a yielded prey.

XXI

Was it the work of nature or of art,

Which tempered so the feature of her face,

That pride and meekness mixed by equal part,

Do both appear t'adorn her beauty's grace?

For with mild pleasance, which doth pride displace,

She to her love doth lookers' eyes allure:

And with stern countenance back again doth chase

Their looser looks that stir up lusts impure.

With such strange terms her eyes she doth inure,

That with one look she doth my life dismay:

And with another doth it straight recure,

Her smile me draws, her frown me drives away.

Thus doth she train and teach me with her looks,

Such art of eyes I never read in books.

XXII

This holy season fit to fast and pray,

Men to devotion ought to be inclined:

Therefore, I likewise on so holy day,

For my sweet Saint some service fit will find.

Her temple fair is built within my mind,

In which her glorious image placed is,

On which my thoughts do day and night attend

Like sacred priests that never think amiss.

There I to her as th'author of my bliss

Will build an altar to appease her ire:

And on the same my heart will sacrifice,

Burning in flames of pure and chaste desire:

The which vouchsafe O godess to accept

Amongst thy dearest relics to be kept.

XXIII

Penelope for her Ulysses' sake,

Devised a web her wooers to deceive;

In which the work that she all day did make

The same at night she did again unreave.

Such subtle craft my Damsel doth conceive,

Th'importune suit of my desire to shun:

For all that I in many days do weave,

In one short hour I find by her undone.

So when I think to end that I begun,

I must begin and never bring to end:

For with one look she spills that long I spun,

And with one word my whole year's work doth rend.

Such labour like the spider's web I find,

Whose fruitless work is broken with least wind.

XXIV

When I behold that beauty's wonderment,

And rare perfection of each goodly part;

Of nature's skill the only complement,

I honor and admire the maker's art.

But when I feel the bitter baleful smart,

Which her fair eyes unwares do work in me:

That death out of their shiny beams do dart,

I think that I a new Pandora see;

Whom all the Gods in council did agree,

Into this sinful world from heaven to send:

That she to wicked men a scourge should be,

For all their faults with which they did offend.

But since ye are my scourge I will intreat,

That for my faults ye will me gently beat.

XXV

How long shall this like dying life endure,

And know no end of her own mystery:

But waste and wear away in terms unsure,

'Twixt fear and hope depending doubtfully?

Yet better were at once to let me die,

And show the last ensample of your pride:

Than to torment me thus with cruelty,

To prove your power, which I too well have tried.

But yet if in your hardened breast ye hide,

A close intent at last to show me grace:

Then all the woes and wrecks which I abide,

As means of bliss I gladly will embrace.

And wish that more and greater they might be,

That greater meede at last may turn to me.

XXVI

Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a briar;

Sweet in the Juniper, but sharp his bough;

Sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh near;

Sweet is the firbloom, but his branches rough.

Sweet is the Cypress, but his rind is tough,

Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill;

Sweet is the broom-flower, but yet sour enough;

And sweet is Moly, but his root is ill.

So every sweet with sour is tempered still

That maketh it be coveted the more:

For easy things that may be got at will,

Most sorts of men do set but little store.

Why then should I account of little pain,

That endless pleasure shall unto me gain.

XXVII

Fair proud now tell me why should fair be proud,

Sith all world's glory is but dross unclean:

And in the shade of death itself shall shroud,

But ever now thereof ye little weene.

That goodly idol now so gay beseen,

Shall doff her flesh's borrowed fair attire:

And be forgot as it had never been,

That many now much worship and admire.

Ne any then shall after it inquire,

Ne any mention shall thereof remain:

But what this verse, that never shall expire,

Shall to you purchase with her thankless pain.

Fair be no longer proud of that shall perish,

But that which shall you make immortal, cherish.

XXVIII

The laurel leaf, which you this day do wear,

Gives me great hope of your relenting mind:

For since it is the badge which I do bear,

Ye wearing it do seem to me inclined:

The power thereof, which of in me I find,

Let in likewise your gentle breast inspire

With sweet infusion, and put you in mind

Of that proud maid, whom now those leave attire:

Proud Daphne scorning Phoebus' lovely fire,

On the Thessalian shore from him did fly:

For which the gods in their revengeful ire

Did her transform into a laurel tree.

Then fly no more fair love from Phoebus' chace,

But in your breast his leaf and love embrace.

XXIX

See how the stubborn damsel doth deprave

My simple meaning with disdainful scorn:

And by the bay which I unto her gave,

Accounts myself her captive quite forlorn.

The bay (quoth she) is of the victors borne,

Yielded them by the vanquished as their meeds,

And they therewith do poets' heads adorn,

To sing the glory of their famous deeds.

But sith she will the conquest challenge needs,

Let her accept me as her faithful thrall,

That her great triumph which my skill exceeds,

I may in trump of fame blaze over all.

Then would I deck her head with glorious bays,

And fill the world with her victorious praise.

XXX

My love is like to ice, and I to fire;

How comes it then that this her cold so great

Is not dissolved through my so-hot desire,

But harder grows the more I her intreat?

Or how comes it that my exceeding heat

Is not delayed by her heart frozen cold;

But that I burn much more in boiling sweat,

And feel my flames augmented manifold?

What more miraculous thing may be told

That fire which all things melts, should harden ice:

And ice which is congealed with senseless cold,

Should kindle fire by wonderful device?

Such is the power of love in gentle mind,

That it can alter all the course of kind.