Classic Poem

Passion

Past 4

W E arie thoughts doe waite vpon me
Griefe hath to much ouer gone me
Time doth howerly ouer-toyle me,
While deepe sorrowes seeke to spoile me
Wit and sences all amazed
In their Graces ouer gazed:
In exceeding torments tell me,
Neuer such a death befell mee.
Loue, oh life of more tormenting
Then the world hath inuenting
Neuer ceizd vpon a creature
In a truer killing nature.
Not with Venus idle itching,
Nor with vaine affectes bewitching:
But with wit and reason's seeing
Nature's beauties sweetest being:
Time and truth on earth declaring
Excellence hath no comparing
Not a Haire but hath in holding,
Honors hart, in loues beholding:
Not an eye, but in her glaunces;
Graceth reason in Loues traunces
Not a looke but hath in louing
Faith too fast for euery moouing.
Not a worde, but in commaunding
Daunteth folly from demaunding.
Not a lippe, but makes the Cherrie
Onely held a prettie Berrie:
Not a breath that softly blowes
But perfumeth where it goes:
Not a truth but doth display,
All the Chesse in battaile ray:
Where the princely eye may see:
How they all in order bee.
King and Queene, Knight, Bishop, Rooke:
And the Pawne his place hath tooke
Blessed cheeke, the sweetest chaine
Of affections sweetest vaine.
What can sweetest iudgements say
But thou cariest sweete away?
Prettie cheeke, in whose sweet pit
Loue would liue and die to sit.
Let mee thinke no more on thee,
Thou hast too much wounded me:
And that skarre vpon thy throate
No such starre on Stellas coate.
Let me chide, yet with that stay,
That did weare the skinne away:
But alas shall I goe lower,
In sweet similies to showe her?
When to touch her praises tittle
Nature's sweetnes is to little:
Where each Sinow, Limme and ioynt
Perfect shape in euery point,
From corruptions eye concealed
But to vertue loue reuealed,
Binde my thoughts to silence speaking
While my hart must lye a breaking
Petrarche , in his thoughts diuine
Tasso in his highest line
Ariosto's best inuention
Dante's best obscur'd intention
Ouid in his sweetest vaine:
Pastor Fidos purest straine
With the finest Poet's wit,
That of wonders euer writ:
Were they all but now aliue,
And would for the Garland striue
In the gratious praise of loue,
Heere they might their passions prooue
On such excellences grownded;
That their wittes would be confounded
And in enuie at my grace.
To beholde this blessed face:
Finding all their wittes too weake
Of her wonder worth to speake
In a fretting humor'd vaine,
Runne into their graues againe.
But aye me! what inward wound
Laies my comforts all a ground?
Absence, oh that word of woe.
That too neere the heart doth goe:
When the eye cannot beholde
That the spirit hath in holde.
Loue must liue and looke a farre
In a dreame vpon a starre:
But indeed beholde no light:
In darke absence onely night:
But what haue I said? aye me!
In the darkest night I see:
Sight of absence such a presence
Of Mineruas excellence.
In loue's liuing memorie
That the light can neuer die.
No, first die all Poetts' loue,
Ere faith such a fiction prooue
In obliuious light to place,
Such a blessed starre of grace:
As in bright Aglaiae's eyes
Shewes an earthly paradise.
If my Suite be not too great,
Thus much let thy swaine entreate:
Where no colde suspect can harme thee
Looke into my hearte and warme thee
Turne my Musicke to thy minde
Let it know no other kinde.
Breake my pipe if that it play
Other then the rounddelay.
Cut my throate if that I sing,
But vnto thy fauour's string.
Neuer grace my louely flocke,
But vpon the blessed rocke,
Where thy Grace may giue them feeding
And thy blessing all their breeding.
I haue neither Plummes nor Cherries,
Nuttes nor Aples, nor Straw-berries;
Pinnes nor Laces, Pointes nor gloues.
Nor a payre of painted Doues:
Shuttle-Cocke nor trundle ball
To present thy loue with all:
But a heart as true and kinde
As an honest faithfull minde
Can deuice for to inuent,
To thy patience I present:
At thy fairest feete it lies:
Blesse it with thy blessed eyes:
Take it vp into thy handes,
At whose onely grace it standes,
To be comforted for euer,
Or to looke for comfort neuer:
Oh it is a strange affecte,
That my fancie doth effect.
I am caught and can not start
Wit and reason, eye and heart;
All are witnesses to mee,
Loue hath sworne me slaue to thee,
Let me then be but thy slaue,
And no further fauour craue:
Send mee foorth to tende thy flocke
On the highest Mountaine rocke
Or commaund me but to goe
To the valley grownd belowe:
All shall be a like to me,
Where it please thee I shall bee
Let my face be what thou wilt:
Saue my life, or see it spilt,
Keepe fasting on thy Mountaine:
Charge me not come neere thy Fountaine
In the stormes and bitter blastes
Where the skie all ouercasts.
In the coldest frost and snowe,
That the earth did euer knowe:
Let me sit and bite my thumbes,
Where I see no comfort comes,
All the sorrowes I can prooue
Cannot put me from my loue
Tell me that thou art content.
To beholde me passion rente;
That thou know'st I deerely loue thee
Yet withall it cannot mooue thee.
That thy pride doth growe so great
Nothing can thy grace intreate,
That thou wilt so cruell bee,
As to kill my loue and mee:
That thou wilt no foode reserue,
But my flockes and I shall sterue
Be thy rage yet nere so great,
When my little Lambes doe bleate
To beholde their Shepheard die:
Then will truth her passion trie,
How a Hart it selfe hath spent
With concealing of content.