Classic Poem

Sonet 2

V P on the Hill of happinesse,
In beautie's Gratious blessednes:
Bonerto's fairest Shepheardesse,
In wisdome's honors worthinesse:
Aglaia liues, long may shee liue.
The worth that doth this wonder giue.

An Eye in which faire beautie's light
Hath none of Phaebus killing sight:
But of a farre more heauenly Grace,
To warme the heart, not burne the face:
A fore-head that faire fronte of blisse
That shewes where beautie graced is.

A Haire that holdes the heart's affections
Euen by the eye of lawe's directions;
Which wauing finely in the ayre,
Describes the pride of Beauties faire,
While loue beholdes with vertue's eye
There doth not lye a hayre awrie.

A cheeke the chaine of Ioue's best chaunce
That pleaseth passion in his Traunce:
A lippe to loue, more kindely sweete,
Then Hiues where Hony-Bees do meete
A breath that so the ayre perfumes,
As all corruptious sence consumes.

And for her teeth, no Granam studdes,
Nor like the Knagges of Blacke-thorne buddes:
But where conceites are kindely met
Like Orient Pearles, in Rubies set
And for a Toung in reason's sence
The Trumpet of true eloquence.

And for a wit in wisdome's will
So gouerned with gracious skill:
That Admiration best can tell,
Where excellence doth truely dwell
And for a spirite to that wit:
The world too weake to iudge of it.

I speake not of inferiour partes.
Nor of their prayses due desartes;
I rather loue my thoughts to raise,
To blessed spirits and their prayse
And where the best is set before:
But name Aglaia and no more.

But if I had the painter's Arte,
To set a glasse on euery parte,
Her necke should seeme a piller fit
For to vpholde the state of wit.
Whose smoothnesse would amase his sight:
When he should sit to paint the white.

Her Brestes should be those Balles of blisse
That loue and beautie neuer misse
But if a stroke doe chaunce to fall:
The heart should answere for the ball.
While honor's eye should iudge the set
What loue may loose and vertue get.

Her armes should be those Angell bowes
That blessed wisdome onely knowes:
Her fingers, shaftes; that where they light
Doe kill the eyes of idle sight:
While honor so guides Nature's eye:
There can no feather flye awry.

Her belly should that mountaine be
That may put downe Parnassus hill:
Where Pallas might reioyce to see
The subiects of her sweetest skill,
While all her Muses might deuise
To judge of Nature's paradise.

But for that Marke of Modesty,
That sweares the silence of conceite:
While that descretion's carefull eye
Is caried but to honor's height.
A Moone Eclipsed should descrie
The daunger of a wicked Eye.

Now for the nexte adioyning Limmes,
Where strength and straightnes both agree
To showe how nature sweetely trimmes,
All partes wherein her prayses be:
Should Sampson's pillers figure plaine
How all Philistians should be slaine.

Now for her legges, her knees and feete
Which so euen carry euerle parte:
That beautie, loue and honor meete
To show the pride of Nature's arte:
I would but as I saide before
But make her picture and no more.

But painting is too poore a skill
Where colours can but shadowe showe
The Poet's wit too weake for will:
To speake of that he doth not knowe
While onely Admiration
Must make her declaration.

And how shall I then silly swaine,
Once looke at such a pure aspect?
As but vertues gratious vaine,
My rudenes neuer would respect,
But rather leaue the lonely spring
Then stay to heare the Shepheard sing.

Alas I know not this is all,
I hope but from a hill of grace:
When heauenly fates will fauour fall
A gratious heart, a gathering place.
Where I some little crum shall finde
That may refresh a woeful minde.

Till when, and then, and euermore
I will be but her Shepheard swaine;
And for my seruice seeke no more:
But on Pethart's Mountaine plaine,
I may one leaue my flocke to keepe,
And folde my Lambes, and feede my sheepe.

At Shearing time she shall commaund
The finest fleece of all my wooll:
And if her pleasure but demaund
The fattest from the leane to cull.
She shall be mistresse of my store:
Let mee alone to worke for more.

My cloake shall lie vpon the ground,
From wet and dust to keepe her feete:
My pipe with his best measure's sound,
Shall welcome her with musicke sweete
And in my skrippe, some cates at least:
Shall bid her to a Shepheard's feast.

My staffe shall stay her, in her walke
My dog shall at her heeles attend her:
And I will holde her with such talke
As I doe hope shall not offend her,
My Eawes shall bleate, my Lambes shall play,
To shew her all the sport they may.

Why I will tell her twentie thinges,
That I haue heard my mother tell:
Of plucking of the Buzzard's winges
For killing of her Cockerell,
And hunting Rainard to his denne
For frighting of her sitting Hen.

How shee would say, when shee was young
That Louers were ashamde to lie:
And truth was so on euerie tongue,
That Loue ment naught but honestie
And Sirra (quoth shee) then to me
Let euer this thy lesson be.

Looke when thou louest, loue but one
And let her worthy be thy loue:
Then loue her in thy heart alone,
And let her in thy passions prooue
Aglaia all that in thy minde,
Within thy heart her loue shall finde.

And as shee bad, I haue obeyed
I loue in heart but one alone:
Whose worthines my wits dismaid
In finding such a worthy one
As in Aglaia all doth prooue,
All under heauen my only loue.

And in that loue to liue and die
And die, but in that loue to liue:
And loue that cannot liue to lie,
Shall for my truth this warrant giue:
My life or death to sane or lose
Shall in her loue be to dispose.

Her eyes shall be my Sunne to guide me
Her hand shall holde me by the hearte
Her censure onely shall decide me:
What I protest in euerie parte.
In heart to serue and loue her so.
As vnder heauen to loue no moe.

And if all this will not suffice,
To make her knowe an honest care
Then shall shee see before her eyes
Of what true forces passions are.
When silence discontent shall prooue,
How death shall make an ende of loue.

And yet before that finall houre.
Where passions play their latest parte,
When sweetes are seuer'd, from their sower
While onely life is in the heart:
The last effect of loue to trie,
I will but make my will and die.

And I will tell her such fine tales,
As for the nonce, I will deuise:
Of Lapwinges and of Nightingales:
And how the Swallow feedes on flies.
And of the Hare, the Fox, the Hound.
The Pastor and the Medow ground.

And of the springes, and of the wood
And of the Forrestes and the Deere,
And of the riuers and the floods,
And of the mirth and merrie cheere,
And of the lookes and of the glaunces,
Of Maides and young men in their daunces:

Of clapping handes, and drawing gloues,
And of the tokens of loue's truth,
And of the pretty Turtle Doues,
That teach the billinge trickes of youth
And how they kindely ought to wooe
Before the tother thing they doe.