Classic Poem

Dorus

Sweet glove, the witness of my secret bliss
(Which hiding didst preserve that beauty's light
That, opened forth, my seal of comfort is),
Be thou my star in this my darkest night,
Now that mine eyes their cheerful sun do miss
Which dazzling still, doth still maintain my sight;
Be thou, sweet glove, the anchor of my mind,
Till my frail bark his hav'n again do find.

Sweet glove, the sweet despoils of sweetest hand,
Fair hand, the fairest pledge of fairer heart,
True heart, whose truth doth yield to truest band,
Chief band, I say, which ties my chiefest part,
My chiefest part, wherein do chiefly stand
Those secret joys, which heav'n to me impart,
Unite in one, my state thus still to save;
You have my thanks, let me your comfort have.

Dorus

The merchant man, whom gain doth teach the sea
Where rocks do wait for them the winds do chase,
Beaten with waves, no sooner kens the bay
Where he was bound to make his marting place,
But fear forgot, and pains all overpast,
Make present ease receive the better taste.

The labourer, which cursed earth up tears,
With sweaty brows, sometimes with wat'ry eyes,
Oft scorching sun, oft cloudy darkness fears,
While upon chance his fruit of labour lies;
But harvest come, and corn in fertile store,
More in his own he toiled, he glads the more.

Thus in my pilgrimage of mated mind,
Seeking the saint in whom all graces dwell,
What storms found me, what torments I did find,
Who seeks to know acquaints himself with hell;
But now success hath got above annoys,
That sorrow's weight doth balance up these joys.

Cleophila

The merchant man, whom many seas have taught
What horrors breed where wind dominion bears,
Yet never rock, nor race, such terror brought
As near his home when storm or shelf he fears;
For Nature hath that never failing scope,
Most loath to lose, the most approaching hope.

The labourer, whom tired body makes
Hold dear his work, with sighs each change attends,
But at no change so pinching care he takes
As happy shows of corn when harvest sends;
For reason will, great sight of hoped bliss,
Make great the loss, so great the fear to miss.

Thus tossed in my ship of huge desire,
Thus toiled in my work of raging love,
Now that I spy the hav'n my thoughts require,
Now that some flow'r of fruit my pains do prove,
My dreads augment the more in passion's might,
Since love with care, and hope with fear do fight.

Basilius

Phoebus farewell, a sweeter saint I serve.
The high conceits thy heav'nly wisdoms breed
My thoughts forget: my thoughts which never swerve
From her in whom is sown their freedom's seed,
And in whose eyes my daily doom I read.

Phoebus farewell, a sweeter saint I serve.
Thou art far off, thy kingdom is above;
She heav'n on earth with beauties doth preserve.
Thy beams I like, but her clear rays I love;
Thy force I fear, her force I still do prove.

Phoebus yield up thy title in my mind.
She doth possess; thy image is defaste.
But if thy rage some brave revenge will find
On her, who hath in me thy temple raste,
Employ thy might, that she my fires may taste;
And how much more her worth surmounteth thee,
Make her as much more base by loving me.

Cleophila

Since that the stormy rage of passions dark
(Of passions dark, made dark by beauty's light)
With rebel force hath closed in dungeon dark
My mind ere now led forth by reason's light;

Since all the things which give mine eyes their light
Do foster still the fruit of fancies dark,
So that the windows of my inward light
Do serve to make my inward powers dark;

Since, as I say, both mind and senses dark
Are hurt, not helped, with piercing of the light;
While that the light may show the horrors dark,
But cannot make resolved darkness light;
I like this place where, at the least, the dark
May keep my thoughts from thought of wonted light.

Gynecia

Hark, plaintful ghosts! Infernal furies, hark
Unto my woes the hateful heav'ns do send:
The heav'ns conspired to make my vital spark
A wretched wrack, a glass of ruin's end.

Seeing, alas, so mighty powers bend
Their ireful shot against so weak a mark,
Come cave, become my grave; come death, and lend
Receipt to me within thy bosom dark.

For what is life to daily dying mind
Where, drawing breath, I suck the air of woe;
Where too much sight makes all the body blind,
And highest thoughts downward most headlong throw?
Thus then my form, and thus my state I find:
Death wrapped in flesh, to living grave assigned.

*****

Like those sick folks, in whom strange humours flow,
Can taste no sweets, the sour only please;
So to my mind, while passions daily grow,
Whose fiery chains upon his freedom seize,
Joys strangers seem; I cannot bide their show,
Nor brook aught else but well-acquainted woe.
Bitter grief tastes me best, pain is my ease,
Sick to the death, still loving my disease.

Gynecia

How is my sun, whose beams are shining bright,
Become the cause of my dark ugly night?
Or how do I, captived in this dark plight,
Bewail the case, and in the cause delight?

My mangled mind huge horrors still do fright,
With sense possessed, and claimed by reason's right:
Betwixt which two in me I have this fight,
Where whoso wins, I put myself to flight.

Come, cloudy fears, close up my dazzled sight;
Sorrow, suck up the marrow of my might;
Due sighs, blow out all sparks of joyful light;
Tire on, despair, upon my tired sprite.
An end, an end, my dulled pen cannot write,
Nor mazed head think, nor falt'ring tongue recite.

*****

This cave is dark, but it had never light.
This wax doth waste itself, yet painless dies.
These words are full of woes, yet feel they none.

I darkened am, who once had clearest sight
I waste my heart, which still new torment tries
I plain with cause, my woes are all mine own.

No cave, no wasting wax, no words of grief,
Can hold, show, tell, my pains without relief.

Charita

My true love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange, one for the other giv'n.
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss:
There never was a better bargain driv'n.
His heart in me, keeps me and him in one,
My heart in him, his thoughts and senses guides
He loves my heart, for once it was his own:
I cherish his, because in me it bides.

His heart his wound received from my sight;
My heart was wounded, with his wounded heart,
For as from me on him his hurt did light,
So still methought in me his hurt did smart;
Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss:
My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

Dametas

O words which fall like summer dew on me,
O breath more sweet than is the growing bean,
O tongue in which all honeyed liquors be,
O voice that doth the thrush in shrillness stain:
Do you say still, this is her promise due,
That she is mine, as I to her am true.

Gay hair, more gay than straw when harvest lies,
Lips red and plum, as cherry's ruddy side,
Eyes fair and great, like fair great ox's eyes,
O breast in which two white sheep swell in pride:
Join you with me, to seal this promise due,
That she be mine, as I to her am true.

But thou, white skin, as white as cruds well pressed,
So smooth as sleekstone-like it smooths each part,
And thou, dear flesh, as soft as wool new dressed,
And yet as hard as brawn made hard by art;
First four but say, next four their saying seal,
But you must pay the gage of promised weal.

Pamela

Do not disdain, O straight upraised pine,
That, wounding thee, my thoughts in thee I grave;
Since that my thoughts, as straight as straightness thine,
No smaller wound, alas, far deeper have:

Deeper engraved, which salve nor time can save,
Giv'n to my heart by my fore-wounded ey'n;
Thus cruel to myself, how canst thou crave
My inward hurt should spare thy outward rine?

Yet still, fair tree, lift up thy stately line,
Live long, and long witness my chosen smart,
Which barred desires (barred by myself) impart;

And in this growing bark grow verses mine.
My heart my word, my word hath giv'n my heart.
The giver giv'n from gift shall never part.

*****

Sweet root, say thou, the root of my desire
Was virtue clad in constant love's attire.

Musidorus

You goodly pines, which still with brave ascent
In Nature's pride your heads to heav'nward heave,
Though you besides such graces earth hath lent,
Of some late grace a greater grace receive,

By her who was (O blessed you) content
With her fair hand your tender barks to cleave,
And so by you (O blessed you) hath sent
Such piercing words as no thoughts else conceive:

Yet yield your grant, a baser hand may leave
His thoughts in you, where so sweet thoughts were spent,
For how would you the mistress' thoughts bereave
Of waiting thoughts all to her service meant?

Nay, higher thoughts (though thralled thoughts) I call
My thoughts than hers, who first your rine did rent,
Than hers, to whom my thoughts alonely thrall
Rising from low, are to the highest bent;
Where hers, whom worth makes highest over all,
Coming from her, cannot but downward fall.

Pamela

Like diverse flowers, whose diverse beauties serve
To deck the earth with his well-coloured weed,
Though each of them his private form preserve,
Yet joining forms one sight of beauty breed:
Right so my thoughts whereon my heart I feed;

Right so my inward parts and outward glass,
Though each possess a diverse working kind,
Yet all well knit to one fair end do pass:
That he to whom these sundry gifts I bind,
All what I am, still one, his own, do find.

Musidorus

All what you are still one, his own to find,
You that are born to be the world's eye,
What were it else, but to make each thing blind,
And to the sun with waxen wings to fly?

No, no, such force with my small force to try
Is not my skill, nor reach of mortal mind.
Call me but yours, my title is most high;
Hold me most yours, then my long suit is signed.

You none can claim but you yourself by right,
For you do pass yourself, in virtue's might
So both are yours: I, bound with gaged heart;
You only yours, too far beyond desert.

Musidorus

Lock up, fair lids, the treasures of my heart:
Preserve those beams, this age's only light;
To her sweet sense, sweet sleep, some ease impart,
Her sense too weak to bear her spirit's might.

And while, O sleep, thou closest up her sight
(Her sight where Love did forge his fairest dart),
O harbour all her parts in easeful plight:
Let no strange dream make her fair body start.

But yet, O dream, if thou wilt not depart
In this rare subject from thy common right,
But wilt thyself in such a seat delight,

Then take my shape, and play a lover's part:
Kiss her from me, and say unto her sprite,
Till her eyes shine, I live in darkest night.

Basilius

Why dost thou haste away,
O Titan fair, the giver of the day?
Is it to carry news
To western wights, what stars in east appear?
Or dost thou think that here
Is left a sun whose beams thy place may use?
Yet stay, and well peruse
What be her gifts that make her equal thee.
Bend all thy light to see
In earthly clothes enclosed a heav'nly spark.
Thy running course cannot such beauties mark.
No, no, thy motions be
Hastened from us with bar of shadow dark,
Because that thou, the author of our sight,
Disdain'st we see thee stained with other's light.

Philoclea

O stealing time, the subject of delay
(Delay, the rack of unrefrained desire),
What strange design hast thou my hopes to stay,
My hopes which do but to mine own aspire?

Mine own? O word on whose sweet sound doth prey
My greedy soul, with gripe of inward fire.
Thy title great, I justly challenge may,
Since in such phrase his faith he did attire.
O time, become the chariot of my joys;
As thou draw'st on, so let my bliss draw near.
Each moment lost, part of my hap destroys.

Thou art the father of occasion dear:
Join with thy son to ease my long annoys.
In speedy help thank-worthy friends appear.

Gynecia

My lute, within thyself thy tunes enclose;
Thy mistress' song is now a sorrow's cry;
Her hand benumbed with fortune's daily blows,
Her mind amazed, can neither's help apply.
Wear these my words as mourning weeds of woes,
Black ink becomes the state wherein I die.
And though my moans be not in music bound,
Of written griefs yet be the silent ground.

The world doth yield such ill-consorted shows
(With circled course, which no wise stay can try)
That childish stuff which knows not friends from foes
(Better despised) bewonder gazing eye.
Thus noble gold down to the bottom goes,
When worthless cork aloft doth floating lie:
Thus in thyself least strings are loudest found,
And lowest stops do yield the highest sound.

Basilius

When two suns do appear
Some say it doth betoken wonders near,
As prince's loss or change.
Two gleaming suns of splendour like I see,
And seeing feel in me
Of prince's heart quite lost the ruin strange.

But now eachwhere doth range
With ugly cloak the dark envious night;
Who, full of guilty spite
Such living beams should her black seat assail,
Too weak for them our weaker sight doth veil.

" No," says fair moon, " my light
Shall bar that wrong, and though it not prevail
Like to my brother's rays, yet those I send
Hurt not the face, which nothing can amend."

Cleophila

Aurora , now thou show'st thy blushing light
(Which oft to hope lays out a guileful bait,
That trusts in time to find the way aright
To ease those pains which on desire do wait),

Blush on for shame that still with thee do light
On pensive souls (instead of restful bait)
Care upon care (instead of doing right)
To overpressed breasts, more grievous weight.

As O! myself, whose woes are never light,
Tied to the stake of doubt, strange passions bait;
While thy known course, observing Nature's right,
Stirs me to think what dangers lie in wait.
For mischiefs great, day after day doth show;
Make me still fear thy fair appearing show.

Cleophila

Beauty hath force to catch the human sight;
Sight doth bewitch the fancy ill awaked;
Fancy, we feel, includes all passion's might;
Passion rebelled, oft reason's strength hath shaked.

No wonder, then, though sight my sight did taint,
And though thereby my fancy was infected,
Though (yoked so) my mind with sickness faint,
Had reason's weight for passion's ease rejected.

But now the fit is passed; and time hath giv'n
Leisure to weigh what due desert requireth.
All thoughts so sprung are from their dwelling driv'n,
And wisdom to his wonted seat aspireth,
Crying in me: " Eye-hopes deceitful prove;
Things rightly prized, love is the band of love."

Basilius

Get hence foul grief, the canker of the mind;
Farewell complaint, the miser's only pleasure;
Away vain cares, by which few men do find
Their sought-for treasure.

Ye helpless sighs, blow out your breath to naught;
Tears, drown yourselves, for woe (your cause) is wasted;
Thought, think to end, too long the fruit of thought.
My mind hath tasted

But thou, sure hope, tickle my leaping heart;
Comfort, step thou in place of wonted sadness;
Fore-felt desire, begin to savour part
Of coming gladness.

Let voice of sighs into clear music run;
Eyes, let your tears with gazing now be mended;
Instead of thought, true pleasure be begun
And never ended.

Philoclea

Virtue, beauty, and speech, did strike, wound, charm,
My heart, eyes, ears, with wonder, love, delight:
First, second, last, did bind, enforce, and arm,
His works, shows, suits, with wit, grace, and vow's might.

Thus honour, liking, trust, much, far, and deep,
Held, pierced, possessed, my judgement, sense, and will,
Till wrong, contempt, deceit, did grow, steal, creep,
Bands, favour, faith, to break, defile, and kill.

Then grief, unkindness, proof, took, kindled, taught,
Well-grounded, noble, due, spite, rage, disdain,
But ah, alas! (in vain) my mind, sight, thought,
Doth him, his face, his words, leave, shun, refrain,
For no thing, time, nor place, can loose, quench, ease,
Mine own, embraced, sought, knot, fire, disease.

Philoclea

The love which is imprinted in my soul
With beauty's seal, and virtue fair disguised,
With inward cries puts up a bitter roll
Of huge complaints that now it is despised.

Thus, thus, the more I love, the wrong the more
Monstrous appears, long truth received late;
Wrong stirs remorsed grief, grief's deadly sore
Unkindness breeds, unkindness fost'reth hate.

But ah! the more I hate, the more I think
Whom I do hate; the more I think on him,
The more his matchless gifts do deeply sink
Into my breast, and loves renewed swim.
What medicine, then, can such disease remove
Where love draws hate, and hate engend'reth love?

Pyrocles repeating Philisides

What tongue can her perfections tell
In whose each part all pens may dwell?
Her hair fine threads of finest gold
In curled knots man's thought to hold,
But that her forehead says, " In me
A whiter beauty you may see"
Whiter indeed; more white than snow
Which on cold winter's face doth grow;
That doth present those even brows
Whose equal lines their angles bows,
Like to the moon when after change
Her horned head abroad doth range,
And arches be to heav'nly lids,
Whose wink each bold attempt for bids.
For the black stars those spheres contain,
The matchless pair e'en praise doth stain.
No lamp whose light by art is got,
No sun which shines and seeth not,
Can liken them without all peer,
Save one as much as other clear,
Which only thus unhappy be
Because themselves they cannot see.
Her cheeks with kindly claret spread,
Aurora -like new out of bed;
Or like the fresh queen-apple's side,
Blushing at sight of Phoebus ' pride.
Her nose, her chin, pure ivory wears,
No purer than the pretty ears,
Save that therein appears some blood,
Like wine and milk that mingled stood;
In whose incirclets if you gaze
Your eyes may tread a lover's maze,
But with such turns the voice to stray
No talk untaught can find the way.
The tip no jewel needs to wear:
The tip is jewel of the ear.
But who those ruddy lips can miss,
Which blessed still themselves do kiss?
Rubies, cherries, and roses new,
In worth, in taste, in perfect hue,
Which never part but that they show
Of precious pearl the double row,
The second sweetly-fenced ward
Her heav'nly-dewed tongue to guard,
Whence never word in vain did flow.
Fair under these doth stately grow
The handle of this pleasant work,
The neck, in which strange graces lurk:
Such be, I think, the sumptuous towers
Which skill doth make in princes' bowers.
So good a say invites the eye
A little downward to espy
The lovely clusters of her breasts,
Of Venus ' babe the wanton nests,
Like pommels round of marble clear,
Where azured veins well mixed appear,
With dearest tops of porphyry.
Betwixt these two a way doth lie,
A way more worthy beauty's fame
Than that which bears the milken name.
This leads unto the joyous field
Which only still doth lilies yield,
But lilies such whose native smell
The Indian odours doth excel.
Waist it is called, for it doth waste
Men's lives until it be embraced
There may one see, and yet not see,
Her ribs in white well armed be,
More white than Neptune 's foamy face
When struggling rocks he would embrace.
In these delights the wand'ring thought
Might of each side astray be brought,
But that her navel doth unite
In curious circle busy sight,
A dainty seal of virgin wax
Where nothing but impression lacks.
Her belly there glad sight doth fill,
Justly entitled Cupid 's hill;
A hill most fit for such a master,
A spotless mine of alabaster,
Like alabaster fair and sleek,
But soft and supple, satin-like:
In that sweet seat the boy doth sport.
Loath, I must leave his chief resort;
For such an use the world hath gotten,
The best things still must be forgotten
Yet never shall my song omit
Those thighs (for Ovid 's song more fit)
Which, flanked with two sugared flanks,
Lift up their stately swelling banks,
That Albion cliffs in whiteness pass,
With haunches smooth as looking-glass.
But bow all knees, now of her knees
My tongue doth tell what fancy sees:
The knots of joy, the gems of love,
Whose motion makes all graces move;
Whose bought incaved doth yield such sight,
Like cunning painter shadowing white.
The gart'ring place with childlike sign
Shows easy print in metal fine.
But there again the flesh doth rise
In her brave calves like crystal skies,
Whose Atlas is a smallest small,
More white than whitest bone of whale.
There oft steals out that round clean foot,
This noble cedar's precious root;
In show and scent pale violets,
Whose step on earth all beauty sets.
But back unto her back, my Muse,
Where Leda 's swan his feathers mews,
Along whose ridge such bones are met,
Like comfits round in marchpane set.
Her shoulders be like two white doves,
Perching within square royal rooves,
Which leaded are with silver skin,
Passing the hate-spot ermelin.
And thence those arms derived are;
The phoenix' wings be not so rare
For faultless length and stainless hue.
Ah, woe is me, my woes renew;
Now course doth lead me to her hand,
Of my first love the fatal band,
Where whiteness doth for ever sit;
Nature herself enamelled it
For there with strange compact doth lie
Warm snow, moist pearl, soft ivory,
There fall those sapphire-coloured brooks,
Which conduit-like, with curious crooks,
Sweet islands make in that sweet land.
As for the fingers of the hand,
The bloody shafts of Cupid 's war,
With amethysts they headed are.
Thus hath each part his beauty's part:
But how the Graces do impart
To all her limbs a special grace,
Becoming every time and place,
Which doth e'en beauty beautify,
And most bewitch the wretched eye;
How all this is but a fair inn
Of fairer guest which dwells within,
Of whose high praise, and praiseful bliss,
Goodness the pen, heav'n paper is,
The ink immortal fame doth lend
As I began, so must I end:
No tongue can her perfections tell,
In whose each part all pens may dwell.