7. At Night in the Cabin.
The sea hath its pearls,
The Heaven hath its stars;
And my heart, my heart,
My heart hath its love.

Great are the sea, and the Heaven,
But greater still my heart;
And fairer than pearls or than starlight
Is the radiance of my love.

O little girl, my darling,
Come thou to my great heart;
My heart, and the sea, and the Heaven
Are fainting, are dying for love.

*****

On the azure vault of Heaven,
Where the lovely stars are twinkling;

Goe you my lynes, Embassadors of love,
With my harts trybute to her conquering eyes,
From whence, if you one teare of pitty move
For all my woes, that onely shall suffise.

When you Minerva in the sunne behold,
At her perfection stand you then and gaze,
Where, in the compasse of a Marygold,
Meridianis sits within a maze.

And let Invention of her beauty vaunt,

Rare of-spring of my thoughts, my deerest Love,
Begot by fancy, on sweet hope exhortive,
In whom all purenes with perfection strove,
Hurt in the Embryon, makes my joyes abhortive.

And you my sighes, Symtomas of my woe,
The dolefull Anthems of my endlesse care,
Lyke idle Ecchoes ever aunswering: so,
The mournfull accents of my loves dispayre.

And thou Conceite, the shadow of my blisse,
Declyning with the setting of my sunne,
Springing with that, and fading straight with this,
Now hast thou end, and now thou wast begun.

Die, die, my soule, and never taste of joy,
If sighes, not teares, nor vowes, nor prayers can move,
If fayth and zeale be but esteemd a toy,
And kindnes, be unkindnes in my love.

Then with unkindnes, Love revenge thy wrong,
O sweet'st revenge that ere the heavens gave,
And with the Swan record thy dying song,
And praise her still to thy untimely grave.

So in loves death shall loves perfection prove,

If chaste and pure devotion of my youth,
Or glorie of my Aprill-springing yeeres,
Unfained love, in naked simple truth,
A thousand vowes, a thousand sighes and teares:

Or if a world of faithfull service done,
Words, thoughts, and deeds, devoted to her honor,
Or eyes that have beheld her as theyr sunne,
With admiration, ever looking on her.

A lyfe, that never joyd but in her love,
A soule, that ever hath ador'd her name,
A fayth, that time nor fortune could not move,
A Muse, that unto heaven hath raisd her fame.

Those teares which quench my hope, still kindle my desire,
Those sighes which coole my hart, are coles unto my love,
Disdayne Ice to my life, is to my soule a fire,
With teares, sighes, & disdaine, thys contrary I prove.

Quenchles desire, makes hope burne, dryes my teares,
Love heats my hart, my hart-heat my sighes warmeth,
With my soules fire, my life disdaine out-weares,
Desire, my love, my soule, my hope, hart, & life charmeth.

My hope becomes a friend to my desire,
My hart imbraceth Love, Love doth imbrace my hart,

Sitting alone, love bids me goe and write,
Reason plucks backe, commaunding me to stay,
Boasting that shee doth still direct the way,
Els senceles love could never once endite.

Love growing angry, vexed at the spleene,
And scorning Reasons maymed Argument,
Straight taxeth Reason, wanting to invent,
Where shee with Love conversing hath not beene.

Reason reproched with this coy disdaine,
Dispighteth Love, and laugheth at her folly,
And Love contemning Reasons reason wholy,
Thought her in weight too light by many a graine.

My love makes hote the fire whose heat is spent,
The water, moysture from my teares deriveth:
And my strong sighes, the ayres weake force reviveth.
This love, tears, sighes, maintaine each one his element.

The fire, unto my love, compare a painted fire,
The water, to my teares, as drops to Oceans be,
The ayre, unto my sighes, as Eagle to the flie,
The passions of dispaire, but joyes to my desire.

Onely my love is in the fire ingraved,
Onely my teares by Oceans may be gessed,
Onely my sighes are by the ayre expressed,

Ankor tryumph, upon whose blessed shore,
The sacred Muses solemnize thy name:
Where the Arcadian Swaines with rytes adore
Pandoras poesy, and her living fame.

Where first this jolly Sheepheard gan rehearse,
That heavenly worth, upon his Oaten reede,
Of earths great Queene: in Nectar-dewed verse,
Which none so wise that rightly can areede.

Nowe in conceite of his ambitious love,

WHEREIN HE INVOKES THE AID OF LOVE TO SING HER WORTHILY

Ah Love, assist my faint and foolish brain!
Pillar the style, sustain the lyric portal!
Help me to sing of her who is immortal,
A citizen of the celestial reign!
Permit, Lord, that my verses may attain
The reach of her proud praise (presumptuous mortal!)
Whose passing our poor world must now deplore till
The Golden Trumpet give her back again.
Love answers: " In myself and Heaven the best,
By converse pure and precept sage and holy,
All in her breathed of whom Death stands possessed.