love poems for her

Fayre bosome fraught with vertues richest tresure,
The neast of love, the lodging of delight:
The bowre of blisse, the paradice of pleasure,
The sacred harbour of that hevenly spright.
How was I ravisht with your lovely sight,
And my frayle thoughts too rashly led astray?
Whiles diving deepe through amorous insight,
On the sweet spoyle of beautie they did pray.
And twixt her paps like early fruit in May,
Whose harvest seemd to hasten now apace:
They loosely did theyr wanton winges display,

Fresh Spring, the herald of love's mighty king,
In whose coat armour richly are displayed

All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring
In goodly colours gloriously arrayed;
Go to my love, where she is careless laid,
Yet in her winter's bower not well awake;
Tell her the joyous time will not be stayed
Unless she do him by the forelock take.
Bid her therefore herself soon ready make,
To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew;
Where every one that misseth then her make
Shall be by him amerced with penance due.

The famous warriors of the anticke world,
Used Trophees to erect in stately wize:
In which they would the records have enrold,
Of theyr great deeds and valarous emprize.
What trophee then shall I most fit devize,
In which I may record the memory
Of my loves conquest, peerelesse beauties prise,
Adorn'd with honour, love, and chastity.
Even this verse vowd to eternity,
Shall be thereof immortall moniment:
And tell her prayse to all posterity,
That may admire such worlds rare wonderment.

Most glorious Lord of life! that, on this day,
Didst make thy triumph over death and sin;
And, having harrowed hell, didst bring away
Captivity thence captive, us to win:
This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin;
And grant that we, for whom thou didest die,
Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin,
May live for ever in felicity!
And that thy love we weighing worthily,
May likewise love thee for the same again;
And for thy sake, that all like dear didst buy,
With love may one another entertain:

The love which me so cruelly tormenteth
So pleasing is in my extreamest paine,
That all the more my sorrow it augmenteth,
The more I love and doe embrace my bane
Ne doe I wish(for wishing were but vaine)
To be acquit fro my continuall smart,
But joy, her thrall for ever to remayne,
And yield for plege my poore captyved hart;
The which, that it from her may never start,
Let her, yf please her, bynd with adamant chayne,
And from all wandering loves, which mote pervart
His safe assurance, strongly it restrayne

The laurel leafe which you this day doe weare
Gives me great hope of your relenting mynd:
For since it is the badg which I doe beare,
Ye, bearing it, doe, seeme, to me inclind
The powre thereof, which ofte in me I find,
Let it lykewise your gentle breat inspire
With sweet infusion and put you in mind
Of that proud may'd whom now those leaves attyre.
Proud Daphne, scorning Phaebus lovely fyre,
On the Thessalian shore from him did flie:
For which the gods, in theyr revengefull yre,
Did her transforme into a laurell tree.

The merry cuckow, messenger of Spring,
His trompet shrill hath thrise already sounded,
That warnes al lovers wayt upon their king,
Who now is comming forth with girland crouned.
With noyse whereof the quyre of byrds resounded
Their anthemes sweet, devized of Loves prayse,
That all the woods theyr ecchoes back rebounded,
As if they knew the meaning of their layes.
But mongst them all which did Loves honor rayse,
No word was heard of her that most it ought,
But she his precept proudly disobayes,

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,

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.