love poetry

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.

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,

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,

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,