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Can she excuse my wrongs |
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Can she excuse my wrongs, with virtues cloak?
Shall I call her good, when she proves unkind?
Are those clear fires, which vanish into smoke?
Must I praise the leaves where no fruit I find?
No, no, where shadows do for bodies stand,
Thou mayst be abused if thy sight be dim.
Cold love is like two words written on sand,
Or two bubbles which on the water swim.
Wilt thou be thus abused still,
Seeing that she will right thee never,
If thou canst not or come her will
Thy love will be thus fruitless ever.
Was I so base that I might not aspire
Unto those high joys which she holds from me?
As they are high, so high is my desire,
If she this denies what can granted be.
If she will yield to that which reason is,
It is reasonīs will that love should be just.
Dear, make me happy still by granting this,
Or cut off delays if that I die must.
Better a thousand times to die,
Than for to live thus still tormented,
Dear, but remember, it was I,
Who for thy sake did die contented. |
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If my complaints |
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If my complaints could passions move,
Or make love see wherein I suffer wrong,
My passions were enough to prove,
That my despairs had governed me too long.
O love, I live and die in thee,
Thy grief in my deep sighs still speaks,
Thy wounds do freshly bleed in me,
My heart for thy unkindness breaks.
Yet thou dost hope when I despair,
And when I hope, thou makest me hope in vain,
Thou sayest, thou canst my harms repair,
Yet for redress thou letst me still complain.
Can love be rich, and yet I want,
Is love my judge and yet I am comdemned?
Thou plenty hast, yet me dost scant,
Thou made a god, and yet thy power comtemned.
That I do live, it is thy power,
That I desire, it is thy worth.
If love doth make menīs lives too sour,
Let me not love nor live henceforth.
Die shall my hopes, but not my faith,
That you, that of my fall may hearers be,
May hear despair which truly sayeth:
I was more true to love than love to me. |
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Away with these self-loving lads |
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Away with these self-loving lads,
Whom Cupidīs arrow never glads:
Away poor souls that sigh and weep
In love of those that lie and sleep,
For Cupid is a meadow god,
And forceth none to kiss the rod
God Cupidīs shaft, like destiny
Doth either good or ill decree:
Desert is born out of his bow,
Reward upon his foot doth go,
What fools are they that have not known
That love likes no laws but his own?
My songs they be of Cynthiaīs praise,
I wear her rings on holidays,
On every tree I write her name,
And every day I read the same:
Where honour, Cupidīs rival, is,
There miracles are seen of his.
If Cynthia crave her ring of me,
I blot her name out of the tree,
If doubt do darken things held dear,
Then well fare nothing once a year:
For many run, but one must win,
Fools only hatch the cuckoo in.
The worth that worthiness should move
Is love, which is the bow of love,
And love as well the foster can,
As can the mighty nobleman:
Sweet Saint, `tis true you worthy be,
Yet without love naught worth to me. |
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His golden locks time hath to silver turnīd |
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His golden locks Time hath to silver turnīd.
O time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!
His youth `gainst time and Age hath ever spurnīd,
But spurnīd in vain; youth waneth by increasing.
Beauty, strength, youth are flowīrs but fading seen:
Duty, faith, love are roots and ever green.
His helmet now shall make a hive for bees,
And loverīs sonnets turn to holy psalms:
A man at arms must now serve on his knees,
And feed on prayers which are Ageīs alms:
But though from Court to cottage he depart,
His saint is sure of his unspotted heart.
And when he saddest sits in homely cell,
Heīll teach his swains this carol for a song:
Blest be the hearts that wish my Sovereign well,
Curst be the soul that think her any wrong.
Goddess, allow this aged man his right
To be your bedesman now that was your knight.. |
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