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Who is the same which at my window peeps? Or whose is that fair face which shines so bright? Is it not Cynthia, she that never sleeps, But walks about high heaven all the night? O! fairest Goddess ! do thou not envy My love with me to spy ; For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought, Aud for a fleece of wool, which privily The Latmian shepherd once unto thee brought, His pleasures with thee wrought: Therefore to us be favourable now, And sith of womens labours thou hast charge, And generation goodly doost enlarge, Encline thy will t' effect our wishful vow, And the chaste womb inform with timely seed, That may our comfort breed; Till which we cease our hopeful hap to sing, Ne let the woods us answer, nor our eccho ring.
And thou, great Juno! which with aweful might The laws of wedlock still doost patronize, And the religion of the faith first plight, With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize, And eke for comfort often called art Of women in their smart, Eternally bind thou this lovely band, And all thy blessing unto us impart. And thou, glad Genius! in whose gentle hand The bridale bowre and genial bed remain, Without blemish or stain, And the sweet pleasures of their love's delight With secret aid doost succour and supply, Till they bring forth the fruitful progeny, Send us the timely fruit of this same night. And thou, fair Hebe! and thou, Hymen! free Grant that it so may be. » Tin which we cease your further praise to sing, Ne any woods shalt answer, nor your eccho ring.
And ye, high Heavens! the temple of the gods,
Song made in lieu of many ornaments
SONNET. FAIR is my love,
when her fair golden hairs With the loose wind ye waving chance to mark, Fair when the rose in her red cheek appears, Or in her eyes the fire of love doth spark; Fair when her brest, like a rich laden bark With precious merchandize, she forth doth lay; Fair when that cloud of pride, which oft doth dark Her goodly light, with smiles she drives away;
But fairest she when so she doth display
SONNETS. mur THE doubt which ye misdeem, fair love! is vain,
That fondly fear to lose your liberty, When losing one, two liberties ye gain, And make him bound that bondage erst did fly. Sweet be the bands the which true Love doth tye, Without constraint or dread of any ill; The gentle bird feels no captivity Within her cage, but sings and feeds her fill. There pride dare not approach, nor discord spill The league 'twixt them, that loyal love hath bound, But simple truth and mutual good-will Seeks with sweet peace to salve each other's wound; There Faith doth fearless dwell in brasen towre, And spotless Pleasure builds her sacred bowre.
RYDELY thou wrongest my dear heart's desire,
In finding fault with her too portly pride : The thing which I do most in her admire, Is of the world unworthy most envide; For in those lofty looks is close implide Sorn of base things and 'sdeign of foul dishonour, Threatning rash eyes which gaze on her so wide, That loosely they ne dare to look upon her. Such pride is praise, such portliness is honour, That boldness innocence bears in her eyes, And her fair countenance, like a goodly banner, Spreads in defiance of all enemies, Was never in this world ought worthy tride, Without some sparke of such self-pleasing pride.
SONNETS. FRESH Spring, the herald of love's mighty king,
In whose coat-armour richly are displaid All sorts of flowres the which on earth do spring, In goodly colours gloriously array'd, Go to my love, where she is careless laid, Yet in her winter's bowre not well awake, Tell her the joyous Time will not be staid, Unless she do him by the fore-lock take: Bid her, therefore, her self soon ready make To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew, Where every one that misseth then her make Shall be by him amearst with penance dew. Make haste, therefore, sweet Love! whilst it is prime, For none can call again the passed time.
LIKE as a huntsman
after weary chace, Seeing the game from him escape away, Sits down to rest him in some shady place, With painting hounds beguiled of their prey ; So after long pursute and vain assay, When I all weary had the chace forsook, The gentle deer return'd the self-same way, Thinking to quen her thirst at the next brook ; There she beholding me with milder look, Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide, Till I in hand her yet half trembling took, And with her own good-will her firmly tide: Strange thing me seem'd to see a beast so wild So goodly wone, with her own will beguil'd.
JOHN DONNE. SEND home my long-stray'd eyes to me,
Which, oh! too long have dwelt on thee; But if they there have learn'd such ill,
Such ford'd fashions,
Made by thee
Send home my harmless heart again,
To make jestings
Word and oath,
Art in anguish,
That will none,