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[SIDNEY.

SONNETS, BY SIR PHILIP SIDNEY-A.D. 1554-84.

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Because I oft in dark abstracted guise
Seem most alone in greatest company,
With dearth of words, or answers quite awry
To them that would make speech of speech arise,
They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies,
That poison soul of bubbling Pride doth lie
So in my swelling breast, that only I
Fawn on myself, and others do despise.
Yet Pride I think doth not my soul possess,
Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass ;
But one worse fault Ambition I confess,
That makes me oft my best friends overpass,
Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place
Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's

grace.
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies,
How silently, and with how wan a face !
What! may it be, that even in heavenly place
That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel’st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks, thy languish'd grace
To me that feel the like thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess ?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?
Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
The indifferent judge between the high and low.
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
Of those fierce darts, Despair at me doth throw;
O make in me those civil wars to cease:
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed;
A chamber, deaf to noise, and blind to light;
A rosy garland, and a weary head.
And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me
Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.
Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance
Guided so well, that I obtain’d the prize,
Both by the judgment of the English eyes,
And of some sent from that sweet enemy France;
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance;
Townsfolk my strength; a daintier judge applies
His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance;
Others, because of both sides I do take
My bloud from them who did excel in this,
Think nature me a man of arms did make.
How far they shot awry! the true cause is,
Stella look'd on, and from her heavenly face
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.

In martial sports I had my cunning tried,
And yet to break more staves did me address;
While with the people's shouts, I must confess,
Youth, luck, and praise, even fill'd my veins with
When Cupid, having me (his slave) descried (pride.
In Mars's livery, prancing in the press,
“ What now, Sir Fool,” said he, “ I would no less.
“ Look here, I say." I look’d, and Stella spied,
Who hard by made a window send forth light.
My heart then quaked, then dazzled were my eyes;
One hand forgot to rule, th’ other to fight;
Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries;
My foe came on, and beat the air for me,
Till that her blush taught me my shame to see.
Of all the kings that ever here did reign,
Edward named Fourth as first in praise I name;
Not for his fair outside, nor well-lined brain,
Although less gifts imp feathers oft on Fame:
Nor that he could, young-wise, wise-valiant, frame
His sire's revenge, join'd with a kingdom's gain,
And, gain’d by Mars, could yet mad Mars so tame,
That Balance weigh'd what Sword did late obtain:
Nor that he made the Flower-de-luce so fraid,
Though strongly hedg’d of bloody Lion's paws,
That witty Lewis to him a tribute paid.
Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause
But only for this worthy knight durst prove
To lose his crown, rather than fail his love.
High-way, since you my chief Parnassus be,
And that my Muse (to some ears not unsweet)
Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet
More oft than to a chamber melody:
Now blessed you bear onward blessed me
To her, where I my heart safe left shall meet,
My Muse and I must you of duty greet
With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully.
Be you still fair, honor'd by public heed,
By no encroachment wrong’d, nor time forgot ;
Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed:
And that you know, I envy you no lot
Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,
Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss.
O happy Thames, that did'st my Stella bear!
I saw thyself with many a smiling line
Upon thy chearful face joy's livery wear,
While those fair planets on thy streams did shine.
The boat for joy could not to dance forbear;
While wanton winds, with beauties so divine
Ravish’d, staid not, till in her golden hair
They did themselves (O sweetest prison) twine:
And fain those Eol's youth there would their stay
Have made ; but, forced by Nature still to fly,
First did with puffing kiss those locks display.
She, so dischevill’d, blush'd. From window I,
With sight thereof, cried out, “ O fair disgrace ;
Let Honor's self to thee grant highest place.”

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DRAYTON-A.D. 1563-1631.

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If yet thine eyes (Great Henry) may endure
These tainted lines, drawn with a hand impure,
(Which fain would blush, but fear keeps blushes
And therefore suted in despairing black) (back,
Let me for Love's sake their acceptance crave.
But that sweet name vile I profaned have;
Punish my fault, or pity mine estate ;
Read them for love, if not for love, for hate.

If with my shame thine eyes thou fain would'st
Here let them surfeit of my shame to read. [feed,
This scribbled paper which I send to thee,
If noted rightly, doth resemble me:
As this pure ground, whereon these letters stand,
So pure was I, ere stained by thy hand;
Ere I was blotted with this foul offence,
So clear and spotless was mine innocence:
Now, like these marks which taint this hateful scroul,
Such the black sins which spot my leprous soul.

What by this conquest canst thou hope to win,
Where thy best spoil is but the act of sin ?
Why on my name this slander dost thou bring,
To make my fault renowned by a king?
" Fame never stoops to things but mean and poor,
The more our greatness, our fault is the more;
Lights on the ground themselves do lessen far
But in the air each small spark seems a star.”
Why on my woman-frailty should'st thou lay
So strong a plot mine honour to betray?
Or thy unlawful pleasure should’st thou buy,
Both with thine own shame and my infamy?
'Twas not my mind consented to this ill,
Then had I been transported by my will;
For what my body was inforc'd to do,
(Heav'n knows) my soul yet ne'er consented to:
For through mine eyes had she her liking seen,
Such as my love, such had my lover been.
" True love is simple, like his mother truth,
Kindly affection, youth to love with youth ;
No greater cor'sive to our blooming years,
Than the cold badge of winter-blasted hairs.
Thy kingly power makes to withstand thy foes,
But cannot keep back age, with time it grows :

Though honour our ambitious sex doth please,
Yet, in that honour, age a foul disease :
Nature hath her free course in all, and then
Age is alike in kings and other men.”
Which all the world will to my shame impute,
That I myself did basely prostitute;
And say, that gold was fuel to the fire,
Gray hairs in youth not kindling green desire.
0 that wicked woman wrought by thee,
My tempter was to that forbidden tree;
That subtle serpent, that seducing devil,
Which bade me taste the fruit of good and evil:
That Circe, by whose magic I was charm’d,
And to this monstrous shape am thus transform'd:
That vip'rous hag, the foe to her own kind,
That dev'lish spirit, to damn the weaker mind,
Our frailty's plague, our sex's only curse,
Hell's deep'st damnation, the worst evil's worse.

But Henry, how canst thou affect me thus,
T' whom thy remembrance now is odious ?
My hapless name, with Henry's name I found
Cut in the glass with Henry's diamond;
That glass from thence fain would I take away,
But then I fear the air would me betray:
Then do I strive to wash it out with tears,
But then the same more evident appears.
Then do I cover it with my guilty hand,
Which that name's witness doth against me stand:
Once did I sin, which memory doth cherish,
Once I offended, but I for ever perish.
“ What grief can be, but time doth make it less ?
But infamy time never can suppress."

Sometimes, to pass the tedious irksome hours,
I climb the top of Woodstock's mounting tow’rs,
Where in a turret secretly I lie,
To view from far such as do travel by:
Whither, methinks, all cast their eyes at me,
As through the stones my shame did make them see;
And with such hate the harmless walls do view,
As ev’n to death their eyes would me pursue.
The married women curse my hateful life,
Wronging a fair queen and a virtuous wife:
The maidens wish I buried quick may die,
And from each place near my abode do flie.
Well knew'st thou what a monster I would be,
When thou didst build this labyrinth for me,
Whose strange meanders turning ev'ry way,
Be like the course wherein my youth did stray:
Only a clue doth guide me out and in,
But yet still walk I circular in sin.

As in the gallery this other day,
I and my woman past the time away,
'Mongst many pictures which were hanging by,
The silly girl at length hapt to espy
Chaste Lucrece' image, and desires to know
What she should be, herself that murder'd so?

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Why, girl (quoth I) this is that Roman dame And to declare for what intent it came,
Not able then to tell the rest for shame,

Lest I therein should ever keep my shame.
My tongue doth mine own guiltiness betray; And in this casket (ill I see it now)
With that I sent the prattling wench away,

That Jove's love, lo, turn’d into a cow ;
Lest when my lisping guilty tongue should halt, Yet was she kept with Argus' hundred eyes,
My lips might prove the index to my fault.

So wakeful still be Juno's jealousies :
As that life-blood which from the heart is sent,

By this I well might have forwarned been, In beauty's field pitching his crimson tent,

T' have clear'd myself to thy suspecting Queen, In lovely sanguine sutes the lily cheek,

Who with more hundred eyes attendeth me, Whilst it but for a resting place doth seek;

Than had poor Argus single eyes to see. And changing oftentimes with sweet delight, In this thou rightly imitatest Jove, Converts the white to red, the red to white:

Into a beast thou hast transform'd thy love;
The blush with paleness for the place doth strive, Nay, worser far (beyond their beastly kind)
The paleness thence the blush would gladly drive:

A monster both in body and in mind.
Thus in my breast a thousand thoughts I carry, The waxen taper which I burn by night,
Which in my passion diversly do vary.

With the dull vap'ry dimness mocks my sight,
When as the sun hales tow'rds the western slade,

As tho’ the damp, which hinders the clear flame,
And the trees shadows hath much taller made, Came from my breath in that night of my shame:
Forth go I to a little current near,

When as it look'd with a dark lowering eye,
Which like a wanton trail creeps here and there, To see the loss of my virginity.
Where with mine angle casting in my bait,

And if a star but by the glass appear,
The little fishes (dreading the deceit)

I straight intreat it not to look in here : With fearful nibbling fly th' inticing gin,

I am already hateful to the light, By nature taught what danger lies therein.

And will it too betray me to the night? Things reasonless thus warn’d by nature be,

Then sith my shame so much belongs to thee,
Yet I devour'd the bait was laid for me :

Rid me of that, by only murd'ring me;
Thinking thereon, and breaking into groans, And let it justly to my charge be laid,
The bubbling spring, which trips upon the stones, That I thy person meant to have betray'd:
Chides me away, lest sitting but too nigh,

Thou shalt not need by circumstance t'accuse me ;
I should pollute that native purity.

If I deny it, let the heavens refuse me. Rose of the World, so doth import my name,

My life's a blemish, which doth cloud thy name, Shame of the World, my life hath made the same:

Take it away, and clear shall shine thy fame : And to th' unchaste this name shall given be

Yield to my suit, if ever pity mov'd thee;
Of Rosamond, deriv'd from sin and me.

In this shew mercy, as I ever lov’d thee.
The Cliffords take from me that name of theirs,
Which hath been famous for so many years :
They blot my birth with hateful bastardy,
That I sprang not from their nobility;

HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY,
They my alliance utterly refuse,

TO THE LADY GERALDINE.
Nor will a strumpet shall their name abuse.
Here in the garden, wrought by curious hands,

The Earl of Surrey, that renowned lord,
Naked Diana in the fountain stands,

Th' old English glory bravely that restor’d, With all her nymphs got round about to hide her,

That prince and poet (a name more divine) As when Acteon had by chance espy'd her:

Falling in love with beauteous Geraldine, This sacred image I no sooner view'd,

Of the Geraldi, which derive their name But as that metamorphos'd man pursu'd

From Florence: whither to advance her fame, By his own hounds, so by my thoughts am I,

He travels, and in public jousts maintain'd Which chase me still, which way soe'er I fly.

Her beauty peerless, which by arms he gain'd: Touching the grass, the lioney-dropping dew,

By staying long, fair Italy to see,

To let her know him constant still to be,
Which falls in tears before my limber shoe,
Upon my foot consumes in weeping still,

From Tuscany this letter to her writes;
As it would say, Why went'st thou to this ill ?

Which her rescription instantly invites.
Thus to no place in safety can I go,
But every thing doth give me cause of wo.

From learned Florence (long time rich in fame)
In that sair casket of such wond'rous cost,

From whence thy race, thy noble grandsires came Thou sent'st the night before mine honour lost,

To famous England, that kind nurse of mine, Amimone was wrought, a harmless maid,

Thy Surrey sends to heav'nly Geraldine.

Yet let not Tuscan think I do it wrong,
By Neptune that adult’rous God betray’d;
She prostrate at his feet, begging with pray’rs,

That I from thence write in my native tongue ;

That in these harsh-tun'd cadences I sing,
Wringing her hands, her eyes swoln up with tears:
This was not an entrapping bait from thee,

Sitting so near the muses' sacred spring;
Bul by thy virtue gently warning me,

But rather think it self adorn'd thereby,
That England reads the praise of Italy.

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Though to the Tuscans I the smoothness grant, The little taper which should give thee light,
Our dialect no majesty doth want,

Methought wax'd dim, to see thy eyes so bright;
To set thy praises in as high a key,

Thine eye again supply'd the taper's turn,
As France, or Spain, or Germany, or they.

And with his beams more brightly made it burn:
What day I quit the fore-land of fair Kent, The shrugging air about thy temples hurls,
And that my ship her course for Flanders bent, And wrapt thy breath in little clouded curls,
Yet think I with how many a heavy look

And as it did ascend, it straight did seize it,
My leave of England and of thee I took,

And as it sunk it presently did raise it.
And did intreat the tide (if it might be)

Canst thou by sickness banish beauty so,
But to convey me one sigh back to thee.

Which if put from thee, knows not where to go
Up to the deck a billow lightly skips,

To make her shift, and for succour seek
Taking my sigh, and down again it slips,

To every rivel'd face, each bankrupt cheek?
Into the gulph itself it headlong throws,

“ If health preserv'd, thou beauty still dost cherish; And as a post to England-ward it goes.

If that neglected, beauty soon doth perish.”
As I sate wond'ring how the rough sea stirr'd, Care draws on care, woe comforts woe again,
I might far off perceive a little bird,

Sorrow breeds sorrow,

one grief brings forth twain.
Which as she fain from shore to shore would fly, If live or die, as thou do'st, so do l;
Had lost herself in the broad vasty sky,

If live, I live; and if thou die, I die:
Her feeble wing beginning to deceive her,

One heart, one love, one joy, one grief, one troth,
The seas of life still gaping to bereave her:

One good, one ill, one life, one death to both.
Unto the ship she makes, which she discovers,

If Howard's blood thou hold'st as but too vile,
And there (poor fool!) a while for refuge hovers ; Or not esteem'st of Norfolk's princely stile;
And when at length her flagging pinion fails, If Scotland's coat no mark of fame can lend,
Panting she hangs upon the rolling sails,

That lion plac'd in our bright silver bend,
And being forc'd to loose her hold with pain, Which as a trophy beautifies our shield,
Yet beaten off, she straight lights on again, (weather, Since Scottish blood discolour'd Floden field;
And toss'd with flaws, with storms, with wind, with When the proud Cheviot our brave ensign bare,
Yet still departing thence, still turneth thither: As a rich jewel in a lady's hair,
Now with the poop, now with the prow doth bear, And did fair Bramston's neighbouring vallies choke
Now on this side, now that, now here, now there. With clouds of cannons fire-di-gorged smoke;
Methinks these storms should be my sad depart, If Surrey's earldom insuficient be,
The silly helpless bird is my poor heart,

And not a dower so well contenting thee:
The ship, to which for succour it repairs,

Yet I am one of great Apollo's heirs,
That is yourself, regardless of my cares.

The sacred Muses challenge me for theirs.
Of every surge doth fall, or wave doth rise,

By Princes my immortal lines are sung,
To some one thing I sit and moralize.

My flowing verses grac'd with ev'ry tongue:
When for thy love I left the Belgic shore,

The little children when they learn to go,
Divine Erasmus, and our famous More,

By painful mothers daded to and fro,
Whose happy presence gave me such delight, Are taught my sugar'd numbers to rehearse,
As made a minute of a winter's night;

And have their sweet lips season'd with my verse.
With whom a while I staid at Roterdame,

When heav'n would strive to do the best it can,
Now so renowned by Erasmus' name:

And put an angel's spirit into man,
Yet every hour did seem a world of time,

The utmost power it hath, it then doth spend,
Till I had seen that soul-reviving clime,

When to the world a Poet it doth intend.
And thought the foggy Netherlands unfit,

That little diff'rence 'twixt the gods and us,
A wat'ry soil to clog a fiery wit.

(By them confirm’d) distinguish'd only thus: And as that wealthy Germany I past,

Whom they in birth ordain to happy days,
Coming unto the Emperor's court at last,

The gods commit their glory to our praise ;
Great-learn'd Agrippa, so profound in art,

T'' eternal life when they dissolve their breath,
Who the infernal secrets doth impart,

We likewise share a second pow'r by death.
When of thy health I did desire to know,

When time shall turn those amber locks to gray,
Me in a glass my Geraldine did show,

My verse again shall gild and make them gay

And trick them up in knotted curls anew,
Sick in thy bed; and for thou could'st not sleep,

And to thy autumn give a summer's hue;
By a wax taper set the light to keep;

That sacred pow'r, that in my ink remains,
I do remember thou didst read that ode,

Shall put fresh blood into thy wither’d veins,
Sent back whilst I in Thanet made abode,

And on thy red decay'd, thy whiteness dead, Where when thou cam'st unto that word of love,

Shall set a white more white, a red more red: Ev'n in thine eyes I saw how passion strove :

When thy dim sight thy glass cannot descry, That snowy lawn which covered thy bed,

Nor thy craz'd mirror can discern thine eye; Methought look'd white, to see thy cheek so red;

My verse, to tell th’ one what the other was, Thy rosy cheek oft changing in my sight,

Shall represent them both, thine eye and glass i Yet still was red, to see the lawn so white :

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Where both thy mirror and thine eye shall see, Whose leaves still mutt'ring, as the air doth breathe,
What once thou saw'st in that, that saw in thee; With the sweet bubbling of the stream beneath,
And to them both shall tell the simple truth, Doth rock the senses (whilst the small birds sing)
What that in pureness was, what thou in youth. Lulled asleep with gentle murmuring ;

If Florence once should lose her old renown, Where light-foot Fairies sport at prison-base,
As famous Athens, now a fisher-town;

(No doubt there is some pow'r frequents the place) My lines for thee a Florence shall erect,

There the soft poplar and smooth beech do bear Which great Apollo ever shall protect,

Our names together carved every where,
And with the numbers from my pen that falls, And Gordian knots do curiously entwine
Bring marble mines to re-erect those walls.

The names of Henry and Geraldine.
Nor beauteous Stanhope, whom all tongues report O let this grove, in happy times to come,
To be the glory of the English court,

Be call’d the lover's bless’d Elyzium ;
Shall by our nation be so much admir'd,

Whither my mistress wonted to resort, If ever Surrey truly were inspir’d.

In summer's heat, in those sweet shades to sport: And famous Wyat, who in numbers sings

A thousand sundry names I have it given, To that enchanting Thracian harper's strings,

And call'd it Wonder-hider, Cover-heav'n, To whom Phæbus (the Poets' god) did drink

The roof where beauty her rich court doth keep, A bowl of nectar, fill'd up to the brink;

Under whose compass all the stars do sleep. And sweet-tongu'd Bryan (whom the Muses kept,

There is one tree, which now I call to mind, And in his cradle rockt him whilst he slept)

Doth bear these verses carved in the rind : In sacred verses (most divinely penn’d)

“ When Geraldine shall sit in thy fair shade, Upon thy praises ever shall attend.

Fan her fair tresses with perfumed air, What time I came into this famous town,

Let thy large boughs a canopy be made, And made the cause of my arrival known,

To keep the sun from gazing on my fair: Great Medices a list for triumphs built;

And when thy spreading branched arms be sunk, Within the which, upon a tree of gilt,

And thou no sap nor pith shalt more retain, (Which was with sundry rare devices set)

Ev'n from the dust of thy unwieldy trunk I did erect thy lovely counterfeit,

I will renew thee, phænix-like, again, To answer those Italian dames desire,

And from thy dry decayed root will bring Which daily came thy beauty to admire;

A new-born stem, another Æson's spring." By which, my lion in his gaping jaws

I find no cause, nor judge I reason why, Held up my lance, and in his dreadful paws

My country should give place to Lombardy. Reacheth my gauntlet unto him that dare

As goodly flow'rs on Thamesis do grow, A beauty with my Geraldine's compare.

As beautify the banks of wanton Po; Which, when each manly valiant arm assays,

As many nymphs as haunt rich Arnus' strand, After so many brave triumphant days,

By silver Severn tripping hand in hand: The glorious prize upon my lance I bear,

Our shade's as sweet, though not to us so dear, By herald's voice proclaim'd to be thy share.

Because the sun hath greater power here. The shiver'd staves here for thy beauty broke,

This distant place doth give me greater woe ; With fierce encounters past at every shock,

Far off, my sighs the farther have to go. When stormy courses answer cuff for cuff,

Ah, absence! why thus should'st thou seem so long? Denting proud bevers with the counter-buff,

Or wherefore should’st thou offer time such wrong, Upon an altar, burnt with holy flame,

Summer so soon to steal on winter's cold, I sacrific'd, as incense to thy fame:

Or winter blasts so soon make summer old ? Where, as the phenix from her spiced fume

Love did us both with one self-arrow strike, Renews herself, in that she doth consume ;

Our wounds both one, our cure should be the like; So from these sacred ashes live we both,

Except thou hast found out some mean by art, Ev'n as that one Arabian wonder doth.

Some pow’rful medicine to withdraw the dart; When to my chamber I myself retire,

But mine is fixt, and absence being proved, Burnt with the sparks that kindled all this fire,

It sticks too fast, it cannot be removed. Thinking of England, which my hope contains,

Adieu, adieu, from Florence when I go, The happy isle where Geraldine remains :

By my next letters Geraldine shall know,
Of Hunsdon, where those sweet celestial eyne

Which if good fortune shall my course direct,
At first did pierce this tender breast of mine: From Venice by some messenger expect;
Of Hampton-Court and Windsor, where abound

Till when, I leave thee to thy heart's desire,
All pleasures that in Paradise were found:

By him that lives thy virtues to admire.
Near that fair castle is a little grove,
With hanging rocks all cover'd from above,
Which on the bank of goodly Thames doth stand,

THE LADY GERALDINE TO HENRY
Clipt by the water from the other land,

HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. Whose bushy top doth bid the sun forbear,

Such greeting as the noble Surrey sends, And checks his proud beams that would enter there;

The like to thee thy Geraldine commends ;

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