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When as that louely tent of beautie dies,
And that thou as thine enemie fleest thy glasse,
And doest with griefe remember what it was,
That to betray my heart allur'd mine eyes:
Then hauing bought experience with great paines
Thou shalt (although too late) thine errour find,
Whil'st thou reuolu'st in a digested mind,
My faithfull loue, and thy vnkind disdaines:
And if that former times might be recald,
While as thou sadly sitst retir'd alone,
Then thou wouldst satisfie for all that's gone,
And I in thy hearts throne would be instal'd:
Deare, if I know thee of this mind at last,
Ile thinke my selfe aueng'd of all that's past.
All that behold me on thy beauties shelfe,
To cast my selfe away toss'd with conceit,
Since thou wilt haue no pitie of my state,
Would that I tooke some pitie of my selfe:
For what, say they, though she disdaine to bow,
And takes a pleasure for to see thee sad,
Yet there be many a one that would be glad,
To bost themselves of such a one as thou.
But ah their counsell of small knowledge sauours,
For O poore fooles, they see not what I see,
Thy frownes are sweeter then their smiles can be,
The worst of thy disdaines worth all their fauours:
I rather (deare) of thine one looke to haue,
Then of another all that I would craue.
I sweare, Aurora, by thy starrie eyes,
And by those golden lockes whose locke none slips,
And by the Corall of thy rosie lippes,
And by the naked snowes which beautie dies,
I sweare by all the iewels of thy mind,
Whose like yet neuer worldly treasure bought,
Thy solide iudgement and thy generous thought,
Which in this darkened age haue clearely shin'd:
I sweare by those, and by my spotlesse loue,
And by my secret, yet most feruent fires,
That I haue neuer nurc'd but chast desires,
And such as modestie might well approue.
Then since I loue those vertuous parts in thee,
Shouldst thou not loue this vertuous mind in me?
Whil'st charming fancies moue me to reueale
The idle rauings of my brain-sicke youth,
My heart doth pant within, to heare my mouth
Vnfold the follies which it would conceale:
Yet bitter Critickes may mistake my mind;
Not beautie, no, but vertue raisd my fires,
Whose sacred flame did cherish chast desires,
And through my cloudie fortune clearely shin'd
But had not others otherwise aduisd,
My cabinet should yet these scroles containe,
This childish birth of a conceitie braine,
Which I had still as trifling toyes despisd:
Pardon those errours of mine vnripe age;
My tender Muse by time may grow more sage.
While as the day deliuers vs his light,
I wander through the solitarie fields,
And when the euening hath obscur'd the earth,
And hath with silence lull'd the world asleepe:
Then rage I like a mad-man in my bed,
Which being fir'd with sighes, I quench with teares.
But ere Aurora rise to spend her teares,
Still languishing againe to see the light,
As th'enemie of my rest, I flie my bed,
And take me to the most deserted fields:
There is no soule saue I but gets some sleepe,
Though one would seeke through all the peopled earth.
Whiles th'Ætna of my fires affrights the earth,
And whiles it dreads, I drowne it with my teares:
And it's suspicious-like, I neither sleepe,
When Phœbus giues nor gathers in his light:
So many piles of grasse not cloath the fields,
As I deuise designes within my bed.
Vnto the time I find a frostie bed,
Digged within the bowels of the earth,
Mine eyes salt flouds shall still oreflow the fields:
I looke not for an abstinence from teares,
Till first I be secluded from the light,
And end my torments with an endlesse sleepe.
For now when I am purposed to sleepe,
A thousand thoughts assaile me in my bed,
That oft I do despaire to see the light:
O would to God I were dissolu'd in earth;
Then would the sauage beasts bemone with teares,
Their neighbours death through all th'vnpeopled fields.
Whil'st rauish'd whiles I walke alongst the fields,
The lookers on lament, I lose my sleepe:
But of the Crocadiles those be the teares,
So to perswade me for to go to sleepe;
As being sure, when once I leaue the light,
To render me the greatest wretch on th'earth.
O happiest I in th'earth, if in the fields,
I might still see the light and neuer sleepe,
Drinking salt teares, and making stones my bed.
Hard is my fortune, stormie is my state,
And as inconstant as the wauing sea,
Whose course doth still depend vpon the winds:
For lo, my life in danger euery houre,
And though euen at the point for to be lost,
Can find no comfort but a flying show.
And yet I take such pleasure in this show,
That still I stand contented with my state,
Although that others thinke me to be lost:
And whil'st I swim amidst a dangerous sea,
Twixt feare and hope, are looking for the houre,
When my last breath shall glide amongst the winds.
Lo to the sea-man beaten with the winds,
Sometimes the heau'ns a smiling face will show,
So that to rest himselfe he finds some houre.
But nought (ay me) can euer calme my state,
Who with my teares as I would make a sea,
Am flying Silla in Charibdis lost.
The Pilote that was likely to be lost,
When he hath scap'd the furour of the winds,
Doth straight forget the dangers of the sea.
But I, vnhappie I, can neuer show,
No kind of token of a quiet state,
And am tormented still from houre to houre.
O shall I neuer see that happie houre,
When I (whose hopes once vtterly were lost)
May find a meanes to re-erect my state,
And leaue for to breath foorth such dolorous winds,
Whil'st I my selfe in constancie do show
A rocke against the waues amidst the sea.
As many waters make in end a sea,
As many minutes make in end an houre:
And still what went before th'effect doth show:
So all the labours that I long haue lost,
As one that was but wrestling with the winds,
May once in end concurre to blesse my state.
And once my storme-stead state sau'd from the sea,
In spite of aduerse winds, may in one houre
Pay all my labors lost, at least in show.