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, blesséd you bear onward blesséd 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, honour'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!
Being your slave, what should I do but tend Upon the hours and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend Nor services to do, till you require :
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end-hour Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, Nor think the bitterness of absence sour When you have bid your servant once adieu :
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, But like a sad slave, stay and think of nought Save, where you are, how happy you make those ;-
So true a fool is love, that in your will Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.
How like a winter hath my absence been From Thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen, What old December's bareness everywhere!
And yet this time removed was summer's time: The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit ; For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer, That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate;
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possest, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least ;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on Thee-and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
O never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify: As easy might I from myself depart
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie;
That is my home of love; if I have ranged, Like him that travels, I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe, though in my nature reign'd All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, That it could so preposterously be stain'd To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:
For nothing this wide universe I call, Save thou, my rose: in it thou art my all.
To me, fair Friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold Have from the forests shook three summers pride;
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,— Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.
That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace; Heigh ho, fair Rosaline !
Her lips are like two budded roses Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within which bounds she balm encloses Apt to entice a deity :
Heigh ho, would she were mine! Her neck is like a stately tower Where Love himself imprison'd lies, To watch for glances every hour From her divine and sacred eyes: Heigh ho, for Rosaline!
paps are centres of delight,
Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame, Where Nature moulds the dew of light To feed perfection with the same : Heigh ho, would she were mine!
With orient pearl, with ruby red, With marble white, with sapphire blue
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft in touch and sweet in view: Heigh ho, fair Rosaline !
Nature herself her shape admires The Gods are wounded in her sight; And Love forsakes his heavenly fires And at her eyes his brand doth light: Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan The absence of fair Rosaline,
Since for a fair there's fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine :
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline;
Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!
Beauty sat bathing by a spring
Where fairest shades did hide her;
The winds blew calm, the birds did sing, The cool streams ran beside her.
My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye To see what was forbidden :
But better memory said, fie!
So vain desire was chidden :- Hey nonny nonny O! Hey nonny nonny!
Into a slumber then I fell,
When fond imagination
Seeméd to see, but could not tell
Her feature or her fashion.
Sweet Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory, Subdue her heart, who makes me glad and sorry: Out of thy golden quiver
Take thou thy strongest arrow That will through bone and marrow,
And me and thee of grief and fear deliver :
But come behind, for if she look upon thee,
Alas! poor Love! then thou art woe-begone thee !
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