What now, Sir Fool? said he, I would no less: Look here, I say; I looked, and Stella spied ; Who, hard by, made a window send forth light; My heart then quaked, then dazzled were mine 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. Because I breathe not love to every one, Nor give each speech a full point of a groan; Dear! why make you more of a dog than me? If he do love, I burn, I burn in love; He barks, my songs thine own voice oft doth prove; But I, unbid, fetch even my soul to thee. That lap doth lap, nay lets, in spite of spite, This sour-breathed mate taste of those sugared lips: Alas! if you grant only such delight To witless things, then Love, I hope (since wit Highway, 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 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, honoured by public heed; By no encroachment wronged, 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, Stella! think not that I by verse seek fame, Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee; Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my history: If thou praise not, all other praise is shame. A nest for my young praise, in laurel tree: That any laud to me thereof should grow, For nothing from my wit, or will, doth flow: Since all my words thy beauty doth indite, And Love doth hold my hand, and makes me write. O happy Thames! that did'st my Stella bear, I saw thee with full many a smiling line, Upon thy cheerful 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 Ravished, stayed not, till in her golden hair They did themselves (O sweetest prison!) twine. And fain those Œol's youth there would their stay Have made, but forced by Nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks display: With sight thereof cried out, "O fair disgrace! Unhappy sight, and hath she vanished by So near, in so good time, so free a place? Dead glass, dost thou thy object so embrace, As what my heart still sees thou can'st not spy? Counting but dust what in the way did lie. Cursed be the night which did your will resist: ROBERT GREENE. 1560-1592. ["Menaphon." 1587.] DORON'S DESCRIPTION OF SAMELA. LIKE to Diana in her summer weed, Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye, Goes fair Samela; Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed, When washed by Arethusa faint they lie, Is fair Samela. As fair Aurora in her morning gray, Decked with the ruddy glister of her love, Like lovely Thetis on a calméd day, When as her brightness Neptune's fancy move, Shines fair Samela ; Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams, Of fair Samela; Her cheeks, like rose and lily yield forth gleams, Her brows' bright arches framed of ebony; Thus fair Samela Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue, Pallas in wit; all three, if you well view, For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity Yield to Samela. ["Pandosto. The Triumph of Time." 1588.] THE PRAISE OF FAWNIA. Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair, Or but as mild as she is seeming so, That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, Then knew I where to seat me in a land, Under wide heavens, but yet (I know) not such. So as she shows, she seems the budding rose, Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower, Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows, Compassed she is with thorns and cankered flower, Yet were she willing to be plucked and worn, She would be gathered, though she grew on thorn. Ah, when she sings, all music else be still, She comforts all the world as doth the sun, O glorious sun, imagine me the west, Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast! |