My eyes presume to judge this case,
Whose judgment reason doth disdain,
But beauty with her wanton face,
Stands to defend the case, is plain;
And at the bar of sweet delight,
She pleads that fancy must be right.
But shame will not have reason yield,
Though grief do swear it shall be so,
As though it were a perfect shield
To blush and fear to tell my woe,
Where silence forces will at last
To wish for wit, when hope is past.
So far hath fond desire outrun
The bond which reason set out first, That where delight the fray begun,
I would now say, if that I durst, That in her stead ten thousand woes
Have sprung in field where pleasure grows.
Oh that I might declare the rest
Of all the toys which fancy turns, Like towers of wind within my breast Where fire is hid, that never burns; Then should I try one of the twain, Either to love, or to disdain.
But fine conceit dares not declare
The strange conflict of hope and fear,
Lest reason should be left so bare
That love durst whisper in mine ear,
And tell me how my fancy shall
Bring reason to be beauty's thrall.
I must therefore with silence build
The labyrinth of my delight,
Till love hath tried in open field
Which of the twain shall win the fight;
I fear me reason must give place,
If fancy fond win beauty's grace.
IF WOMEN COULD BE FAIR.
IF women could be fair and never fond,
Or that their beauty might continue still,
I would not marvel though they made men bond
By service long to purchase their good will;
But when I see how frail these creatures are,
I laugh that men forget themselves so far.
To mark what choice they make, and how they change,
How, leaving best, the worst they choose out still,
And how, like haggards, wild about they range,
Scorning after reason to follow will;
Who would not shake such buzzards from the fist,
And let them fly, fair fools, what way they list?
Yet for our sport, we fawn and flatter both,
To pass the time when nothing else can please,
And train them on to yield by subtle oath,
The sweet content that gives such humour ease;
And then we say, when we their follies try,
To play with fools, oh, what a fool was I!
WHAT PLEASURE HAVE GREAT PRINCES.
WHAT pleasure have great princes,
More dainty to their choice,
Than herdmen wild, who, careless,
In quiet life rejoice,
And fortune's fate not fearing,
Sing sweet in summer morning?
Their dealings plain and rightful,
Are void of all deceit;
They never know how spiteful
It is to kneel and wait
On favourite presumptuous,
Whose pride is vain and sumptuous.
All day their flocks each tendeth,
At night they take their rest
More quiet than he who sendeth
His ship into the east,
Where gold and pearl are plenty,
But getting very dainty.
For lawyers and their pleading
They 'steem it not a straw,
They think that honest meaning
Is of itself a law,
Where conscience judgeth plainly;
They spend no money vainly.
Oh, happy who thus liveth,
Not caring much for gold,
With clothing which sufficeth
To keep him from the cold;
Though poor and plain his diet,
Yet merry it is, and quiet.
IN fields abroad, where trumpets shrill do sound,
Where glaves and shields do give and take the knocks,
Where bodies dead do overspread the ground,
And friends to foes, are common butchers' blocks,
A gallant shot, well managing his piece,
In my conceit, deserves a golden fleece.
Amid the seas, a gallant ship set out,
Wherein nor men, nor yet munition lacks,
In greatest winds that spareth not a clout,
But cuts the waves in spite of weather's wracks;
Would force a swain that comes of cowards' kind,
To change himself, and be of noble mind.
Who makes his seat a stately stamping steed,
Whose neighs and plays are princely to behold,
Whose courage stout, whose eyes are fiery red,
Whose joints well knit, whose harness all of gold,
Doth well deserve to be no meaner thing,
Than Persian knight, whose horse made him a king.
FAREWELL, false love, the oracle of lies,
A mortal foe, and enemy to rest;
An envious boy, from whom all cares arise;
A bastard vile, a beast with rage possess'd;
A way of error, a temple full of treason,
In all effects contrary unto reason.
A poison'd serpent, cover'd all with flowers,
Mother of sighs, and murtherer of repose;
A sea of sorrows, whence are drawn such showers
As moisture lends to every grief that grows;
A school of guile, a net of deep deceit,
A gilded hook that holds a poison'd bait;
A fortress foil'd, which reason did defend;
A syren song, a fever of the mind;
A maze wherein affection finds no end;
A raging cloud that runs before the wind;
A substance like the shadow of the sun;
A goal of grief for which the wisest run;
A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear;
A path that leads to peril and mishap;
A true retreat of sorrow and despair;
An idle boy that sleeps in pleasure's lap;
A deep mistrust of that which certain seems;
A hope of that which reason doubtful deems.
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