But it no sooner saw my sun appear, But on her rays with open eyes it stood, To show that I had hatched it for the air,
And rightly came from that brave-mounting brood. And, when the plumes were summed with sweet de-
To prove the pinions, it ascends the skies; Do what I could, it need'sly would aspire To my soul's sun, those two celestial eyes. Thus from my breast, where it was bred alone, It after thee is like an eaglet flown.
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That She, dear She, might take some pleasure of
pain; Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain; I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe, Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain; Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburned brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's
Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's
And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my
Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite, "Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write!"
In truth, O Love, with what a boyish kind Thou dost proceed in thy most serious ways, That when the heaven to thee his best displays Yet of that best thou leav'st the best behind. For, like a child that some fair book doth find, With gilded leaves or coloured vellum plays, Or, at the most, on some fair picture stays, But never heeds the fruit of writer's mind; So when thou saw'st in Nature's cabinet Stella, thou straight look'st babies in her eyes, In her cheek's pit thou didst thy pitfold set, And in her breast bo-peep or couching lies, Playing and shining in each outward part; But, fool, seek'st not to get into her heart.
Alas, have I not pain enough, my friend, Upon whose breast a fiercer gripe doth tire Than did on him who first stole down the fire, While Love on me doth all his quiver spend;
But with rhubarb words To grieve me worse in saying, that Desire Doth plunge my well-formed soul even in the mire Of sinful thoughts, which do in ruin end?
If that be sin which doth the manners frame, Well stayed with truth in word and faith of deed, Ready of wit, and fearing nought but shame; If that be sin which in fixt hearts doth breed A loathing of all loose unchastity, Then love is sin, and let me sinful be!
The curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness Bewray itself in my long settled eyes, Whence those same fumes of melancholy rise, With idle pains and missing aim, do guess. Some that know how my spring I did address, Deem that my Muse some fruit of knowledge plies; Others, because the Prince my service tries, Think that I think state errors to redress. But harder judges judge ambition's rage, Scourge of itself, still climbing slippery place, Holds my young brain captived in golden cage. O fools, or overwise: alas, the race
Of all my thoughts hath neither stop nor start, But only Stella's eyes and Stella's heart.
Though dusty wits do scorn astrology, And fools can think those lamps of purest light, Whose number, ways, greatness, eternity, Promising wonders, wonder do invite,
To have for no cause birthright in the sky But for to spangle the black weeds of night; Or for some brawl which in that chamber high They should still dance to please a gazer's sight: For me, I do Nature unidle know,
And know great causes great effects procure; And know those bodies high reign on the low. And if these rules did fail, proof makes me sure, Who oft fore-judge my after-following race, By only those two stars in Stella's face.
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 languisht grace, To me that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, 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 obtained the prize, Both by the judgment of the English eyes, And of some sent by that sweet enemy, France; Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance, Townfolks 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 blood 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 looked on, and from her heavenly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race. Sidney.
« ForrigeFortsæt » |