THE MEANES TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE MARTIALL, the thinges that do attayn HENCE, HAIRT HENCE, hairt, with hir that most depairte, For I had lever want ane harte Nor haif the hairt that dois me pane. And se that thou cum nocht agane, Sen scho that I haif scheruit lang Address the now, for thow sall gang Thocht this belappit body heir Be bound to scheruitude and thrall, Sen in your garth the lilly quhyte Adew the succour that ma me saif! My faythfull hairt scho sall it haif, To byd with hir it luvis best. Deploir, ye ladeis cleir of hew, Hir abscence, sen scho most depairte; And specialy ye luvaris trew That woundit bene with luvis darte. For sum of yow sall want ane parte Als weill as I; thairfoir at last Do go with myn, with mynd inwart, And byd with hir thow luvis best. ALEXANDER SCOTT. SONNET XXXVI. FROM AMORETTI TELL me when shall these wearie woes haue end, then thinke how little glory ye haue gayned: by slaying him, whose lyfe though ye despyse, mote haue your life in honour long maintayned. But by his death which some perhaps will mone, ye shall condemned be of many a one. EDMUND SPENSER. SONNET I. FROM ASTROPHEL AND STELLA LOVING in trueth, and fayne my love in verse to show, That the deere Shee, might take some pleasure of my paine: Pleasure might cause her reade, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pittie winne, and pittie grace obtaine. I sought fit wordes, to paint the blackest face of woe, Studying inventions fine, her wittes to entertaine, Oft turning others leaves, to see if thence would flowe, Some fresh and fruitfull showres upon my Sunneburnt braine. But wordes came halting out, wanting inventions stay, Invention Natures childe, fledde Stepdames studies blowes: And others feete, still seem'de but straungers in my way, Thus great with Child to speake, and helplesse in my throwes, Byting my tongue and penne, beating my selfe for spite: Foole saide My muse to mee, looke in thy heart and write. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. SONNET XXXI. FROM ASTROPHEL WITH how sad steps ô Moone thou clim'st the skyes, Is constant love deemde there but want of wit? Those Lovers scorne, whom that love doth Doe they call vertue there ungratefulnesse? RING OUT YOUR BELLES RING out your belles, let mourning shewes be spread, For Love is dead: All Love is dead, infected With plague of deepe disdaine: Weepe neighbours, weepe, do you not heare it said, His death-bed peacocks follie, From so ungratefull fancie, Let Dirge be sung, and Trentals rightly read, For Love is dead: Sir wrong his tombe ordaineth: From so ungratefull fancie, |