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And, if dumb things be so witty,
There, his hands, in their speech, fain
“ Astrophel ! (said she) my love, Cease in these effects to prove. Now be still ; yet, still believe me, Thy grief more than death doth grieve me. If that any thought in me • Can taste comfort, but of thee;
Let me feed with hellish anguish,
If more may be said, I say
Therewithal, away she went;
Underneath my window plaineth ?" It is one, who from thy sight,
Being (ah!) exil'd, disdaineth
alas! and are you he?
Though from me you be estranged, Let my change to ruin be. “ What if you new beauties see?
Will not they stir new affection ?" I will think they pictures be
(Image-like of saint perfection) Poorly counterfeiting thee. “ Peace! I think that some give ear.
Come, no more, lest I get anger." Bliss! I will my bliss forbear,
Fearing, sweet, you to endanger; But my soul shall harbour there. “ Well, begone; begone, I say,
Lest that Argus' eyes perceive you." O! unjust is Fortune's sway,
Which can make me thus to leave you, And from louts to run away!
Preserve those beams, this age's only light; To her sweet sense, sweet sleep! some ease impart,
Her sense too weak to bear her spirit's might.
And while, o Sleep! thou closest up her sightHer sight, where Love did forge his fairest dart,
O harbour all her parts in easeful plight: Let no strange dream make her fair body start. But yet, O Dream! if thou wilt not depart, - In this rare subject, from thy common right,
But wilt thy self in such a seat delight;
Kiss her from me; and say, unto her sprite,
O Happy Thames, that didst 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,
Ravish'd, staid not till in her golden hair They did themselves (O sweetest prison !) twine;
And fain those Æol's youth there would their stay Have made ; but forc'd by nature still to Ay,
First did with puffing kiss those locks display. She, so dishevell’d, blush'd: from window I,
With sight thereof, cried out-o fair disgrace,
SONNET. Be your words made, good Sir! of Indian ware,
That you allow me them by so small rate ? Or do you courted Spartans imitate?
Or do you mean my tender ears to spare,
That to my questions you so total are? When I demand of Phønix-Stella's state, You say, forsooth, you left her well of late:
O God! think you, that satisfies my care? I would know, whether she do sit or walk?
How cloth'd ? How waited on? Sigh'd she, or smild? Whereof? with whom? how often did she talk ?
With what pastime, time's journey she beguild ? If her lips deign'd to sweeten my poor name? Say all, and all well said, still say the same.
* SONNETS. LOVE, banish'd Heaven, on earth was held in scorn,
Wand'ring abroad in need and beggary; And wanting friends, though of a goddess born, Yet crav'd the alms of such as passed by: I, like a man devout and charitable, Clothed the naked, lodg'd this wand'ring Guest; With sighs and tears still furnishing his table, With what might make the miserable blest. But this Ungrateful, for my good desert, Intic'd my thoughts against me to conspire, Who gave consent to steal away my heart; And set my breast, his lodging, on a fire.
Well,well my friends! when beggars grow thus bold, No marvel, then, though charity grow cold !
DEAR! why, should you command me to my rest,
When now the Night doth summon all to sleep?
Well could I wish it would be ever day,