or The Complaint of the
passionate despised
Shepherd. By William Smith. Imprinted at London,
by Edmund Bollifant.
1596.
To the most excellent and learned
Shepherd Colin Clout
[i.e. Edmund Spenser]. COlin, my dear and most entire beloved, My Muse audacious stoops her pitch to thee! Desiring that thy patience be not moved By these rude lines, written here you see. Fain would my Muse, whom cruel Love hath wronged, Shroud her love-labours under thy protection! And I myself, with ardent zeal, have longed That thou mightst know, to thee my true affection. Therefore, good Colin, graciously accept A few sad Sonnets which my Muse hath framed: Though they but newly from the shell are crept, Suffer them not by envy to be blamed! But, underneath the shadow of thy wings, Give warmth to these young-hatchÈd orphan things!
Give warmth to these young-hatchÈd orphan things! Which, chill with cold, to thee for succour creep. They of my study are the budding springs: Longer I cannot them in silence keep. They will be gadding! sore against my mind. But, courteous Shepherd, if they run astray, Conduct them, that they may the pathway find: And teach them how the Mean observe they may! Thou shalt them ken by their discording notes! Their weeds are plain, such as poor shepherds wear; Unshapen, torn, and ragged are their coats: Yet forth they wandering are, devoid of fear. They which have tasted of the Muses' spring, I hope, will smile upon the tunes they sing. W. Smith. FINIS.
To all Shepherds in general. YOu whom the World admires for rarest style, You which have sung the Sonnets of True Love, Upon my maiden verse with favour smile! Whose weak-penned Muse, to fly too soon doth prove: Before her feathers have their full perfection, She soars aloft, pricked on by blind affection.
You whose deep wits, ingine, and industry, The everlasting palm of praise have won! You paragons of learned Poesy Favour these mists! which fall before you sun: Intentions leading to a more effect, If you them grace but with your mild aspect.
And Thou, the Genius of my ill tuned note! Whose beauty urgÈd hath my rustic vein, Through mighty oceans of despair to float; That I in rhyme thy cruelty complain: Vouchsafe to read these lines both harsh and bad! Nuntiates of Woe, with sorrow being clad. W. Smith.
CHLORIS. SONNET I. COurteous Calliope, vouchsafe to lend Thy helping hand to my untunÈd Song! And grace these Lines, which I to write pretend, Compelled by love which doth poor Corin wrong. And those, thy sacred Sisters, I beseech, Which on Parnassus' Mount do ever dwell, To shield my country Muse and rural speech By their divine authority and spell. Lastly to thee, O Pan, the shepherds' King; And you swift footed Dryades, I call! Attend to hear a swain in verse to sing Sonnets of her that keeps his heart in thrall! O Chloris, weigh the task I undertake! Thy beauty, subject of my Song I make.
SONNET II. THy beauty, subject of my Song I make; O fairest Fair! on whom depends my life: Refuse not then the task I undertake To please thy rage, and to appease my strife! But with one smile remunerate my toil; None other guerdon I, of thee desire. Give not my lowly Muse new-hatched the foil, But warmth; that she may at the length aspire Unto the temples of thy star-bright Eyes; Upon whose round orbs perfect Beauty sits: From whence such glorious crystal Beams arise As best my Chloris' seemly Face befits. Which Eyes, which Beauty, which bright crystal Beam, Which Face of thine, hath made my love extreme.
SONNET III. FEed, silly sheep! although your keeper pineth; Yet, like to Tantalus, doth see his food. Skip you and leap! now bright Apollo shineth Whilst I bewail my sorrows in yon wood: Where woeful Philomela doth record (And sings with notes of sad and dire lament), The tragedy wrought by her sister's Lord. I'll bear a part in her black discontent! That pipe, which erst was wont to make you glee, Upon these downs whereon you careless graze, Shall to her mournful music tunÈd be! Let not my plaints, poor lambkins, you amaze! There, underneath that dark and dusky bower, Whole showers of Tears to Chloris I will pour!
SONNET IV. WHole showers of Tears to Chloris I will pour As true oblations of my sincere love. If that will not suffice, most fairest Flower! Then shall my Sighs, thee to pity move. If neither Tears nor Sighs can ought prevail; My streaming Blood thine anger shall appease! This hand of mine by vigour shall assail To tear my heart asunder, thee to please! Celestial powers, on you I invocate! You know the chaste affections of my mind! I never did my faith yet violate! Why should my Chloris then be so unkind? That neither Tears, nor Sighs, nor streaming Blood Can unto mercy move her cruel mood.
SONNET V. YOu Fauns and Silvans, when my Chloris brings Her flocks to water in your pleasant plains, Solicit her to pity Corin's stings! The smart whereof, for her, he still sustains. For she is ruthless of my woeful song. My oaten reed she not delights to hear. O Chloris! Chloris! Corin thou dost wrong; Who loves thee better than his own heart dear. The flames of Etna are not half so hot As is the fire which thy disdain hath bred. Ah, cruel Fates! why do you then besot Poor Corin's soul with love? when love is fled! Either cause cruel Chloris to relent, Or let me die upon the wound she sent!
SONNET VI. YOu lofty Pines, co-partners of my woe, When CHLORIS sitteth underneath your shade; To her those sighs and tears, I pray you show, Whilst you attending, I for her have made. Whilst you attending droppÈd have sweet balm, In token that you pity my distress: Zephirus hath your stately boughs made calm; Whilst I, to you my sorrows did express. The neighbour mountains bendÈd have their tops, When they have heard my rueful melody; And Elves, in rings about me leap and hop, To frame my passions to their jollity. Resounding echoes, from their obscure caves Reiterate what most my fancy craves.
SONNET VII. WHat need I mourn? seeing Pan, our sacred King, Was, of that Nymph, fair Syrinx coy, disdained. The World's great Light, which comforteth each thing, All comfortless for Daphne's sake remained. If gods can find no help to heal the sore Made by Love's shafts, which pointed are with fire; Unhappy Corin, then thy chance deplore! Since they despair by wanting their desire. I am not Pan, though I a shepherd be; Yet is my Love as fair as Syrinx was. My Song cannot with Phoebus's tunes agree; Yet Chloris doth his Daphne far surpass. How much more fair, by so much more unkind Than Syrinx coy, or Daphne, I her find.
SONNET VIII. NO sooner had fair Phoebus trimmed his car, Being newly arisen from Aurora's bed; But I, in whom Despair and Hope did war, My unpenned flock unto the mountains led. Tripping upon the snow-soft downs I spied Three Nymphs, more fairer than those Beauties Three Which did appear to Paris on Mount Ide. Coming more near, my goddess I there see. For She, the field Nymphs oftentimes doth haunt, To hunt with them the fierce and savage boar: And having sported, Virelays they chant; Whilst I, unhappy, helpless cares deplore. There did I call to her, ah, too unkind! But tiger-like, of me she had no mind.
SONNET IX. UNto the fountain, where fair Diana chaste The proud Acteon turnÈd to a hart, I drave my flock that water sweet to taste; 'Cause from the welkin, Phoebus 'gan depart. There did I see the Nymph whom I admire. Remembering her locks; of which the yellow hue Made blush the beauties of her curlÈd wire. Which Jove himself with wonder well might view. Then red with ire, her tresses she berent; And weeping hid the beauty of her face: Whilst I, amazÈd at her discontent, With tears and sighs do humbly sue for grace. But she, regarding neither tears nor moan, Flies from the fountain, leaving me alone.
SONNET X. AM I a Gorgon? that she doth me fly! Or was I hatchÈd in the river Nile? Or doth my Chloris stand in doubt that I, With Siren songs, do seek her to beguile? If any one of these she can object 'Gainst me, which chaste affectÈd love protest; Then might my fortunes by her frowns be checked: And blameless She from scandal free might rest. But seeing I am no hideous monster born; But have that shape which other men do bear: Which form great Jupiter did never scorn Amongst his subjects here on earth to wear. Why should she then that soul with sorrow fill Which vowÈd hath to love and serve her still?
SONNET XI. TEll me, my dear, what moves thy ruthless mind To be so cruel, seeing thou art so fair? Did Nature frame thy beauty so unkind; Or dost thou scorn to pity my despair? O no, it was not Nature's ornament, But wingÈd Love's impartial cruel wound, Which in my heart is ever permanent, Until my Chloris makes me whole and sound. O glorious Love-God, think on my heart's grief! Let not thy vassal pine through deep disdain! By wounding Chloris, I shall find relief; If thou impart to her some of my pain. She doth thy temples and thy shrines abject! They with Aminta's flowers by me are decked.
SONNET XII. CEase eyes to weep, sith none bemoans your weeping! Leave off, good Muse, to sound the cruel name Of my love's Queen! which hath my heart in keeping; Yet of my love doth make a jesting game. Long hath my sufferance laboured to enforce One pearl of pity from her pretty eyes; Whilst I, with restless oceans of remorse, Bedew the banks where my fair Chloris lies, Where my fair Chloris bathes her tender skin; And doth triumph to see such rivers fall From those moist springs, which never dry have been Since she their honour hath detained in thrall. And still she scorns one favouring smile to show Unto those waves proceeding from my woe.
A Dream. SONNET XIII. WHat time fair Titan in the zenith sat And equally the fixÈd poles did heat; When to my flock my daily woes I chat, And underneath a broad beech took my seat: The dreaming god, which Morpheus Poets call, Augmenting fuel to my Etna's fire, With sleep possessing my weak senses all, In apparitions makes my hopes aspire. Methought I saw the Nymph I would embrace, With arms abroad, coming to me for help: A lust-led Satyr having her in chase; Which after her, about the fields, did yelp. I seeing my Love in perplexed plight, A sturdy bat from off an oak I reft; And with the ravisher continued fight Till breathless I upon the earth him left. Then when my coy Nymph saw her breathless foe, With kisses kind she gratifies my pain; Protesting never rigour more to show. Happy was I this good hap to obtain. But drowsy slumbers, flying to their cell, My sudden joy convertÈd was to bale. My wontÈd sorrows still with me do dwell. I lookÈd round about on hill and dale: But I could neither my fair Chloris view; Not yet the Satyr, which erst while I slew.
SONNET XIV. MOurnful Amyntas, thou didst pine with care, Because the Fates, by their untimely doom, Of life bereft thy loving Phillis fair; When thy love's Spring did first begin to bloom. My care doth countervail that care of thine; And yet my Chloris draws her angry breath: My hopes, still hoping, hopeless now repine; For living, She doth add to me but death. Thy Phillis dying, lovÈd thee full dear. My Chloris living, hates poor Corin's love. Thus doth my woe as great as thine appear; Though sundry accents both our sorrows move. Thy swan-like Song did shew thy dying anguish: These weeping Truce-men shew I living languish.
SONNET XV. THese weeping Truce-men shew I living languish; My woeful wailings tell my discontent: Yet Chloris nought esteemeth of mine anguish; My thrilling throbs, her heart cannot relent. My kids to hear the rhymes and roundelays, Which I, on wasteful hills, was wont to sing, Did more delight than lark in summer days: Whole echo made the neighbour groves to ring. But now my flock, all drooping, bleats and cries; Because my Pipe, the author of their sport, All rent, and torn, and unrespected, lies: Their lamentations do my cares consort. They cease to feed, and listen to the plaint; Which I pour forth unto a cruel Saint.
SONNET XVI. WHich I pour forth unto a cruel Saint, Who merciless my prayers doth attend: Who tiger-like doth pity my complaint; And never unto my woes will lend. But still false hope despairing life deludes; And tells my fancy I shall grace obtain. But Chloris fair, my orisons concludes With fearful frowns, presagers of my pain. Thus do I spend the weary wandering day, OppressÈd with a chaos of heart's grief: Thus I consume the obscure night away, Neglecting sleep which brings all cares relief. Thus I pass my lingering life in woe: But when my bliss will come, I do not know!
SONNET XVII. THe perils which Leander took in hand, Fair Hero's love and favour to obtain; When, void of fear, securely leaving land, Through Hellespont he swam to Cestos main: His dangers should not counterpoise my toil. If my dear Love would once but pity show, To quench these flames which in my breast do broil, Or dry these springs which from mine eyes do flow; Not only Hellespont, but ocean seas, For her sweet sake, to ford I would attempt! So that my travails would her ire appease; My soul, from thrall and languish to exempt. O what is't not, poor I, would undertake; If labour could my peace with Chloris make?
SONNET XVIII. MY Love, I cannot thy rare beauties place Under those forms which many Writers use. Some like to stones, compare their Mistress' face. Some in the name of flowers do love abuse. Some make their love a goldsmith's shop to be, Where orient pearls and precious stones abound. In my conceit these far do disagree The perfect praise of beauty forth to sound. O Chloris, thou dost imitate thyself! Self's imitating passeth precious stones Or all the Eastern Indian golden pelf, Thy red and white, with purest fair atones, Matchless for beauty Nature hath thee framed: Only "unkind" and "cruel" thou art named.
SONNET XIX. THe Hound, by eating grass, doth find relief: For, being sick, it is his choicest meat. The wounded Hart doth ease his pain and grief; If he, the herb Dictamion may eat. The loathsome Snake renews his sight again, When he casts off his withered coat and hue. The sky-bred Eagle fresh age doth obtain When he, his beak decayÈd doth renew. I worse than these, whose sore no salve can cure; Whose grief, no herb, nor plant, nor tree can ease: Remediless, I still must pain endure Till I, my Chloris's furious mood can please. She, like the scorpion, gave to me a wound; And, like the scorpion, she must make me sound.
SONNET XX. YE wasteful woods, bear witness of my woe! Wherein my plaints did oftentimes abound. Ye, careless birds, my sorrows well do know! They, in your songs, were wont to make a sound. Thou, pleasant spring, canst record likewise bear. Of my designs and sad disparagement! When thy transparent billows mingled were With those downfalls which from mine eyes were sent. The echo of my still-lamenting cries, From hollow vaults, in treble voice resoundeth; And then into the empty air it flies, And back again from whence it came reboundeth. That Nymph, unto my clamours doth reply, "Being likewise scorned in love, as well as I."
SONNET XXI. "BEing likewise scorned in love as well as I" By that self-loving Boy; which did disdain To hear her, after him for love to cry: For which in dens obscure she doth remain. Yet doth she answer to each speech and word And renders back the last of what we speak. But 'specially, if she might have her choice, She of "Unkindness" would her talk forth break. She loves to hear of Love's most sacred name; Although, poor Nymph, in love she was despised: And ever since she hides her head for shame, That her true meaning was so lightly prized. She, pitying me, part of my woes doth hear; As you, good Shepherds, list'ning now shall hear.
SONNET XXII. O fairest Fair, to thee I make my plaint, my plaint, To thee from whom my cause of grief doth spring: doth spring: Attentive be unto the groans, sweet Saint! sweet Saint! Which unto thee in doleful tunes I sing. I sing. My mournful Muse doth always speak of thee. of thee. My love is pure, O do not it disdain! disdain! With bitter sorrow still oppress not me; not me; But mildly look upon me which complain. which complain. Kill not my true-affecting thoughts; but give but give Such precious balm of comfort to my heart, my heart, That casting off despair, in hope to live, hope to live, I may find help at length to ease my smart. to ease my smart. So shall you add such courage to my love, my love, That fortune false, my faith shall not remove. shall not remove.
SONNET XXIII. THe Phoenix fair which rich Arabia breeds, When wasting time expires her tragedy; No more on Phoebus' radiant rayes she feeds: But heapeth up great store of spicery; And on a lofty tow'ring cedar tree, With heavenly substance, she herself consumes. From whence she young again appears to be, Out of the cinders of her peerless plumes. So I, which long have friÈd in love's flame, The fire, not made of spice, but sighs and tears, Revive again, in hope Disdain to shame, And put to flight the author of my fears. Her eyes revive decaying life in me; Though they augmentors of my thraldom be.
SONNET XXIV. THough they augmentors of my thraldom be: For her I live, and her I love and none else. O then, fair eyes, look mildly upon me! Who poor, despised, forlorn, must live alone else: And, like Amyntas, haunt the desert cells (And moneyless there breathe out thy cruelty) Where none but Care and Melancholy dwell. I, for revenge, to Nemesis will cry! If that will not prevail; my wandering ghost, Which breathless here this love-scorched trunk shall leave, Shall unto thee, with tragic tidings post! How thy disdain did life from soul bereave. Then, all too late, my death thou wilt repent! When murder's guilt, thy conscience shall torment.
SONNET XXV. WHo doth not know that Love is triumphant, Sitting upon the throne of majesty? The gods themselves, his cruel darts do daunt: And he, blind boy, smiles at their misery! Love made great Jove ofttimes transform his shape. Love made the fierce Alcides stoop at last. Achilles, stout and bold, could not escape The direful doom which Love upon him cast. Love made Leander pass the dreadful flood, Which Cestos from Abydos doth divide. Love made a chaos where proud Ilion stood. Through Love the Carthaginian Dido died. Thus may we see how Love doth rule and reign; Bringing those under, which his power disdain.
SONNET XXVI. THough you be fair and beautiful withal; And I am black, for which you me despise: Know that your beauty subject is to fall! Though you esteem it at so high a price. And time may come when that whereof you boast, Which is your youth's chief wealth and ornament, Shall withered be by winter's raging frost; When beauty's pride and flowering years are spent. Then wilt thou mourn! when none shall thee respect. Then wilt thou think how thou hast scorned my tears! Then, pitiless, each one will thee neglect; When hoary grey shall dye thy yellow hairs. Then wilt thou think upon poor Corin's case! Who loved thee dear, yet lived in thy disgrace.
SONNET XXVII. O LOVE, leave off with sorrows to torment me! Let my heart's grief and pining pain content thee! The breach is made; I give thee leave to enter! Thee to resist, great god, I dare not venture! Restless desire doth aggravate my anguish; Careful conceits do fill my soul with languish: Be not too cruel, in thy conquest gained! Thy deadly shafts have victory obtained! Batter no more my Fort with fierce affection; But shield me, captive, under thy protection! [Two lines wanting.] I yield to thee, O Love, thou art the stronger! Raise then thy siege, and trouble me no longer!
SONNET XXVIII. WHat cruel star, or fate, had dominion When I was born? that thus my love is crossed. Or from what planet had I derivation? That thus my life in seas of woe is crossed. Doth any live that ever hath such hap, That all their actions are of none effect? Whom Fortune never dandled in her lap; But, as an abject, still doth me reject. Ah, fickle Dame! and yet thou constant art My daily grief and anguish to increase! And to augment the troubles of my heart; Thou, of these bonds will never me release! So that thy darlings, me to be may know, The true Idea of all Worldly Woe.
SONNET XXIX. SOme in their hearts, their Mistress's colours bear; Some hath her gloves; some other hath her garters; Some in a bracelet wear her golden hair; And some with kisses seal their loving charters: But I, which never favour reapÈd yet, Nor had one pleasant look from her fair brow; Content myself in silent shade to sit, In hope at length my cares to overplow. Meanwhile mine eyes shall feed on her fair face! My sighs shall tell to her my sad designs! My painful pen shall ever sue for grace! To help my heart, which languishing now pines. And I will triumph still amidst my woe, Till mercy shall my sorrows overflow.
SONNET XXX. THe raging sea, within his limits lies; And with an ebb, his flowing doth discharge: The rivers, when beyond their bounds they rise, Themselves do empty in the ocean large: But my love's sea, which never limit keepeth; Which never ebbs, but always ever floweth, In liquid salt unto my Chloris weepeth; Yet frustrate are the tears which he bestoweth. This sea, which first was but a little spring, Is now so great, and far beyond all reason, That it a deluge to my thoughts doth bring; Which overwhelmÈd hath my joying season. So hard and dry is my Saint's cruel mind; These waves no way in her to sink can find.
SONNET XXXI. THese waves no way in her to sink can find; To penetrate the pith of contemplation. These tears cannot dissolve her hardened mind, Nor move her heart on me to take compassion. O then, poor Corin, scorned and quite despised, Loathe now to live! since life procures my woe. Enough thou hast thy heart anatomised, For her sweet sake which will no pretty show. But as cold winter's storms and nipping frosts Can never change sweet Amaranthus' hue; So, though my love and life by her are crossed, My heart shall still be constant firm and true! Although Erinnyes hinder Hymen's rites, My fixÈd faith against oblivion fights.
SONNET XXXII. MY fixÈd faith against oblivion fights; And I cannot forget her, pretty Elf! Although she cruel be unto my plights; Yet let me rather clean forget myself, Than her sweet name out of my mind should go: Which is th' elixir of my pining soul; From whence the essence of my life doth flow. Whose beauty rare, my senses all control; Themselves most happy evermore accounting That such a Nymph is Queen of their affection: With ravished rage, they to the skies are mounting; Esteeming not their thraldom nor subjection. But still do joy amidst their misery; With patience bearing Love's captivity.
SONNET XXXIII. WIth patience bearing Love's captivity, Themselves unguilty of his wrath alleging; These homely Lines, abjects of Poesy, For liberty and for their ransom pledging: And being free, they solemnly do vow Under his banner ever arms to bear Against those rebels, which do disallow That Love, of Bliss should be the sovereign Heir. And Chloris, if these weeping Truce-men may One spark of pity from thine eyes obtain, In recompense of their sad heavy Lay; Poor Corin shall thy faithful friend remain. And what I say, I ever will approve, "No joy may be comparÈd to thy love!"
SONNET XXXIV. THe bird of Thrace, which doth bewail her rape And murdered Itis eaten by his Sire, When she her woes in doleful tunes doth shape; She sets her breast against a thorny briar. Because care-charmer Sleep should not disturb The tragic tale which to the night she tells; She doth her rest and quietness thus curb, Amongst the groves where secret silence dwells. Even so I wake; and waking, wail all night. Chloris' unkindness, slumbers doth expel. I need not thorns, sweet sleep to put to flight. Her cruelty, my golden rest doth quell: That day and night to me are only one; Consumed in woe, in tears, in sighs, and moan.
SONNET XXXV. LIke to the shipman, in his brittle boat, Tossed aloft by the unconstant wind; By dangerous rocks and whirling gulfs doth float, Hoping, at length, the wishÈd Port to find: So doth my love in stormy billows sail, And passing the gaping Scylla's waves, In hope at length with Chloris to prevail; And win that prize which most my fancy craves. Which unto me of value will be more Than was that rich and wealthy Golden Fleece; Which Jason stout, from Colchos island bore, With wind in sails, unto the shore of Greece, More rich, more rare, more worth her love I prize; Than all the wealth which under heaven lies.
SONNET XXXVI. O What a wound, and what a deadly stroke, Doth Cupid give to us, perplexed lovers! Which cleaves, more fast than ivy doth to oak, Unto our hearts where he his might discovers. Though warlike Mars were armÈd at all points With that tried coat which fiery Vulcan made; Love's shafts did penetrate his steelÈd joints, And in his breast in streaming gore did wade. So pitiless is this fell conqueror, That in his Mother's paps his arrows stuck! Such is his rage! that he doth not defer To wound those orbs, from whence he life did suck. Then sith no mercy he shews to his mother; We meekly must his force and rigour smother.
SONNET XXXVII. EAch beast in field doth wish the morning light. The birds to Hesper pleasant Lays do sing. The wanton kids, well fed, rejoice in night; Being likewise glad when day begins to spring. But night, nor day, are welcome unto me: Both can bear witness of my lamentation. All day, sad sighing Corin you shall see; All night he spends in tears and exclamation. Thus still I live, although I take no rest; But living look as one that is a dying: Thus my sad soul, with care and grief opprest, Seems as a ghost to Styx and Lethe flying. Thus hath fond love bereft my youthful years Of all good hap, before old age appears.
SONNET XXXVIII. THat day wherein mine eyes cannot her see, Which is the essence of their crystal sight; Both blind, obscure, and dim that day they be, And are debarrÈd of fair heaven's light. That day wherein mine ears do want to hear her; Hearing, that day, is from me quite bereft. That day wherein to touch I come not near her; That day no sense of touching I have left. That day wherein I lack the fragrant smell, Which from her pleasant amber breath proceedeth; Smelling, that day, disdains with me to dwell. Only weak hope, my pining carcase feedeth. But burst, poor heart! Thou hast no better hope, Since all thy senses have no further scope.
SONNET XXXIX. THe stately lion and the furious bear, The skill of man doth alter from their kind; For where before they wild and savage were, By Art, both tame and meek you shall them find. The elephant, although a mighty beast, A man may rule according to his skill. The lusty horse obeyeth our behest, For with the curb, you may him guide at will. Although the flint most hard contains the fire, By force we do his virtue soon obtain: For with a steel you shall have your desire. Thus man may all things by industry gain. Only a woman, if she list not love; No art, nor force, can unto pity move!
SONNET XL. NO art nor force can unto pity move Her stony heart, that makes my heart to pant: No pleading passions of my extreme love Can mollify her mind of adamant. Ah, cruel sex, and foe to all mankind! Either you love, or else you hate, too much! A glist'ring show of gold in you we find; And yet you prove but copper in the touch. But why? O why, do I so far digress? Nature you made of pure and fairest mould, The pomp and glory of Man to depress; And as your slaves in thraldom them to hold: Which by experience now too well I prove, There is no pain unto the pains of love.
SONNET XLI. FAir Shepherdess, when as these rustic lines Come to thy sight, weigh but with what affection Thy servile doth depaint his sad designs; Which to redress, of thee he makes election. If so you scorn, you kill; if you seem coy, You wound poor Corin to the very heart; If that you smile, you shall increase his joy; If these you like, you banish do all smart: And this I do protest, most fairest Fair, My Muse shall never cease that hill to climb, To which the learned Muses do repair! And all to deify thy name in rhyme. And never none shall write with truer mind As by all proof and trial you shall find.
SONNET XLII. DIe, die my Hopes! for you do but augment The burning accents of my deep despair; Disdain and scorn, your downfall do consent: Tell to the World, She is unkind, yet fair. O Eyes, close up those ever-running fountains! For pitiless are all the tears you shed; Wherewith you watered have both dales and mountains. I see, I see remorse from her is fled. Pack hence, ye Sighs, into the empty air! Into the air that none your sound may hear. Sith cruel Chloris hath of you no care (Although she once esteemÈd you full dear); Let sable night all your disgraces cover: Yet truer sighs were never sighed by lover.
SONNET XLIII. THou glorious Sun (from whence my lesser light The substance of his crystal shine doth borrow) Let these my moans find favour in thy sight, And with remorse extinguish now my sorrow! Renew those lamps which thy disdain hath quenched, As Phoebus doth his sister Phoebe's shine: Consider how thy Corin, being drenched In seas of woe, to thee his plaints incline! And at thy feet, with tears, doth sue for grace; Which art the goddess of his chaste desire. Let not thy frowns, these labours poor deface! Although aloft they at the first aspire. And time shall come, as yet unknown to men, When I more large thy praises forth shall pen.
SONNET XLIV. WHen I more large thy praises forth shall show, That all the World thy beauty shall admire; Desiring that most sacred Nymph to know, Which hath the Shepherd's fancy set on fire. Till then, my dear, let these thine eyes content Till then, fair Love, think if I merit favour! Till then, O let thy merciful assent Relish my hopes with some comforting savour! So shall you add such courage to my Muse, That she shall climb the steep Parnassus' Hill: That learned Poets shall my deeds peruse, When I from thence obtainÈd have more skill. And what I sing shall always be of thee, As long as life, or breath, remains in me.
SONNET XLV. WHen she was born, whom I entirely love, Th' immortal gods, her birth-rites forth to grace, Descending from their glorious seat above; They did on her, these several virtues place: First Saturn gave to her Sobriety; Jove then enduÈd her with Comeliness; And Sol with Wisdom did her beautify; Mercury with Wit and Knowledge did her bless; Venus with Beauty did all parts bedeck; Luna therewith did Modesty combine; Diana chaste, all loose desires did check; And like a lamp in clearness she doth shine. But Mars, according to his stubborn kind, No virtue gave; but a disdainful mind.
SONNET XLVI. WHen Chloris first, with her heart-robbing eye, Enchanted had my silly senses all; I little did respect Love's cruelty: I never thought his snares should me enthrall. But since her tresses have entangled me, My pining flock did never hear me sing Those jolly notes, which erst did make them glee; Nor do my kids about me leap and spring As they were wont: but when they hear my cry; They likewise cry, and fill the air with bleating. Then do my sheep upon the cold earth lie, And feed no more. My griefs they are repeating. O Chloris, if thou then sawest them and me, I am sure thou would'st both pity them and me!
SONNET XLVII. BUt of thy heart too cruel I thee tell, Which hath tormented my young budding age; And doth, (unless your mildness, passions quell) My utter ruin near at hand presage. Instead of blood, which wont was to display His ruddy red upon my hairless face; By over-grieving, that is fled away: Pale dying colour there hath taken place. Those curlÈd locks, which thou wast wont to twist, Unkempt, unshorn, and out of order been; Since my disgrace, I had of them no list. Since when, these eyes no joyful day have seen: Nor never shall, till you renew again The mutual love which did possess us twain.
SONNET XLVIII. YOu that embrace enchanting Poesy, Be gracious to perplexÈd Corin's lines! You that do feel Love's proud authority, Help me to sing my sighs and sad designs! Chloris, requite not faithful love with scorn! But, as thou oughtest, have commiseration. I have enough anatomized and torn My heart, thereof to make a pure oblation. Likewise consider how thy Corin prizeth Thy parts above each absolute perfection! How he, of every precious thing deviseth, To make thee Sovereign! Grant me then affection! Else thus I prize thee, Chloris is alone More hard than gold, or pearl, or precious stone.
SONNET XLIX. COlin, I know that, in thy lofty wit, Thou wilt but laugh at these my youthful lines; Content I am, they should in silence sit, Obscured from light to sing their sad designs. But that it pleasÈd thy grave Shepherdhood, The Patron of my maiden verse to be; When I in doubt of raging envy stood: And now I weigh not who shall Chloris see! For fruit before it comes to full perfection But blossoms is, as every man doth know: So these, being blooms, and under thy protection, In time I hope to ripeness more will grow. And so I leave thee to thy worthy Muse; Desiring thee, all faults here to excuse.
FINIS.
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