Two Bookes of Ayres - The Second Booke

Vaine men, whose follies make a God of Loue,
Whose blindnesse beauty doth immortall deeme ;
Prayse not what you desire, but what you proue,
Count those things good that are, no those that seeme :
I cannot call her true that's false to me,
Nor make of women more then women be.

How faire an entrance breakes the way to loue !
How rich of golden hope and gay delight !
What hart cannot a modest beauty moue ?
Who, seeing cleare day once, will dreame of night ?
Shee seem'd a Saint, that brake her faith with mee,
But prou'd a woman as all other be.

So bitter is their sweet, that true content
Vnhappy men in them may neuer finde :
Ah, but without them none ;  both must consent,
Else vncouth are the ioyes of eyther kinde.
Let vs then prayse their good, forget their ill :
Men must be men, and women women still.

How eas'ly wert thou chained,
Fond hart, by fauours fained !
Why liu'd thy hopes in grace,
Straight to dye disdained ?
But since th' art now beguiled
By Loue that falsely smiled,
In some lesse happy place
Mourne alone exiled !
My loue still here increaseth,
And with my loue my griefe,
While her sweet bounty ceaseth,
That gaue my woes reliefe.
Yet 'tis no woman leaues me,
For such may proue uniust ;
A Goddesse thus deceiues me,
Whose faith who could mistrust ?

A Goddesse so much graced,
That Paradice is placed
In her most heau'nly brest,
Once by loue embraced :
But loue, that so kinde proued,
Is now from her remoued,
Nor will he longer rest
Where no faith is loued.
If Powres Celestiall wound vs
And will not yeeld reliefe,
Woe then must needs confound vs,
For none can cure our griefe.
No wonder if I languish
Through burden of my smart ;
It is no common anguish
From Paradice to part.

Harden now thy tyred hart, with more then flinty rage ;
Ne'er let her false teares henceforth thy constant griefe asswage.
Once true happy dayes thou saw'st when shee stood firme and kinde,
Both as one then liu'd and held one eare, one tongue, one minde :
But now those bright houres be fled, and neuer may returne ;
What then remaines but her vntruths to mourne ?

Silly Traytresse, who shall now thy carelesse tresses place ?
Who thy pretty talke supply, whose eare thy musicke grace ?
Who shall thy bright eyes admire ? what lips triumph with thine ?
Day by day who'll visit thee and say ' th'art onely mine ' ?                    
Such a time there was, God wot, but such shall neuer be :
Too oft, I feare, thou wilt remember me.

O what vnhop't for sweet supply !
     O what ioyes exceeding !
What an affecting charme feele I,
     From delight proceeding !
That which I long despair'd to be,
     To her I am, and shee to mee.

Shee that alone in cloudy griefe
     Long to mee appeared,
Shee now alone with bright reliefe
     All those clouds hath cleared.                                     
Both are immortall and diuine :
      Since I am hers, and she is mine.

Where shee her sacred bowre adornes,
      The Riuers clearely flow ;
The groues and medowes swell with flowres,
      The windes all gently blow.
Her Sunne-like beauty shines so fayre,
      Her Spring can neuer fade :
Who then can blame the life that striues
      To harbour in her shade ?

Her grace I sought, her loue I wooed ;
      Her loue though I obtaine,
No time, no toyle, no vow, no faith,
      Her wished grace can gaine.
Yet truth can tell my heart is hers,
      And her will I adore ;
And from that loue when I depart,
      Let heau'n view me no more.

Her roses with my prayers shall spring ;
      And when her trees I praise,
Their boughs shall blossome, mellow fruit
      Shall straw her pleasant wayes.
The words of harty zeale haue powre
      High wonders to effect ;
O why should then her Princely eare
      My words, or zeale neglect ?

If shee my faith misdeemes, or worth,
      Woe-worth my haplesse fate :
For though time can my truth reueale,
      That time will come too late.
And who can glory in the worth,
      That cannot yeeld him grace ?
Content in eu'rything is not,
      Nor ioy in eu'ry place.

But from her bowre of Ioy since I
      Must now excluded be,
And shee will not relieue my cares,
      Which none can helpe but shee ;
My comfort in her loue shall dwell,
      Her loue lodge in my brest,
And though not in her bowre, yet I
      Shall in her temple rest.

Faine would I my loue disclose,
Aske what honour might denye ;
But both loue and her I lose,
From my motion if shee flye.
Worse then paine is feare to mee :
Then hold in fancy though it burne
If not happy, safe Ile be,
And to my clostred cares returne.

Yet, ô yet, in vaine I striue
To represse my school'd desire ;
More and more the flames reuiue,
I consume in mine owne fire.
She would pitty, might shee know
The harmes that I for her endure :
Speake then, and get comfort so ;
A wound long hid growes past recure.

Wise shee is, and needs must know
All th' attempts that beauty moues :
Fayre she is, and honour'd so
That she, sure, hath tryed some loues.
If with loue I tempt her then,
'Tis but her due to be desir'd :
What would women thinke of men
If their deserts were not admir'd ?

Women, courted, haue the hand
To discard what they distaste :
But those Dames whom none demand
Want oft what their wils imbrac't.
Could their firmnesse iron excell,
As they are faire, they should be sought :
When true theeues vse falsehood well,
As they are wise they will be caught.

Give Beauty all her right!
  She’s not to one form tied;
Each shape yields fair delight
  Where her perfections bide:
Helen, I grant, might pleasing be,
And Ros’mond was as sweet as she.

Some the quick eye commends,
  Some swelling lips and red;
Pale looks have many friends,
  Through sacred sweetness bred:
Meadows have flowers that pleasures move,
Though roses are the flowers of love.

Free beauty is not bound
  To one unmovèd clime;
She visits every ground
  And favours every time.
Let the old loves with mine compare,
My sovereign is as sweet and fair.

      O deare that I with thee might liue,
           From humane trace remoued :
      Where iealous care might neither grieue,
           Yet each dote on their loued.
While fond feare may colour finde, Loue's seldome pleased ;
But much like a sicke mans rest, it's soone diseased.

      Why should our mindes not mingle so,
           When loue and faith is plighted,
       That eyther might the others know,
            Alike in all delighted ?
Why should frailtie breed suspect, when hearts are fixed ?
Must all humane ioyes of force with griefe be mixed ?

       How oft haue wee eu'n smilde in teares,
            Our fond mistrust repenting ?
       As snow when heauenly fire appeares,
             So melts loues hate relenting.
Vexed kindnesse soone fals off and soone returneth :
Such a flame the more you quench the more it burneth. 

Good men, shew, if you can tell,
Where doth humane pittie dwell ?
Farre and neere her would I seeke,
So vext with sorrow is my brest.
She, ( they say ) to all, is meeke,
And onely makes th' vnhappie blest.

Oh !  if such a Saint there be,
Some hope yet remaines for me :
Prayer or sacrifice may gaine
From her implored grace reliefe ;
To release mee of my paine,
Or at the least to ease my griefe.

Young am I, and farre from guile,
The more is my woe the while :
Falshood with a smooth disguise
My simple meaning hath abus'd :
Casting mists before mine eyes,
By which my senses are confus'd.

Fair he is, who vow'd to me
That he onely mine would be ;
But, alas, his minde is caught
With eu'ry gaudie bait he sees :
And too late my flame is taught
That too much kindnesse makes men freese.

From me all my friends are gone,
While I pine for him alone ;
And not one will rue my case,
But rather my distresse deride :
That I thinke there is no place
Where pittie euer yet did bide.

What harvest halfe so sweet is,
As still to peape the kisses
Grown ripe in sowing?
And straight to be receiver
Of that which thou art giver,
Rich in bestowing?
Kiss then, may harvest Queene,
Full garners heaping;
Kisses ripes when th'are greene,
Want only reaping.

The Dove alone expresses
Her fervencie in kisses,
Of all most loving:
A creature as offencelesse,
As those things that are senselesse,
And void od moving.
Let us so love and kisse,
Though all envie us:
That which kinde, and harmlesse is,
None can denie us.

Sweet, exclude mee not, nor be divided
    From him that ere long must bed thee :
All thy maiden doubts Law hath decided ;
    Sure wee are, and I must wed thee.
    Presume then yet a little more :
        Here's the way, barre not the dore.

Tenants, to fulfill their Land-lords pleasure,
    Pay their rent before the quarter :
'Tis my case, if you it rightly measure ;
    Put mee not then off with laughter.
    Consider then a little more :
        Here's the way to all my store.

Why were dores in loues despight deuised ?
    Are not Lawes enough restrayning ?
Women are most apt to be surprised
    Sleeping, or sleepe wisely fayning.
    Then grace me yet a little more :
        Here's the way, barre not the dore.

    The peacefull westerne winde
    The winter stormes hath tam'd,
    And nature in each kinde
    The kinde heat hath inflam'd :
The forward buds so sweetly breathe
    Out of their earthy bowers,
That heau'n which viewes their pompe beneath
    Would faine be deckt with flowers.

    See how the morning smiles
    On her bright easterne hill,
    And with soft steps beguiles
    Them that lie slumbring still.
The musicke-louing birds are come
    From cliffes and rocks vnknowne,
To see the trees and briers blome
    That late were ouerflowne.

    What Saturne did destroy,
    Loues Queene reuiues againe ;
    And now her naked boy
    Doth in the fields remaine,
Where he such pleasing change doth view
    In eu'ry liuing thing,
As if the world were borne anew
    To gratifie the Spring.

    If all things life present,
    Why die my comforts then ?
    Why suffers my content ?
    Am I the worst of men ?
O, beautie, be not thou accus'd
    Too iustly in this case :
Vnkindly if true loue be vs'd,
    'Twill yeeld thee little grace.

There is none, O none but you,
    That from mee estrange your sight,
Whom mine eyes affect to view
    Or chained eares heare with delight.

Other beauties others moue,
    In you I all graces find ;
Such is the effect of loue,
    To make them happy that are kinde.

Women in fraile beauty trust,
    Onely seeme you faire to mee ;
Yet proue truely kinde and iust,
    For that may not dissembled be.

Sweet, afford me then your sight,
    That, suruaying all your lookes,
Endlesse volumes I may write
    And fill the world with enuyed bookes :

Which when after ages view,
    All shall wonder and despaire,
Woman to finde man so true,
    Or man a woman halfe so faire.

Pin'd I am and like to die,
And all for lacke of that which I
    Doe eu'ry day refuse.
If I musing sit or stand,
Some puts it daily in my hand,
    To interrupt my muse :
The same thing I seeke and flie,
And want that which none would denie.

In my bed, when I should rest,
It breeds such trouble in my brest
    That scarce mine eyes will close ;
If I sleepe it seemes to be
Oft playing in the bed with me,
    But, wak't, away it goes.
' Tis some spirit sure, I weene,
And yet it may be felt and seene.

Would I had the heart and wit
To make it stand, and coniure it,
    That haunts me thus with feare. 
Doubtlesse tis some harmlesse spright,
For it by day as well as night
    Is ready to appeare.
Be it friend, or be it foe,
Ere long Ile trie what it will doe.

So many loues haue I neglected
    Whose good parts might moue mee,
That now I liue of all reiected ;
    There is none will loue me.
Why is mayden heate so coy ?
    It freezeth when it burneth,
Looseth what it might inioy,
    And, hauing lost it, mourneth.

Should I then wooe, that haue beene wooed,
    Seeking them that flye mee ?
When I my faith with teares haue vowed,
    And when all denye mee,
Who will pitty my disgrace,
    Which loue might haue preuented ?
There is no submission base
    Where error is repented.

O happy men, whose hopes are licenc'd
    To discourse their passion,
While women are confin'd to silence,
    Loosing wisht occasion.
Yet our tongues then theirs, men say,
    Are apter to be mouing :
Women are more dumbe then they,
    But in their thoughts more rouing.

When I compare my former strangenesse
    With my present doting,
I pitty men that speake in plainenesse,
    Their true hearts deuoting ;
While wee with repentance iest
    At their submissiue passion.
Maydes, I see, are neuer blest
    That strange be but for fashion. 

Though your strangenesse frets my hart,
Yet may not I complaine :
You perswade me, 'tis but Art,
That secret loue must faine.
If another you affect,
Tis but a shew t'auoid suspect.
Is this faire excusing ?   O no, all is abusing.

Your wisht sight if I desire,
Suspitions you pretend,
Causelesse you your selfe retire,
While I in vaine attend.
This a Louer whets, you say,
Still made more eager by delay.
Is this faire excusing ?   O, no, all is abusing.

When another holds your hand,
You sweare I hold your hart :
When my Riuals close doe stand,
And I sit farre apart,
I am neerer yet then they,
Hid in your bosome, as you say.
Is this faire excusing ?   O no, all is abusing.

Would my Riual then I were,
Or els your secret friend :
So much lesser should I feare,
And not so much attend.
Then enioy you, eu'ry one,
Yet I must seeme your friend alone.
Is this faire excusing ?   O no, all is abusing. 

      Come away, arm'd with loues delights,
          Thy spritefull graces bring with thee,
      When loues longing fights,
          They must the sticklers be.
Come quickly, come, the promis'd houre is wel-nye spent,
And pleasure being too much deferr'd looseth her best content.

       Is shee come ?   O, how neare is shee ?
           How farre yet from this friendly place ?
       How many steps from me ?
           When shall I her imbrace ?
These armes Ile spred, which onely at her sight shall close,
Attending as the starry flowre that the Suns noone-tide knowes.

Come, you pretty false-ey'd wanton,
    Leaue your crafty smiling :
Thinke you to escape me now
    With slipp'ry words beguiling ?
No ;  you mockt me th'other day ;
    When you got loose, you fled away ;
But, since I haue caught you now,
    Ile clip your wings for flying :
Smothring kisses fast Ile heape,
    And keepe you so from crying.

Sooner may you count the starres,
    And number hayle down pouring,
Tell the Osiers of the Temmes,
    Or Goodwins Sands deuouring,
Then the thicke-showr'd kisses here
    Which now thy tyred lips must beare.
Such a haruest neuer was,
    So rich and full of pleasure,
But 'tis spent as soone as reapt,
    So trustlesse is loues treasure.

Would it were dumb midnight now,
    When all the world lyes sleeping :
Would this place some Desert were,
    Which no man hath in keeping.
My desires should then be safe,
    And when you cry'd then would I laugh :
But if ought might breed offence,
    Loue onely should be blamed :
I would liue your seruant still,
    And you my Saint vnnamed.

A secret loue or two I must confesse
    I kindly welcome for change in close playing,
Yet my deare husband I loue ne'erthelesse,
    His desires, whole or halfe, quickly allaying,
At all times ready to offer redresse :
    His owne he neuer wants but hath it duely,
    Yet twits me I keepe not touch with him truly.

The more a spring is drawne the more it flowes,
    No Lampe lesse light retaines by lightning others :
Is hee a looser his losse that nere knowes ? 
    Or is he wealthy that wast treasure smothers ?
My churl vowes no man shall sent his sweet Rose,
    His owne enough and more I giue him duely,
    Yet still he twits mee I keepe not touch truly.

Wise Archers beare more than one shaft to field,
    The Venturer loads not with one ware his shipping ;
Should Warriers learn but one weapon to weilde,
    Or thriue faire plants e'er the worse for the slipping ?
One dish cloyes, many fresh appetite yeeld :
    Mine own Ile vse, and his he shall haue duely,
    Iudge then what debter can keepe touch more truly.

Her rosie cheekes, her euer smiling eyes,
Are Spheares and beds where Loue in triumph lies :
Her rubine lips, when they their pearle vnlocke,
Make them seeme as they did rise
All out of one smooth Currall Rocke.
O that of other Creatures store I knew
More worthy, and more rare :
For these are old, and shee so new,
That her to them none should compare.

O could she loue, would shee but heare a friend ;
Or that she only knew what sighs pretend.
Her lookes inflame, yet cold as Ice is shee.
Doe or speake, all's to one end,
For what shee is that will shee be.
Yet will I neuer cease her prayse to sing,
Though she giues no regard :
For they that grace a worthlesse thing
Are onely greedy of reward.

Where shall I refuge seeke, if you refuse mee ?
In you my hope, in you my fortune lyes,
In you my life, though you vniust accuse me,
My seruice scorn, and merit vnderprise :
      O bitter griefe, that exile is become
      Reward for faith, and pittie deafe and dumbe.

Why should my firmnesse finde a seate so wau'ring ?
My simple vowes, my loue you entertain'd ;
Without desert the same againe disfau'ring ;
Yet I my word and passion hold vnstain'd.
      Oh wretched me, that my chiefe ioy should breede
      My onely griefe and kindnesse pitty neede !