Amoretti: Five Sonnets (Second Series)

Lacking my love, I go from place to place,
Like a young fawn, that late hath lost the hind;
And seek each where, where last I saw her face,
Whose image yet I carry fresh in mind.
I seek the fields with her late footing signed;
I seek her bower with her late presence deck’d;
Yet nor in field nor bower I her can find;
Yet field and bower are full of her aspect:
But, when mine eyes I thereunto direct,
They idly back return to me again:
And, when I hope to see their true object,
I find myself but fed with fancies vain.
  Cease then, mine eyes, to seek herself to see;
  And let my thoughts behold herself in me.

Fresh Spring, the herald of love’s mighty king,
In whose coat-armour richly are displayed
All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring,
In goodly colours gloriously arrayed;
Go to my love, where she is careless laid,
Yet in her winter’s bower not well awake;
Tell her the joyous time will not be stayed,
Unless she do him by the forelock take;
Bid her therefore herself soon ready make,
To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew;
Where every one, that misseth then her make,
Shall be by him amerced with penance due.
  Make haste, therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime;
  For none can call again the passed time.

Men call you fair, and you do credit it,
For that yourself ye daily such do see:
But the true fair, that is the gentle wit,
And virtuous mind, is much more praised of me:
For all the rest, however fair it be,
Shall turn to naught and lose that glorious hue;
But only that is permanent and free
From frail corruption, that doth flesh ensue.
That is true beauty: that doth argue you
To be divine, and born of heavenly seed; —
Deriv’d from that fair Spirit, from whom all true
And perfect beauty did at first proceed:
  He only fair, and what He fair hath made;
  All other fair, like flowers, untimely fade.

What guile is this, that those her golden tresses
She doth attire under a net of gold;
And with sly skill so cunningly them dresses,
That which is gold, or hair, may scarce be told?
Is it that men’s frail eyes, which gaze too bold,
She may entangle in that golden snare;
And, being caught, may craftily enfold
Their weaker hearts, which are not well aware?
Take heed, therefore, mine eyes, how ye do stare
Henceforth too rashly on that guileful net,
In which, if ever ye entrapped are,
Out of her bands ye by no means shall get.
  Fondness it were for any, being free,
  To covet fetters, though they golden be!

Mark when she smiles with amiable cheer,
And tell me whereto can ye liken it;
When on each eyelid sweetly do appear
An hundred graces as in shade to sit.
Likest it seemeth, in my simple wit,
Unto the fair sunshine in summer’s day;
That, when a dreadful storm away is flit,
Through the broad world doth spread his goodly ray;
At sight whereof, each bird that sits on spray,
And every beast that to his den was fled,
Comes forth afresh out of their late dismay,
And to the light lift up their drooping head.
  So my storm-beaten heart likewise is cheered
  With that sunshine, when cloudy looks are cleared.