PASSIONS are liken'd best to floods and streams,
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb :
So when affections yield discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come ;
They that are rich in words must needs discover
They are but poor in that which makes a lover.
Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart,
The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart
That sues for no compassion.
Since if my plaints were not t' approve
The conquest of thy beauty,
It comes not from defect of love,
But fear t' exceed my duty.
For not knowing that I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection
As all desire, but none deserve
A place in her affection;
I rather choose to want relief,
Than venture the revealing;
Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair disdains the healing.
Silence in love betrays more woe
Than words, though ne'er so witty;
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity.
Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,
My love for secret passion;
He smarteth most who hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.
A VISION UPON THE FAIRY QUEEN.
METHOUGHT I saw the grave where Laura lay,
Within that temple where the vestal flame
Was wont to burn: and passing by that way
To see that buried dust of living fame,
Whose tomb fair Love, and fairer Virtue kept,
All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen,
At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept ;
And from thenceforth those Graces were not seen,
For they this Queen attended; in whose stead
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse.
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed,
And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce,
Where Homer's spright did tremble all for grief,
And curs'd th' access of that celestial thief.
THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE.
Melibacus. SHEPHERD, what's love? I pray thee tell.
Faustus. It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell;
It is, perhaps, that sauncing bell
That tolls all into heav'n or hell,
And this is love as I heard tell.
Meli. Yet, what is love? I prithee say.
Faus. It is a work on holiday;
It is December match'd with May,
When lusty blood's in fresh array,
And this is love as I hear say.
Meli. Yet, what is love? good shepherd, saine !
Faus. It is a sunshine mixt with rain;
It is a toothache, or like pain;
It is a game where none doth gain;
The lass saith no, and would full fain !—
And this is love as I hear saine.
Meli. Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray?
Faus. It is a yea, it is a nay,
A pretty kind of sporting fray;
It is a thing will soon away;
Then nymphs take 'vantage while you may !-
And this is love as I hear say.
Meli. Yet, what is love? good shepherd, show!
Paus. A thing that creeps, it cannot go ;
A prize that passeth to and fro;
A thing for one, a thing for moe,
And he that proves shall find it so ;
And, shepherd, this is love, I trow.
HIS LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL.
SHALL I, like a hermit, dwell
On a rock, or in a cell,
Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival every day!
If she undervalue me,
What care I how fair she be !
Were her tresses angel gold,
If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebuked, unafraid,
To convert them to a braid;
And with little more ado
Work them into bracelets, too!
If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be?
Were her hand as rich a prize
As her hairs, or precious eyes,
If she lay them out to take
Kisses, for good manners' sake;
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip;
If she seem not chaste to me,
What care I how chaste she be?
No; she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show;
Warming but as snow-balls do,
Not like fire, by burning too ;
But when she by change hath got
To her heart a second lot,
Then, if others share with me,
Farewell her, whate'er she be !
Go, Soul, the body's guest,
Upon a thankless errand,
Fear not to touch the best,
The truth shall be thy warrant;
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.
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