MENAPHON'S SONG IN HIS BED.
You restless cares, companions of the night,
That wrap my joys in folds of endless woes,
Tire on my heart, and wound it with your spite,
Since love and fortune prove* my equal foes:
Farewell my hopes, farewell my happy days;
Welcome sweet grief, the subject of my lays.
Mourn heavens, mourn earth; your shepherd is forlorn;
Mourn times and hours, since bale invades my bower;
Curse every tongue the place where I was born,
Curse every thought the life which makes me lour:
Farewell my hopes, farewell my happy days;
Welcome sweet grief, the subject of my lays.
Was I not free? was I not fancy's aim?
Fram'd not desire my face to front disdain ?
I was; she did; but now one silly maim
Makes me to droop, as he whom love hath slain :
Farewell my hopes, farewell my happy days;
Welcome sweet grief, the subject of my lays.
Yet drooping, and yet living to this death,
I sigh, I sue for pity at her shrine,
Whose fiery eyes exhale my vital breath,
And make my flocks with parching heat to pine:
Farewell my hopes, farewell my happy days;
Welcome sweet grief, the subject of my lays.
Fade they, die I: long may she live to bliss,
That feeds a wanton fire with fuel of her form,
* prove] The 4to. of 1589 “proves."
And makes perpetual summer where she is ;
Whiles I do cry, o'ertook with envy's storm,
Farewell my hopes, farewell my happy days;
Welcome sweet grief, the subject of my lays.
FAIR fields, proud Flora's vaunt, why is't you smile,
Whenas I languish?
You golden meads, why strive you to beguile
My weeping anguish ?
I live to sorrow, you to pleasure spring:
Why do you spring thus ?
What, will not Boreas, tempest's wrathful king,
Take some pity on us,
And send forth winter in her rusty weed,
To wail* my bemoanings,
Whiles I distress'd do tune my country reed
Unto my groanings?
But heaven, and earth, time, place, and every power
Have with her conspir'd
To turn my blissful sweets to baleful sour,
The heaven whereto my thoughts may not aspire.
Aye me, unhappy!
It was my fault t' embrace my bane, the fire
That forceth me die.
Mine be the pain, but her's the cruel cause
Of this strange torment;
Wherefore no time my banning prayers shall
Till proud she repent.
*wail] The 4to. of 1589 "waite."
Too weak the wit, too slender is the brain,
That means to mark the power and worth of love;
Not one that lives, except he hap to prove,
Can tell the sweet, or tell the secret pain.
Yet I that have been 'prentice to the grief,
Like to the cunning sea-man from afar,
By guess will take* the beauty of that star,
Whose influence must yield me chief relief.
You censors of the glory of my dear,
With reverence and lowly bent of knee,
Attend and mark what her perfections be;
For in my words my fancies shall appear.
Her locks are plighted like the fleece of wool
That Jason with his Grecian mates atchiev'd ;+
As pure as gold, yet not from gold deriv'd;
As full of sweets, as sweet of sweets is full.
Her brows are pretty tables of conceit,
Where love his records of delight doth quote;
On them her dallying locks do daily float,
As love full oft doth feed upon the bait.
* take] The 4to. of 1589 "talk."
+ Her locks are plighted like the fleece of wool,
That Jason with his Grecian mates atchiev'd] It is possible that Shakespeare recollected these lines, when he wrote the following;
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece;
Which makes her seat of Belmont, Colchos' strand,
And many Jasons come in quest of her."
Merchant of Venice, Act i. sc. 1.
Plighted is twisted, braided.
Her eyes, fair eyes, like to the purest lights
That animate the sun, or cheer the day;
In whom the shining sunbeams brightly play,
Whiles fancy doth on them divine delights.
Her cheeks like ripen'd lilies steep'd in wine,
Or fair pomegranate kernels wash'd in milk,
Or snow-white threads in nets of crimson silk,
Or
gorgeous clouds upon the sun's decline.
Her lips are roses over-wash'd with dew,
Or like the purple of Narcissus' flower;
No frost their fair,* no wind doth waste their
But by her breath her beauties do renew.
Her crystal chin like to the purest mould,
Enchas'd with dainty daisies soft and white,
Where fancy's fair pavilion once is pight,†
Whereas embrac'd his beauties he doth hold.
Her neck like to an ivory shining tower,
Where through with azure veins sweet nectar runs,
Or like the down of swans where Senesse woons,‡
Or like delight that doth itself devour.
Her paps are like fair apples in the prime,
As round as orient pearls, as soft as down;
They never vail§ their fair through winter's frown,
But from their sweets love suck'd his summer time.
Her body beauty's best esteemed bower,
Delicious, comely, dainty, without stain;
The thought whereof (not touch) hath wrought my Whose fair all fair and beauties doth devour.
* fair] See note ‡ vol. i. p. 61.
+ pight] i. e. pitched.
§ vail] i. e. lower, let down. Fr. avaler.
Her maiden mount, the dwelling house of pleasure;
Not like, for why no like surpasseth wonder:
O blest is he may bring such beauties under,
Or search by suit the secrets of that treasure!
Devour'd in thought, how wanders my device!
What rests behind I must divine upon :
Who talks the best, can say but fairer none;
Few words well couch'd do most content the wise.
All you that hear, let not my silly style
Condemn my zeal, for what my tongue should say, Serves to enforce my thoughts to seek the way Whereby my woes and cares I do beguile.
Seld speaketh love, but sighs his secret pains;
Tears are his truchmen,+ words do make him tremble:
How sweet is love to them that can dissemble
In thoughts and looks, till they have reap'd the gains!
All lonely I complain, and what I say
I think, yet what I think tongue cannot tell:
Sweet censors, take my silly worst for well;
My faith is firm, though homely be my lay.
WHAT need compare, where sweet exceeds compare?
Who draws his thoughts of love from senseless things,
Their pomp and greatest glories doth impair,
And mounts love's heaven with over-laden wings.
*his] The 4to. "her."
t truchmen] i. e. interpreters.
complain] Both 4tos. "am plaine."
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