Oh, these, and none but these, have wreck'd my youth!
Misled by them, I may despairing cry,
Wo worth the faults and follies of mine eye!
By these I slipp'd from virtue's holy track,
That leads unto the highest crystal sphere;
By these I fell to vanity and wrack,
And as a man forlorn with sin and fear,
Despair and sorrow doth constrain me cry,
Wo worth the faults and follies of mine eye!
THE PENITENT PALMER'S ODE.
WHILOM in the winter's rage,
A palmer old and full of age,
Sat and thought upon his youth,
With eyes' tears, and heart's ruth;
Being all with cares y-blent,*
When he thought on years mispent.
When his follies came to mind,
How fond love had made him blind,
And wrapt him in a field of woes,
Shadowed with pleasure's shows,
Then he sigh'd, and said, alas,
Man is sin, and flesh is grass!
I thought my mistress' hairs were gold,
And in their locks my heart I fold;
Her amber tresses were the sight
That wrapped me in vain delight:
Her ivory front, her pretty chin
Were stales that drew me on to sin :
Her starry looks, her crystal eyes,
Brighter than the sun's arise,
*y-blent] i. e. confounded: see note ‡ vol. i.
Sparkling pleasing flames of fire,
Yok'd my thoughts and my desire,
That I 'gan cry ere I blin,*
O, her eyes are paths to sin!
Her face was fair, her breath was sweet,
All her looks for love were † meet;
But love is folly, this I know,
And beauty fadeth like to snow.
O, why should man delight in pride,
Whose blossom like a dew doth glide!
When these supposes touch'd my thought,
That world was vain and beauty nought,
I 'gan sigh, and say, alas,
Man is sin, and flesh is grass!
No storm so sharp to rent the little reed,
For sild it breaks though every way it bend;
The fire may heat but not consume the flint;
The gold in furnace purer is indeed;
Report, that sild to honour is a friend,
May many lies against true meaning mint,
But yet at last
'Gainst slander's blast
Truth doth the silly sackless soul defend.
Though false reproach seeks honour to distain, And envy bites the bud though ne'er so pure; Though lust doth seek to blemish chaste desire,
Yet truth that brooks not falsehood's slanderous stain,
Nor can the spite of envy's wrath endure,
Will try true love from lust in justice' fire,
And, maugre all,
The guiltless soul that keeps his footing sure.
Where innocence triumpheth in her prime,
And guilt cannot approach the honest mind;
Where chaste intent is free from any miss,
Though envy strive, yet searching time
With piercing insight will the truth outfind,
And make discovery who the guilty is;
For time still tries
And God makes open what the world doth blind.
MADE IN THE PRIME OF HIS PENANCE.
WITH Sweating brows I long have plough'd the sands;
My seed was youth, my crop was endless care;
Repent hath sent me home with empty hands
At last, to tell how rife our follies are;
And time hath left experience to approve
The gain is grief to those that traffic love.
The silent thoughts of my repentant years
That fill my head have call'd me home at last;
Now love unmask'd a wanton wretch appears,
Begot by guileful thought with over haste;
In prime of youth a rose, in age a weed,
That for a minute's joy pays endless need.
thoughts] The 4to. "thought."
Dead to delights, a foe to fond conceit,
Allied to wit by want and sorrow bought,
Farewell, fond youth, long foster'd in deceit;
Forgive me, time, disguis'd in idle thought;
And, love, adieu: lo, hasting to mine end,
I find no time too late for to amend!
REASON, that long in prison of my will
Hast wept thy mistress' wants and loss of time,
Thy wonted siege of honour safely climb,
To thee I yield as guilty of mine ill.
Lo, fetter'd in their tears, mine eyes are prest †
To pay due homage to their native guide:
My wretched heart wounded with bad betide
To crave his peace from reason is addrest.
My thoughts asham'd, since by themselves consum'd,
Have done their duty to repentant wit:
Asham'd of all, sweet guide, I sorry sit,
To see in youth how I too far presum'd.
Thus he whom love and error did betray,
Subscribes to thee, and takes the better way.
EURYMACHUS' FANCY IN THE PRIME OF HIS AFFECTION.
WHEN lordly Saturn, in a sable robe,
Sat full of frowns and mourning in the west,
The evening star scarce peep'd from out her lodge,
And Phoebus newly gallop'd to his rest;
Within my boat sit in the silent streams,
All void of cares as he that lies and dreams.
As Phaon, so a ferryman I was ;
The country lasses said, I was too fair :
With easy toil I labour'd at mine oar,
To pass from side to side who did repair;
And then
For pains take pence, and Charon-like transport
As soon the swain as men of high import.
When want of work did give me leave to rest,
My sport was catching of the wanton fish:
So did I wear the tedious time away,
And with my labour mended oft my dish;
For why
I thought
That idle hours were calendars of ruth,
And time ill-spent was prejudice to youth.
I scorn'd to love; for were the nymph as fair
As she that lov'd the beauteous Latmian swain,
Her face, her eyes, her tresses, nor her brows
Like ivory, could my affection gain;
With high disdain, love is a base desire,
And Cupid's flames, why, they're but watery fire.
As thus I sat, disdaining of proud love,
Have over, ferryman, there cried a boy;
And with him was a paragon for hue,
A lovely damsel, beauteous and coy;
And there
A maiden, cover'd with a tawny veil,
Her face unseen for breeding lovers' bale.
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