141 |
In faith, I do not love thee with mine
eyes, |
For they in thee a thousand errors note ; |
But 'tis my heart that loves what they
despise, |
Who in despite of view is pleased to
dote. |
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune
delighted, |
Nor tender feeling to base touches prone
; |
Nor taste nor smell desire to be invited |
To any sensual feast with thee alone ; |
But my five wits nor my five senses can |
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving
thee, |
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a
man, |
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal-wretch
to be. |
Only my plague thus far I
count my gain : |
That she that makes me sin
awards me pain.
|
142 |
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, |
Hate of my sin grounded on sinful loving. |
O, but with mine compare thou thine own
state, |
And thou shalt find it merits not
reproving ; |
Or if it do, not from those lips of thine |
That have profaned their scarlet
ornaments |
And sealed false bonds of love as oft as
mine, |
Robbed others' beds' revenues of their
rents. |
Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov'st
those |
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune
thee. |
Root pity in thy heart, that when it
grows |
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be. |
If thou dost seek to have
what thou dost hide, |
By self example mayst thou
be denied !
|
143 |
Lo, as a care-full housewife runs to
catch |
One of her feathered creatures broke
away, |
Sets down her babe and makes all swift
dispatch |
In pursuit of the thing she would have
stay, |
Whilst her neglected child holds her in
chase, |
Cries to catch her whose busy care is
bent |
To follow that which flies before her
face, |
Not prizing her poor infant's discontent
: |
So runn'st thou after that which flies
from thee, |
Whilst I, thy babe, chase thee afar
behind ; |
But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to
me |
And play the mother's part : kiss me, be
kind. |
So will I pray that thou
mayst have thy Will |
If thou turn back and my
loud crying still.
|
144 |
Two loves I have, of comfort and despair, |
Which like two spirits do suggest me
still. |
The better angel is a man right fair, |
The worser spirit a woman coloured ill. |
To win me soon to hell my female evil |
Tempteth my better angel from my side, |
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, |
Wooing his purity with her foul pride ; |
And whether that my angel be turned fiend |
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell ; |
But being both from me, both to each
friend, |
I guess one angel in another's hell. |
Yet this shall I ne'er know,
but live in doubt |
Till my bad angel fire my
good one out.
|
145 |
Those lips that love's own hand did make |
Breathed forth the sound that said ‘I
hate’ |
To me that languished for her sake ; |
But when she saw my woeful state, |
Straight in her heart did mercy come, |
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet |
Was used in giving gentle doom, |
And taught it thus anew to greet : |
‘I hate’ she altered with an end |
That followed it as gentle day |
Doth follow night who, like a fiend, |
From heaven to hell is flown away. |
‘I hate’ from hate away
she threw, |
And saved my life, saying
‘not you.’
|
146 |
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, |
[ ] these rebel powers that thee array ; |
Why dost thou pine within and suffer
dearth, |
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay
? |
Why so large cost, having so short a
lease, |
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ? |
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, |
Eat up thy charge ? is this thy body's
end ? |
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's
loss, |
And let that pine to aggravate thy store. |
Buy terms divine in selling hours of
dross ; |
Within be fed, without be rich no more. |
So shalt thou feed on death,
that feeds on men, |
And death once dead, there's
no more dying then.
|
147 |
My love is as a fever, longing still |
For that which longer nurseth the
disease, |
Feeding on that which doth preserve the
ill, |
Th'uncertain sickly appetite to please. |
My reason, the physician to my love, |
Angry that his prescriptions are not
kept, |
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve |
Desire is death, which physic did except. |
Past cure I am, now reason is past care, |
And frantic mad with evermore unrest. |
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's
are, |
At random from the truth vainly expressed
; |
For I have sworn thee fair,
and thought thee bright, |
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
|
148 |
O me, what eyes hath love put in my head, |
Which have no correspondence with true
sight ! |
Or if they have, where is my judgement
fled, |
That censures falsely what they see
aright ? |
If that be fair whereon my false eyes
dote, |
What means the world to say it is not so
? |
If it be not, then love doth well denote |
Love's eye is not so true as all men's.
No, |
How can it, O, how can love's eye be
true, |
That is so vexed with watching and with
tears ? |
No marvel then though I mistake my view : |
The sun itself sees not till heaven
clears. |
O cunning love, with tears
thou keep'st me blind |
Lest eyes, well seeing, thy
foul faults should find !
|
149 |
Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not |
When I against myself with thee partake ? |
Do I not think on thee when I forgot |
Am of myself, all-tyrant, for thy sake ? |
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend
? |
On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon
? |
Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not
spend |
Revenge upon myself with present moan ? |
What merit do I in myself respect |
That is so proud thy service to despise, |
When all my best doth worship thy defect, |
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes ? |
But, love, hate on ; for now
I know thy mind. |
Those that can see thou
lov'st, and I am blind.
|
150 |
O, from what power hast thou this powerful
might |
With insufficiency my heart to sway, |
To make me give the lie to my true sight |
And swear that brightness doth not grace
the day ? |
Whence hast thou this becoming of things
ill, |
That in the very refuse of thy deeds |
There is such strength and warrantise of
skill |
That in my mind thy worst all best
exceeds ? |
Who taught thee how to make me love thee
more |
The more I hear and see just cause of
hate ? |
O, though I love what others do abhor, |
With others thou shouldst not abhor my
state. |
If thy unworthiness raised
love in me, |
More worthy I to be beloved
of thee.
|