VOW TO LOVE FAITHFULLY,
HOWSOEVER HE BE REWARDED.
ET me whereas the sun doth parch the green,
Or where his beams do not dissolve the ice;,
In temperate heat, where he is felt and seen;
In presence prest of people mad or wise;
Set me in high, or yet in low degree;
In longest night, or in the shortest day;
In clearest sky, or where clouds thickest be;
In lusty youth, or when my hairs are gray :
Set me in heaven, in earth, or else in hell,
In hill, or dale, or in the foaming flood ;
Thrall, or at large, alive whereso I dwell,
Sick, or in health, in evil fame, or good,
Hers will I be; and only with this thought
Content myself, although my chance be nought.
PRAISE OF CERTAIN PSALMS OF DAVID
TRANSLATED BY SIR T. W. THE ELDER.
THE great Macedon that out of Persia chased
Darius, of whose huge power all Asia rung,
In the rich ark Dan Homer's rimes he placed,
Who feigned gests of heathen princes sung.
What holy grave, what worthy sepulture,
To Wyat's Psalms should Christians then purchase?
Where he doth paint the lively faith and pure,
The steadfast hope, the sweet return to grace
Of just David, by perfect penitence;
Where rulers may see in a mirror clear
The bitter fruit of false concupiscence;
How Jewry bought Uriah's death full dear.
In princes' hearts God's scourge imprinted deep,
Ought them awake out of their sinful sleep.
EARL OF SURREY 1516?-1547
NORFOLK sprung thee, Lambeth holds thee dead;
Clere, of the Count of Cleremont, thou hight;
Within the womb of Ormond's race thou bred,
And saw'st thy cousin crownèd in thy sight.
Shelton for love, Surrey for lord thou chase,
(Ay me! whilst life did last that league was tender)
Tracing whose steps thou sawest Kelsal blaze,
Landrecy burnt, and battered Boulogne render.
At Montreuil gates, hopeless of all recure,
Thine earl, half dead, gave in thy hand his will;
Which cause did thee this pining death procure,
Ere summers four times seven thou couldst fulfil.
Ah, Clere! if love had booted care or cost,
Heaven had not won, nor earth so timely lost.
OF SARDANAPALUS' DISHONOURABLE LIFE
`H' Assyrian king, in peace, with foul desire
And filthy lusts that stained his regal heart;
In war, that should set princely hearts on fire,
Did yield, vanquished for want of martial art.
The dint of swords from kisses seemèd strange,
And harder than his lady's side his targe;
From glutton feasts to soldier's fare a change;
His helmet far above a garland's charge:
Who scarce the name of manhood did retain,
Drenched in sloth and womanish delight,
Feeble of spirit, impatient of pain,
When he had lost his honour and his right,
(Proud time of wealth, in storms appalled with dread,)
Murthered himself, to show some manful deed.
HAPPY, ye leaves! whenas those lily hands,
Which hold my life in their dead-doing might,
Shall handle you, and hold in love's soft bands,
Like captives trembling at the victor's sight;
And happy lines! on which, with starry light,
Those lamping eyes will deign sometimes to look,
And read the sorrows of my dying spright,
Written with tears in heart's close-bleeding book;
And happy rimes! bathed in the sacred brook
Of Helicon, whence she derivèd is ;—
When ye behold that Angel's blessèd look,
My soul's long-lackèd food, my heaven's bliss,
Leaves, lines, and rimes, seek her to please alone,
Whom if ye please, I care for other none.
RUDELY thou wrongest my dear heart's desire,
In finding fault with her too portly pride:
The thing which I do most in her admire,
Is of the world unworthy most envied;
For in those lofty looks is close implied
Scorn of base things, and sdeign of foul dishonour,
Threatening rash eyes which gaze on her so wide,
That loosely they ne dare to look upon her.
Such pride is praise, such portliness is honour,
That boldened innocence bears in her eyes;
And her fair countenance, like a goodly banner,
Spreads in defiance of all enemies.
Was never in this world ought worthy tried,
Without some spark of such self-pleasing pride.
MORE than most fair, full of the living fire
Kindled above unto the Maker near:
No eyes but joys, in which all powers conspire
That to the world nought else be counted dear!
Through your bright beams doth not the blinded guest
Shoot out his dart to base affections wound;
But angels come to lead frail minds to rest
In chaste desires, on heavenly beauty bound.
You frame my thoughts, and fashion me within;
You stop my tongue, and teach my heart to speak;
You calm the storm that passion did begin,
Strong through your cause, but by your virtue weak.
Dark is the world where your light shinèd never;
Well is he born that may behold you ever.
THE glorious portrait of that Angel's face,
Made to amaze weak men's confusèd skill,
And this world's worthless glory to embase;
What pen, what pencil, can express her fill?
For though he colours could devise at will,
And eke his learnèd hand at pleasure guide,
Lest, trembling, it his workmanship should spill,
Yet many wondrous things there are beside :-
The sweet eye-glances that like arrows glide,
The charming smiles that rob sense from the heart,
The lovely pleasance, and the lofty pride,
Cannot expressèd be by any art.
A greater craftsman's hand thereto doth need
That can express the life of things indeed.
HIS holy season, fit to fast and
Men to devotion ought to be inclined :
Therefore I likewise on so holy day
For my sweet Saint some service fit will find.
Her temple fair is built within my mind,
In which her glorious image placed is,
On which my thoughts do day and night attend,
Like sacred priests that never think amiss!
There I to her, as th' author of my bliss,
Will build an altar to appease her ire,
And on the same my heart will sacrifice,
Burning in flames of pure and chaste desire :
The which vouchsafe, O goddess, to accept,
Amongst thy dearest relics to be kept.
LIKE as a ship that through the ocean wide,
By conduct of some star, doth make her way,
Whenas a storm hath dimmed her trusty guide,
Out of her course doth wander far astray,-
So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray
Me to direct, with clouds is overcast,
Do wander now in darkness and dismay,
Through hidden perils round about me placed;
Yet hope I well that, when this storm is past,
My Helice, the lodestar of my life,
Will shine again, and look on me at last,
With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief.
Till then I wander careful, comfortless,
In secret sorrow and sad pensiveness.
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