English

Stella , think not that I by verse seek fame,
Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee;
Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my history;
If thou praise not, all other praise is shame.
Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame
A nest for my young praise in laurel tree;
In truth I swear, I wish not there should be
Graved in mine epitaph a poet's name:
Ne if I would, could I just title make,
That any laud to me thereof should grow,
Without my plumes from others' wings I take.

Now that of absence the most irksome night
With darkest shade doth overcome my day;
Since Stella 's eyes, wont to give me my day,
Leaving my hemisphere, leave me in night;
Each day seems long, and longs for long-stayed night;
The night, as tedious, woos th'approach of day;
Tired with the dusty toils of busy day,
Languished with horrors of the silent night,
Suff'ring the ills both of the day and night,
While no night is more dark than is my day,
Nor no day hath less quiet than my night:

When I was forced from Stella ever dear,
Stella , food of my thoughts, heart of my heart,
Stella , whose eyes make all my tempests clear,
By iron laws of duty to depart;
Alas, I found that she with me did smart,
I saw that tears did in her eyes appear;
I saw that sighs her sweetest lips did part,
And her sad words my sadded sense did hear.
For me, I wept to see pearls scattered so,
I sighed her sighs, and wailed for her woe,
Yet swam in joy, such love in her was seen.

Go, my flock, go get you hence,
Seek a better place of feeding,
Where you may have some defence
From the storms in my breast breeding,
And showers from mine eyes proceeding.

Leave a wretch, in whom all woe
Can abide to keep no measure;
Merry flock, such one forgo,
Unto whom mirth is displeasure,
Only rich in mischief's treasure.

Yet, alas, before you go,
Hear your woeful master's story,
Which to stones I else would show:
Sorrow only then hath glory,
When 'tis excellently sorry.

While favour fed my hope, delight with hope was brought,
Thought waited on delight, and speech did follow thought;
Then grew my tongue and pen records unto thy glory:
I thought all words were lost, that were not spent of thee;
I thought each place was dark but where thy lights would be,
And all ears worse than deaf, that heard not out thy story.

I said thou wert most fair, and so indeed thou art;
I said thou wert most sweet, sweet poison to my heart;
I said my soul was thine (O that I then had lied);

Good brother Philip , I have borne you long;
I was content you should in favour creep,
While craftily you seemed your cut to keep,
As though that fair soft hand did you great wrong.
I bare (with envy) yet I bare your song,
When in her neck you did love-ditties peep;
Nay, more fool I, oft suffered you to sleep
In lilies' nest, where Love's self lies along.
What, doth high place ambitious thoughts augment?
Is sauciness reward of courtesy?
Cannot such grace your silly self content,

Sweet swelling lip, well mayst thou swell in pride,
Since best wits think it wit thee to admire;
Nature's praise, virtue's stall, Cupid 's cold fire,
Whence words, not words, but heav'nly graces slide;
The new Parnassus , where the Muses bide;
Sweet'ner of music, wisdom's beautifier;
Breather of life, and fast'ner of desire,
Where beauty's blush in honour's grain is dyed.
Thus much my heart compelled my mouth to say,
But now, spite of my heart, my mouth will stay,

Sweet kiss, thy sweets I fain would sweetly indite,
Which e'en of sweetness sweetest sweet'ner art:
Pleasing'st consort, where each sense holds a part,
Which, coupling doves, guides Venus' chariot right;
Best charge, and bravest retreat in Cupid 's fight;
A double key, which opens to the heart,
Most rich, when most his riches it impart;
Nest of young joys, schoolmaster of delight,
Teaching the mean, at once to take and give;
The friendly fray, where blows both wound and heal;

Those looks, whose beams be joy, whose motion is delight;
That face, whose lecture shows what perfect beauty is;
That presence, which doth give dark hearts a living light;
That grace, which Venus weeps that she herself doth miss;
That hand, which without touch holds more than Atlas ' might;
Those lips, which make death's pay a mean price for a kiss;
That skin, whose past-praise hue scorns this poor term of white;
Those words, which do sublime the quintessence of bliss;
That voice, which makes the soul plant himself in the ears;

She comes, and straight therewith her shining twins do move
Their rays to me, who in her tedious absence lay
Benighted in cold woe; but now appears my day,
The only light of joy, the only warmth of love.
She comes with light and warmth, which like Aurora prove
Of gentle force, so that mine eyes dare gladly play
With such a rosy morn, whose beams most freshly gay
Scorch not, but only do dark chilling sprites remove.
But lo, while I do speak, it groweth noon with me,