English

Let not one sparke of filthy lustfull fyre
Breake out, that may her sacred peace molest:
Ne one light glance of sensuall desyre
Attempt to work her gentle mindes unrest.
But pure affections bred in spotlesse brest,
And modest thoughts breathd from wel tempred sprites
Goe visit her in her chast bowre of rest,
Accompanyde with angelick delightes.
There fill your selfe with those most joyous sights,
The which my selfe could never yet attayne:
But speake no word to her of these sad plights,

Joy of my life, full oft for loving you
I blesse my lot, that was so lucky placed:
But then the more your owne mishap I rew,
That are so much by so meane love embased.
For had the equall hevens so much you graced
In this as in the rest, ye mote invent
Som hevenly wit, whose verse could have enchased
Your glorious name in golden moniment.
But since ye deignd so goodly to relent
To me your thrall, in whom is little worth,
That little that I am, shall all be spent,
In setting your immortall prayses forth.

Fair is my love, when her fair golden hairs
With the loose wind ye waving chance to mark;
Fair, when the rose in her red cheeks appears;
Or in her eyes the fire of love does spark.
Fair, when her breast, like a rich-laden bark,
With precious merchandise she forth doth lay;
Fair, when that cloud of pride, which oft doth dark
Her goodly light, with smiles she drives away.
But fairest she, when so she doth display
The gate with pearls and rubies richly dight,
Through which her words so wise do make their way

After so long a race as I have run
Through Faery land, which those six books compile,
Give leave to rest me being halfe fordonne,
And gather to my selfe new breath awhile.
Then as a steed refreshed after toyle,
Out of my prison I will breake anew:
And stoutly will that second worke assoyle,
With strong endevour and attention dew.
Till then give leave to me in pleasant mew,
To sport my muse and sing my loves sweet praise:
The contemplation of whose heavenly hew,
My spirit to an higher pitch will rayse.

Men call you fair, and you do credit it,
For that yourself ye daily such do see:
But the true fair, that is the gentle wit
And virtuous mind, is much more praised of me:
For all the rest, however fair it be,
Shall turn to naught and lose that glorious hue;
But only that is permanent and free
From frail corruption that doth flesh ensue.
That is true beauty; that doth argue you
To be divine, and born of heavenly seed;
Derived from that fair Spirit from whom all true
And perfect beauty did at first proceed:

Lackyng my love I go from place to place,
Lyke a young fawne that late hath lost the hynd:
And seeke each where, where last I sawe her face,
Whose ymage yet I carry fresh in mynd.
I seeke the fields with her late footing synd,
I seeke her bowre with her late presence deckt,
Yet nor in field nor bowre I her can fynd:
Yet field and bowre are full of her aspect.
But when myne eyes I thereunto direct,
They ydly back returne to me agayne,
And when I hope to see theyr trew object,
I fynd my selfe but fed with fancies vayne.

Was it a dreame, or did I see it playne,
A goodly table of pure yvory:
All spred with juncats, fit to entertayne,
The greatest Prince with pompous roialty.
Mongst which there in a silver dish did ly,
Twoo golden apples of unvalewd price:
Far passing those which Hercules came by,
Or those which Atalanta did entice.
Exceeding sweet, yet voyd of sinfull vice,
That many sought yet none could ever taste,
Sweet fruit of pleasure brought from paradice
By love himselfe and in his garden plaste.

Fayre bosome fraught with vertues richest tresure,
The neast of love, the lodging of delight:
The bowre of blisse, the paradice of pleasure,
The sacred harbour of that hevenly spright.
How was I ravisht with your lovely sight,
And my frayle thoughts too rashly led astray?
Whiles diving deepe through amorous insight,
On the sweet spoyle of beautie they did pray.
And twixt her paps like early fruit in May,
Whose harvest seemd to hasten now apace:
They loosely did theyr wanton winges display,

One day I wrote her name upon the strand;
But came the waves, and washed it away:
Again, I wrote it with a second hand;
But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
Vain man, said she, that dost in vain assay
A mortal thing so to immortalize;
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eke my name be wiped out likewise.
Not so, quoth I; let baser thins devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:

My verse your virtues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens write your glorious name.

Most happy letters fram'd by skilfull trade,
With which that happy name was first desynd:
The which three times thrise happy hath me made,
With guifts of body, fortune and of mind.
The first my being to me gave by kind,
From mothers womb deriv'd by dew descent,
The second is my sovereigne Queene most kind,
That honour and large richesse to me lent.
The third my love, my lives last ornament,
By whom my spirit out of dust was raysed:
To speake her prayse and glory excellent,
Of all alive most worthy to be praysed.