English

Being my selfe captyved here in care,
My hart, whom none with servile bands can tye:
But the fayre tresses of your golden hayre,
Breaking his prison forth to you doth fly.
Lyke as a byrd that in ones hand doth spy
Desired food, to it doth make his flight:
Even so my hart, that wont on your fayre eye
To feed his fill, flyes backe unto your sight.
Doe you him take, and in your bosome bright,
Gently encage, that he may be your thrall:
Perhaps he there may learne with rare delight,
To sing your name and prayses over all.

Oft, when my spirit doth spread her bolder wings,
In mind to mount up to the purest sky,
It down is weighed with thought of earthly things,
And clogged with burden of mortality;
Where, when that sovereign beauty it doth spy,
Resembling heaven's glory in her light,
Drawn with sweet pleasure's bait, it back doth fly,
And unto heaven forgets her former flight.
There my frail fancy, fed with full delight,
Both bathe in bliss, and mantleth most at ease;
Ne thinks of other heaven, but how it might

I joy to see how in your drawen work,
Your selfe unto the Bee ye doe compare;
And me unto the Spyder that doth lurke,
In close awayt to catch her unaware.
Right so your selfe were caught in cunning snare
Of a deare foe, and thralled to his love:
In whose streight bands ye now captived are
So firmely, that ye never may remove.
But as your worke is woven all about,
With woodbynd flowers and fragrant Eglantine:
So sweet your prison you in time shall prove,
With many deare delights bedecked fyne.

Fresh Spring, the herald of love's mighty king,
In whose coat armour richly are displayed

All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring
In goodly colours gloriously arrayed;
Go to my love, where she is careless laid,
Yet in her winter's bower not well awake;
Tell her the joyous time will not be stayed
Unless she do him by the forelock take.
Bid her therefore herself soon ready make,
To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew;
Where every one that misseth then her make
Shall be by him amerced with penance due.

The famous warriors of the anticke world,
Used Trophees to erect in stately wize:
In which they would the records have enrold,
Of theyr great deeds and valarous emprize.
What trophee then shall I most fit devize,
In which I may record the memory
Of my loves conquest, peerelesse beauties prise,
Adorn'd with honour, love, and chastity.
Even this verse vowd to eternity,
Shall be thereof immortall moniment:
And tell her prayse to all posterity,
That may admire such worlds rare wonderment.

Most glorious Lord of life! that, on this day,
Didst make thy triumph over death and sin;
And, having harrowed hell, didst bring away
Captivity thence captive, us to win:
This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin;
And grant that we, for whom thou didest die,
Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin,
May live for ever in felicity!
And that thy love we weighing worthily,
May likewise love thee for the same again;
And for thy sake, that all like dear didst buy,
With love may one another entertain:

Lyke as a huntsman after weary chace,
Seeing the game from him escapt away,
Sits downe to rest him in some shady place,
With panting hounds beguiled of their pray,
So after long pursuit and vaine assay,
When I all weary had the chace forsooke,
The gentle deare returnd the selfe-same way,
Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brooke.
There she beholding me with mylder looke,
Sought not to fly, but fearelesse still did bide,
Till I in hand her yet halfe trembling tooke,
And with her owne goodwill hir fyrmely tyde.

To all those happy blessings which ye have,
With plenteous hand by heaven upon you thrown:
This one disparagement they to you gave,
That ye your love lent to so meane a one.
Yee whose high worths surpassing paragon,
Could not on earth have found one fit for mate,
Ne but in heaven matchable to none,
Why did ye stoup unto so lowly state.
But ye thereby much greater glory gate,
Then had ye sorted with a princes pere:
For now your light doth more it selfe dilate,
And in my darknesse greater doth appeare.

The doubt which ye misdeeme, fayre love, is vaine,
That fondly feare to loose your liberty,
When loosing one, two liberties ye gayne,
And make him bond that bondage earst dyd fly.
Sweet be the bands, the which true love doth tye,
Without constraynt or dread of any ill:
The gentle birde feeles no captivity
Within her cage, but singes and feeds her fill.
There pride dare not approch, nor discord spill
The league twixt them, that loyal love hath bound:
But simple truth and mutuall good will,

Coming to kisse her lyps, (such grace I found)
Me seemd I smelt a gardin of sweet flowres:
That dainty odours from them threw around
For damzels fit to decke their lovers bowres.
Her lips did smell lyke unto Gillyflowers,
Her ruddy cheekes lyke unto Roses red:
Her snowy browes lyke budded Bellamoures,
Her lovely eyes lyke Pincks but newly spred,
Her goodly bosome lyke a Strawberry bed,
Her neck lyke a bounch of Cullambynes:
Her brest lyke lillyes, ere theyr leaves be shed,
Her nipples lyke yong blossomd Jessemynes,