English

This holy season fit to fast and pray,
Men to devotion ought to be inclynd:
Therefore, I lykewise on so holy day,
For my sweet Saynt some service fit will find.
Her temple fayre is built within my mind,
In which her glorious ymage placed is,
On which my thoughts doo day and night attend
Lyke sacred priests that never thinke amisse.
There I to her as th'author of my blisse,
Will builde an altar to appease her yre:
And on the same my hart will sacrifise,
Burning in flames of pure and chast desyre:

Was it the worke of nature or of Art?
Which tempred so the feature of her face:
That pride and meeknesse mixt by equall part,
Doe both appeare t'adorne her beauties grace.
For with mild pleasance, which doth pride displace,
She to her loves doth lookers eyes allure:
And with sterne countenance back again doth chace
Their looser lookes that stir up lustes impure.
With such strange termes her eyes she doth inure,
That with one looke she doth my life dismay:
And with another doth it streight recure,

In vaine I seeke and sew to her for grace,
And doe myne humbled hart before her poure:
The whiles her foot she in my necke doth place,
And tread my life downe in the lowly floure.
And yet the Lyon that is Lord of power,
And reigneth over every beast in field:
In his most pride disdeigneth to devoure
The silly lambe that to his might doth yield.
But she more cruell and more salvage wylde,
Then either Lyon or the Lyonesse:
Shames not to be with guiltlesse bloud defylde,
But taketh glory in her cruelnesse.

The merry cuckow, messenger of Spring,
His trompet shrill hath thrise already sounded,
That warnes al lovers wayt upon their king,
Who now is comming forth with girland crouned.
With noyse whereof the quyre of byrds resounded
Their anthemes sweet, devized of Loves prayse,
That all the woods theyr ecchoes back rebounded,
As if they knew the meaning of their layes.
But mongst them all which did Loves honor rayse,
No word was heard of her that most it ought,
But she his precept proudly disobayes,

The rolling wheele that runneth often round,
The hardest steele in tract of time doth teare:
And drizling drops that often doe redound,
The firmest flint doth in continuance weare.
Yet cannot I with many a dropping teare,
And long intreaty soften her hard hart:
That she will once vouchsafe my plaint to heare,
Or looke with pitty on my payneful smart.
But when I pleade, she bids me play my part,
And when I weep, she sayes teares are but water:
And when I sigh, she sayes I know the art,

The glorious pourtraict of that Angels face,
Made to amaze weake mens confused skil:
And this worlds worthlesse glory to embase,
What pen, what pencill can expresse her fill?
For though he colours could devize at will,
And eke his learned hand at pleasure guide:
Least trembling it his workmanship should spill,
Yet many wondrous things there are beside.
The sweet eye-glaunces, that like arrowes glide,
The charming smiles, that rob sence from the hart:
The lovely pleasance and the lofty pride,
Cannot expressed be by any art.

One day as I unwarily did gaze
On those fayre eyes my loves immortall light:
The whiles my stonisht hart stood in amaze,
Through sweet illusion of her lookes delight.
I mote perceive how in her glauncing sight,
Legions of loves with little wings did fly:
Darting their deadly arrowes fyry bright,
At every rash beholder passing by.
One of those archers closely I did spy,
Ayming his arrow at my hart:
When suddenly with twincle of her eye,
The Damzell broke his misintended dart.
Had she not so doon, sure I had bene slayne,

Ye tradeful Merchants, that, with weary toil,
Do seek most precious things to make your gain,
And both the Indias of their treasure spoil,
What needeth you to seek so far in vain?
For lo! my Love doth in herself contain
All this world's riches that may far be found:
If sapphires, lo! her eyes be sapphires plain;
If rubies, lo! her lips be rubies sound;
If pearls, her teeth be pearls, both pure and round;
If ivory, her forehead ivory ween;
If gold, her locks are finest gold on ground;
If silver, her fair hands are silver sheen:

Retourne agayne, my forces late dismayd,
Unto the siege by you abandon'd quite.
Great shame it is to leave, like one afrayd,
So fayre a peece for one repulse so light.
Gaynst such strong castles needeth greater might
Then those small forts which ye were wont belay:
Such haughty mynds, enur'd to hardy fight,
Disdayne to yield unto the first assay.
Bring therefore all the forces that ye may,
And lay incessant battery to her heart;
Playnts, prayers, vowes, ruth, sorrow, and dismay;
Those engins can the proudest love convert.

In that proud port, which her so goodly graceth,
Whiles her faire face she reares up to the skie:
And to the ground her eie lids low embaseth,
Most goodly temperature ye may descry,
Myld humblesse mixt with awfull majesty,
For looking on the earth whence she was borne:
Her minde remembreth her mortalitie,
What so is fayrest shall to earth returne.
But that same lofty countenance seemes to scorne
Base thing, and thinke how she to heaven may clime:
Treading downe earth as lothsome and forlorne,