English

The golden Sunne upon his fiery wheeles,
The horned Ram doth in his course awake:
And of just length our night and day doth make,
Flinging the Fishes backward with his heeles.

Then to the Tropicke takes his full Careere,
Trotting his sun-steeds till the Palfrays sweat,
Bayting the Lyon in his furious heat,
Till Virgins smyles doe sound his sweet reteere.

But my faire Planet, who directs me still,
Unkindly, such distemprature doth bring,
Makes Summer Winter, Autumne in the Spring,

Sweet secrecie, what tongue can tell thy worth?
What mortall pen suffyciently can prayse thee?
What curious Pensill serves to lim thee forth?
What Muse hath power, above thy height to raise thee?

Strong locke of kindnesse, Closet of loves store,
Harts Methridate, the soules preservative,
O vertue, which all vertues doe adore,
Cheefe good, from whom all good things we derive.

O rare effect, true bond of friendships measure,
Conceite of Angels, which all wisdom teachest,
O richest Casket of all heavenly treasure,

Blacke pytchy Night, companyon of my woe,
The Inne of care, the Nurse of drery sorrow,
Why lengthnest thou thy darkest howres so,
Still to prolong my long tyme lookt-for morrow?

Thou Sable shadow, Image of dispayre,
Portraite of hell, the ayres black mourning weed,
Recorder of revenge, remembrancer of care,
The shadow and the vaile of every sinfull deed.

Death like to thee, so lyve thou still in death,
The grave of joy, pryson of dayes delight,
Let heavens withdraw their sweet Ambrozian breath,

My hart the Anvile where my thoughts doe beate,
My words the hammers, fashioning my desires,
My breast the forge, including all the heate,
Love is the fuell which maintaines the fire.

My sighes, the bellowes which the flame increaseth,
Filling myne eares with noyse and nightly groning,
Toyling with paine, my labour never ceaseth,
In greevous passions my woes styll bemoning.

Why doe I speake of joy, or write of love,
When my hart is the very Den of horror,
And in my soule the paynes of hell I prove,
With all his torments and infernall terror.

Myne eyes want teares thus to bewayle my woe,
My brayne is dry with weeping all too long,
My sighes be spent with griefe and sighing so,
And I want words for to expresse my wrong.

But still distracted in loves Lunacy,
And Bedlam like thus raving in my griefe,
Now rayle upon her hayre, now on her eye,

Plac'd in the forlorne hope of all dispayre,
Against the Forte where Beauties Army lies,
Assayld with death, yet arm'd with gastly feare,
Loe thus my love, my lyfe, my fortune tryes.

Wounded with Arrowes from thy lightning eyes,
My tongue in payne, my harts counsels bewraying,
My rebell thought for me in Ambushe lyes,
To my lyves foe her Chieftaine still betraying.

Record my love in Ocean waves (unkind,)
Cast my desarts into the open ayre,
Commit my words unto the fleeting wind,

Rare of-spring of my thoughts, my deerest Love,
Begot by fancy, on sweet hope exhortive,
In whom all purenes with perfection strove,
Hurt in the Embryon, makes my joyes abhortive.

And you my sighes, Symtomas of my woe,
The dolefull Anthems of my endlesse care,
Lyke idle Ecchoes ever aunswering: so,
The mournfull accents of my loves dispayre.

And thou Conceite, the shadow of my blisse,
Declyning with the setting of my sunne,
Springing with that, and fading straight with this,

O thou unkindest fayre, most fayrest shee,
In thine eyes tryumph murthering my poore hart,
Now doe I sweare by heavens, before we part,
My halfe-slaine hart shall take revenge on thee.

Thy Mother dyd her lyfe to Death resigne,
And thou an Angell art, and from above,
Thy father was a man, that will I prove,
Yet thou a Goddesse art, and so divine.

And thus if thou be not of humaine kinde,
A Bastard on both sides needes must thou be,
Our Lawes alow no Land to basterdy:
By natures Lawes we thee a Bastard finde.

Die, die, my soule, and never taste of joy,
If sighes, not teares, nor vowes, nor prayers can move,
If fayth and zeale be but esteemd a toy,
And kindnes, be unkindnes in my love.

Then with unkindnes, Love revenge thy wrong,
O sweet'st revenge that ere the heavens gave,
And with the Swan record thy dying song,
And praise her still to thy untimely grave.

If chaste and pure devotion of my youth,
Or glorie of my Aprill-springing yeeres,
Unfained love, in naked simple truth,
A thousand vowes, a thousand sighes and teares:

Or if a world of faithfull service done,
Words, thoughts, and deeds, devoted to her honor,
Or eyes that have beheld her as theyr sunne,
With admiration, ever looking on her.

A lyfe, that never joyd but in her love,
A soule, that ever hath ador'd her name,
A fayth, that time nor fortune could not move,