love poetry

Philoclea and Pamela sweete,
By chance in one greate house did meete;
And, meeteinge, did soe ioyne in hart,
That th' one from th' other could not part:
And whoe, indeed, not made of stones,
Would seperate such lovely ones?
The one is beautifull and faire
As lillies and white roses are,
And sweete as, after gentle showers,
The breath is of some thousand flowers:

For due proportion, such an ayre
Circles the other, not soe faire,
Which soe her brownness beautifies,
That itt inchaunts the wisest eyes

When two sunnes doe appeare,
Some say it doth betoken wonders neare,
As prince's losse or change.
Two gleaming sunnes of splendour like I see,
And seeing feele in me
Of prince's heart quite lost the ruine strange.
But now each where doth range
With vgly cloke the darke enuious Night;
Who, full of guiltie spite,
Such liuing beames should her blacke seate assaile,
Too weake for them our weaker sight doth vaile
No, sayes faire moone, my light
Shall barre that wrong; and though it not preuaile

You goodly pines, which still with braue ascent
In Nature's pride your heads to heav'nward heaue; —
Though you, besides such graces earth hath lent,
Of some late grace a greater grace receiue,
By her who was (O blessed you!) content
With her faire hand your tender barkes to cleaue,
And so by you (O blessed you!) hath sent
Such piercing words as no thoughts else conceiue; —
Yet yeeld your grant; a baser hand may leaue
His thoughts in you, where so sweet thoughts were spent:
For how would you the mistresse' thoughts bereaue

Sweete roote, say thou the roote of my desire
Was Vertue cladde in constant Loue's attire.

Doe not disdaine, O streight vp-raised pine,
That, wounding thee, my thoughts in thee I graue,
Since that my thoughts, as streight as streightnesse thine,
No smaller wound — alas, far deeper — haue:
Deeper engrau'd, which salue nor time can saue,
Giu'n to my heart by my sore-wounded eyne:
Thus cruell to my selfe, how canst thou craue
My inward hurt should spare thy outward rine?
Yet still, faire tree, lift vp thy stately line,
Liue long, and long witnesse my chosen smart,
Which barr'd desires (barr'd by my selfe) impart,

This caue is darke, but it had neuer light;
This waxe doth waste it selfe, yet painelesse dies;
These words are full of woes, yet feele they none
I darkned am, who once had clearest sight;
I waste my heart, which still new torments tries;
I plaine with cause, my woes are all mine owne.
No caue, no wasting waxe, no words of griefe,
Can hold, shew, tell my paines without reliefe.

An Octave by Gynecia

Like those sicke folkes in whom strange humours flow,
Can taste no sweets, the sowre onely please;
So to my mind, while passions daily grow,
Whose fierie chaines vpon his freedome seaze,
Ioyes strangers seeme, I cannot bide their show,
Nor brooke ought else but well-acquainted woe;
Bitter griefe tastes me best, paine is my ease;
Sicke to the death, still louing my disease.

Since that the stormie rage of passions darke, —
Of passions darke, made darke by beauties' light, —
With rebell force hath clos'de in dungeon darke
My minde, ere now led forth by reason's light: —
Since all the things which giue my eyes their light
Doe foster still the fruites of fancies darke,
So that the windowes of my inward light
Doe serue to make my inward powers darke: —
Since, as I say, both mind and senses darke
Are hurt, not helpt, with piercing of the light;
While that the light may shew the horrors darke,

Phaebus, farewell; a sweeter saint I serue;
The high conceits thy heav'nly wisedomes breed
My thoughts forget; my thoughts, which never swerue
From her in whom is sowne thir freedome's seed,
And in whose eyes my daily doome I reede.

Phaebus, farewell; a sweeter saint I serue;
Thou art farre off, thy kingdome is aboue;
She heau'n on earth with beauties doth preserue:
Thy beames I like, but her clear rayes I loue;
Thy force I feare, her force I still doe proue.
Phaebus, yeeld vp thy title in my minde

The fire to see my wrongs for anger burneth,
The Ayre in raine for my affliction weepeth,
The Sea to ebbe for griefe his flowing turneth,
The Earth with pittie dull his center keepeth;
Fame is with wonder blased,
Time runnes away for sorrow,
Place standeth still amazed
To see my night of euils, which hath no morrow:
Alas, alonely she no pitie taketh
To know my miseries, but, chaste and cruell,
My fall her glory maketh;
Yet still her eyes giue to my flames their fuell.