poems about love

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.

With two strange fires of equall heat possest,
The one of Loue, the' other of Iealousie,
Both still do worke, in neither I find rest;
For both, alas, their strengths together tie,
The one aloft doth hold, the other hie.
Loue wakes the iealous eye least thence it moues;
The iealous eye the more it lookes, it loues.
These fires increase: in these I dayly burne;
They feed on me, and with my wings do flie;
My louely ioyes to dolefull ashes turne,
Their flames mount vp, my powers prostrate lie;

In vaine, mine eyes, you labour to amend
With flowing teares your fault of hastie sight,
Since to my hart her shape you so did send,
That her I see, though you did lose your light.
In vaine, my heart, now you with sight are burn'd,
With sighes you seeke to coole your hot desire,
Since sighes (into mine inward furnace turn'd)
For bellowes serue to kindle more the fire.
Reason, in vaine, now you haue lost my heart,
My head you seeke, as to your strongest fort,
Since there mine eyes haue plaid so false a part,

Unto the caitiff wretch whom long affliction holdeth,
and now fully believes help to be quite perished,
Grant yet, grant yet a look, to the last monument of his anguish,
O you (alas so I find) cause of his only ruin.
Dread not a whit (O goodly cruel) that pity may enter
into thy heart by the sight of this epistle I send;
And so refuse to behold of these strange wounds the recital,
lest it might thee allure home to thyself to return
(Unto thyself I do mean, those graces dwell so within thee,

You that with allegory's curious frame
Of others' children changelings use to make,
With me those pains for God's sake do not take:
I list not dig so deep for brazen fame.
When I say ‘Stella ’, I do mean the same
Princess of beauty, for whose only sake
The reins of Love I love, though never slake,
And joy therein, though nations count it shame.
I beg no subject to use eloquence,
Nor in hid ways to guide philosophy;
Look at my hands for no such quintessence,

Rich fools there be, whose base and filthy heart
Lies hatching still the goods wherein they flow:
And damning their own selves to Tantal 's smart,
Wealth breeding want, more blest, more wretched grow.
Yet to those fools heav'n such wit doth impart,
As what their hands do hold, their heads do know,
And knowing, love, and loving, lay apart,
As sacred things, far from all danger's show.
But that rich fool, who by blind fortune's lot
The richest gem of love and life enjoys,
And can with foul abuse such beauties blot;