| 141 |
| In faith, I do not love thee with mine
eyes, |
| For they in thee a thousand errors note ; |
| But 'tis my heart that loves what they
despise, |
| Who in despite of view is pleased to
dote. |
| Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune
delighted, |
| Nor tender feeling to base touches prone
; |
| Nor taste nor smell desire to be invited |
| To any sensual feast with thee alone ; |
| But my five wits nor my five senses can |
| Dissuade one foolish heart from serving
thee, |
| Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a
man, |
| Thy proud heart's slave and vassal-wretch
to be. |
| Only my plague thus far I
count my gain : |
| That she that makes me sin
awards me pain.
|
| 142 |
| Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, |
| Hate of my sin grounded on sinful loving. |
| O, but with mine compare thou thine own
state, |
| And thou shalt find it merits not
reproving ; |
| Or if it do, not from those lips of thine |
| That have profaned their scarlet
ornaments |
| And sealed false bonds of love as oft as
mine, |
| Robbed others' beds' revenues of their
rents. |
| Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov'st
those |
| Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune
thee. |
| Root pity in thy heart, that when it
grows |
| Thy pity may deserve to pitied be. |
| If thou dost seek to have
what thou dost hide, |
| By self example mayst thou
be denied !
|
| 143 |
| Lo, as a care-full housewife runs to
catch |
| One of her feathered creatures broke
away, |
| Sets down her babe and makes all swift
dispatch |
| In pursuit of the thing she would have
stay, |
| Whilst her neglected child holds her in
chase, |
| Cries to catch her whose busy care is
bent |
| To follow that which flies before her
face, |
| Not prizing her poor infant's discontent
: |
| So runn'st thou after that which flies
from thee, |
| Whilst I, thy babe, chase thee afar
behind ; |
| But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to
me |
| And play the mother's part : kiss me, be
kind. |
| So will I pray that thou
mayst have thy Will |
| If thou turn back and my
loud crying still.
|
| 144 |
| Two loves I have, of comfort and despair, |
| Which like two spirits do suggest me
still. |
| The better angel is a man right fair, |
| The worser spirit a woman coloured ill. |
| To win me soon to hell my female evil |
| Tempteth my better angel from my side, |
| And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, |
| Wooing his purity with her foul pride ; |
| And whether that my angel be turned fiend |
| Suspect I may, yet not directly tell ; |
| But being both from me, both to each
friend, |
| I guess one angel in another's hell. |
| Yet this shall I ne'er know,
but live in doubt |
| Till my bad angel fire my
good one out.
|
| 145 |
| Those lips that love's own hand did make |
| Breathed forth the sound that said ‘I
hate’ |
| To me that languished for her sake ; |
| But when she saw my woeful state, |
| Straight in her heart did mercy come, |
| Chiding that tongue that ever sweet |
| Was used in giving gentle doom, |
| And taught it thus anew to greet : |
| ‘I hate’ she altered with an end |
| That followed it as gentle day |
| Doth follow night who, like a fiend, |
| From heaven to hell is flown away. |
| ‘I hate’ from hate away
she threw, |
| And saved my life, saying
‘not you.’
|
| 146 |
| Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, |
| [ ] these rebel powers that thee array ; |
| Why dost thou pine within and suffer
dearth, |
| Painting thy outward walls so costly gay
? |
| Why so large cost, having so short a
lease, |
| Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ? |
| Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, |
| Eat up thy charge ? is this thy body's
end ? |
| Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's
loss, |
| And let that pine to aggravate thy store. |
| Buy terms divine in selling hours of
dross ; |
| Within be fed, without be rich no more. |
| So shalt thou feed on death,
that feeds on men, |
| And death once dead, there's
no more dying then.
|
| 147 |
| My love is as a fever, longing still |
| For that which longer nurseth the
disease, |
| Feeding on that which doth preserve the
ill, |
| Th'uncertain sickly appetite to please. |
| My reason, the physician to my love, |
| Angry that his prescriptions are not
kept, |
| Hath left me, and I desperate now approve |
| Desire is death, which physic did except. |
| Past cure I am, now reason is past care, |
| And frantic mad with evermore unrest. |
| My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's
are, |
| At random from the truth vainly expressed
; |
| For I have sworn thee fair,
and thought thee bright, |
| Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
|
| 148 |
| O me, what eyes hath love put in my head, |
| Which have no correspondence with true
sight ! |
| Or if they have, where is my judgement
fled, |
| That censures falsely what they see
aright ? |
| If that be fair whereon my false eyes
dote, |
| What means the world to say it is not so
? |
| If it be not, then love doth well denote |
| Love's eye is not so true as all men's.
No, |
| How can it, O, how can love's eye be
true, |
| That is so vexed with watching and with
tears ? |
| No marvel then though I mistake my view : |
| The sun itself sees not till heaven
clears. |
| O cunning love, with tears
thou keep'st me blind |
| Lest eyes, well seeing, thy
foul faults should find !
|
| 149 |
| Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not |
| When I against myself with thee partake ? |
| Do I not think on thee when I forgot |
| Am of myself, all-tyrant, for thy sake ? |
| Who hateth thee that I do call my friend
? |
| On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon
? |
| Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not
spend |
| Revenge upon myself with present moan ? |
| What merit do I in myself respect |
| That is so proud thy service to despise, |
| When all my best doth worship thy defect, |
| Commanded by the motion of thine eyes ? |
| But, love, hate on ; for now
I know thy mind. |
| Those that can see thou
lov'st, and I am blind.
|
| 150 |
| O, from what power hast thou this powerful
might |
| With insufficiency my heart to sway, |
| To make me give the lie to my true sight |
| And swear that brightness doth not grace
the day ? |
| Whence hast thou this becoming of things
ill, |
| That in the very refuse of thy deeds |
| There is such strength and warrantise of
skill |
| That in my mind thy worst all best
exceeds ? |
| Who taught thee how to make me love thee
more |
| The more I hear and see just cause of
hate ? |
| O, though I love what others do abhor, |
| With others thou shouldst not abhor my
state. |
| If thy unworthiness raised
love in me, |
| More worthy I to be beloved
of thee.
|
