When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restor'd and sorrows end. &&& That learned Father which so firmly proves The soul of man immortal and divine, And doth the several offices define Anima. Gives her that name, as she the body moves. Amor. Then is she love, embracing charity. Animus. Moving a will in us, it is the mind; Mens. Retaining knowledge, still the same in kind. Memoria. As intellectual, it is memory. Ratio. In judging, reason only is her name. Sensus. In speedy apprehension, it is sense. Conscientia. In right and wrong they call her conscience; Spiritus. The spirit, when it to God-ward doth inflame: These of the soul the several functions be, Which my heart lightened by thy love doth see. &&& Thus can my love excuse the slow offence Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed: From where thou art why should I haste me thence? Till I return, of posting is no need. O! what excuse will my poor beast then find, When swift extremity can seem but slow? Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind, In winged speed no motion shall I know, Then can no horse with my desire keep pace; Therefore desire, of perfect'st love being made, Shall neigh--no dull flesh--in his fiery race; But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade,-- 'Since from thee going, he went wilful-slow, Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.' &&& O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give. The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour, which doth in it live. The canker blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the roses. Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses: But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade; Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so; Of their sweet deaths, are sweetest odours made: And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall vade, by verse distills your truth. &&& What dost thou mean to cheat me of my heart, To take all mine and give me none again? Or have thine eyes such magic or that art That what they get they ever do retain? Play not the tyrant but take some remorse; Rebate thy spleen if but for pity's sake; Or cruel, if thou can'st not, let us scorse, And for one piece of thine my whole heart take. But what of pity do I speak to thee, Whose breast is proof against complaint or prayer? Or can I think what my reward shall be From that proud beauty which was my betrayer! What talk I of a heart when thou hast none? Or if thou hast, it is a flinty one. &&& These weeping truce-men show I living languish, My woeful wailings tells my discontent; Yet Chloris nought esteemeth of mine anguish, My thrilling throbs her heart cannot relent. My kids to hear the rimes and roundelays Which I on wasteful hills was wont to sing, Did more delight the lark in summer days, Whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring. But now my flock all drooping bleats and cries, Because my pipe, the author of their sport, All rent and torn and unrespected lies; Their lamentations do my cares consort. They cease to feed and listen to the plaint Which I pour forth unto a cruel saint. &&& O! call not me to justify the wrong That thy unkindness lays upon my heart; Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue: Use power with power, and slay me not by art, Tell me thou lov'st elsewhere; but in my sight, Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside: What need'st thou wound with cunning, when thy might Is more than my o'erpress'd defence can bide? Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows Her pretty looks have been mine enemies; And therefore from my face she turns my foes, That they elsewhere might dart their injuries: Yet do not so; but since I am near slain, Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain. &&& Each beast in field doth wish the morning light; The birds to Hesper pleasant lays do sing; The wanton kids well-fed rejoice in night, Being likewise glad when day begins to spring. But night nor day are welcome unto me, Both can bear witness of my lamentation; All day sad sighing Corin you shall see, All night he spends in tears and exclamation. Thus still I live although I take no rest, But living look as one that is a-dying; Thus my sad soul with care and grief oppressed, Seems as a ghost to Styx and Lethe flying. Thus hath fond love bereft my youthful years Of all good hap before old age appears. &&& Some in their hearts their mistress' colours bears; Some hath her gloves, some other hath her garters, Some in a bracelet wears her golden hairs, And some with kisses seal their loving charters. But I which never favour reapèd yet, Nor had one pleasant look from her fair brow, Content myself in silent shade to sit In hope at length my cares to overplow. Meanwhile mine eyes shall feed on her fair face, My sighs shall tell to her my sad designs, My painful pen shall ever sue for grace To help my heart, which languishing now pines; And I will triumph still amidst my woe Till mercy shall my sorrows overflow. &&& As an unperfect actor on the stage, Who with his fear is put beside his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; So I, for fear of trust, forget to say The perfect ceremony of love's rite, And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, O'ercharg'd with burthen of mine own love's might. O! let my looks be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath more express'd. O! learn to read what silent love hath writ: To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.