TO ONE WHO MENTIONS LAURA

Whenever I hear you speak of her in those
Sweet tones which Love hath taught his votaries,
My flaming passions reach such ecstasies
As might from death restore the withered rose;
Wherever she was kind to me, there glows
The bright Madonna moving at her ease
With that demeanour which, my thought to tease,
Needed no sound but of my sighing woes.
I see her turning, looking, the gold hair
Outblown, her terrible beauty flooding back
Upon my heart whereof she is the warder;

WHEREIN HE FANCIES HIMSELF LIKE THAT INSECT WHICH, DARTING INTO ONE'S EYES, THERE MEETS ITS DEATH

As when at times in summer's livid spells,
Witched by the glare, the simple insect flies,
Like something charmed, into the passer's eyes,
Whence pain the one and death the other quells,
Forever thus my fatal sun compels
Flight to those deep blue stars of paradise,
All reason overcome, Love fierce, unwise,
Judgment by impulse crowned with cap and bells.
Distinctly I perceive no good they cherish,
And, since their torment strips me of my will,

WHEREIN HE ENLARGES UPON LOVE'S COURAGE AND COWARDICE

The long Love that is sovereign to my mind
And in my heart maintains his purple place,
With arrogant stride presses into my face,
Camps, flaunts his flag, parades there proud and blind:
She, that instructs to love and helps us find
Anguish therein, she would our heat abase
By reins of reason, shame and reverent grace,
And in our flesh the spurs of anger grind.
Whereupon Love to the heart's forest flies,
With sharp dismay quitting his enterprise,
And there in tears and panic he must hide.

WHEREIN THE EXILE CONSIDERS HIS FRIENDS

The more my own poor wishes would commend me
To turn my steps to you, sweet friends, this hour
In the severe shape of some blinding Power
The more prevents and drives me; and, to bend me,
Though I fling forth my whole heart; and, to end me,
Fortune works snare and spell: but still its tower
My heart builds in your hearts, its green sweet bower
With you where vale and sea would once befriend me —
Our sea which twisted right when I turned left —
I, by grim duress dragged to slavery,

AGAINST THE CORRUPTIONS OF THE COURT OF ROME

Fountain of sorrow, inn of cursed ire,
College of error, temple of heresy,
Cistern of greed and insatiety,
Rome erstwhile, now the Babylon whore of hire!
Cesspool of lies, O dungeon full of fire,
Where truth is compost to idolatry,
Hell upon earth, it shall go wondrously
If Christ pile not thy scarlet on the pyre!
Founded in want and honour unpolluted,
Against thy founders pointest thou thy horn,
Impudent Jezebel? Is thy faith rooted
In thine adulteries and gold ill-born?

WHEREIN HE PROPHESIES TO ROME THE ADVENT OF SOME GREAT POPE-PALADIN WHO WILL RESTORE HER TO HER ANCIENT VIRTUE AND GLORY

Covetous Babylon, of Heaven so hated,
Has by her sins now drained the brimming flagon,
Her knees now bend to Baal and hideous Dagon,
Pallas and Jove are fouled and Bacchus fêted.
Though against hope I hope, though desecrated,
Yet shall another Priest-King slay the Dragon,
Smite the Gold Bull and break the garlanded Wagon,
Turn faith to God, to Rome turn re-created.
Her idols shall be shattered, in the dust

WHEREIN HE RAILS AGAINST THE CORRUPTIONS OF THE ROMAN COURT

Rain fire from Heaven down upon thy head,
Thou breaker of Christ, thou Babylonian whore,
Grown fat and rich with making many poor,
Gloating in vice, despising simple bread!
Thou nest of treason where the soul is fed
Of malice and of wormy mischief more
Than pen or tongue may tell, thy stock and store
Is wine and huge sloth on a harlot's bed!
Graybeards and strumpets in thy chambers dance;
There staggers Belzebub, thy loathsome lord,
Amid foul mirrors apeing his advance.

WHEREIN HE EXPATIATES UPON LOVE'S PARADOXES

I find no peace, yet from all wars abstain me;
I fear, I hope, I burn — and straightway wizen;
I mount above the wind, yet stay unrisen;
Grasp the world — thus — yet nothing does it gain me.
Love neither lets me go, nor will detain me;
Gives me no leave, nor yet keeps me in prison:
I am not held, and yet the hard chain is on
The heart; he yields no death, yet will he chain me.
Sightless, I see; and without tongue, I sorrow;
I cling to life, and yet would gladly perish;

WHEREIN HE ENUMERATES THE WEAPONS IN LOVE'S ARSENAL

Love uses me as target for his lance,
As snow in sunlight or as wax in flame,
Or wind-swept cloud; and though upon your name
I call, O Laura, pity looks askance.
Your flashing eyes first caused the dart to dance
In my sick breast; nor time nor place can tame
Its fire. From you, that take no thought of blame,
Were born the pangs that thwart deliverance.
Each thought drives arrows, and your face a sun,
My passion's heat: and these Love urges well
To rend my heart, to dazzle me to hell.

WHEREIN HE TELLS THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE

If this should not be Love, O God, what shakes me?
If Love it is, what strange, what rich delight!
If Love be kind, why has it fangs to bite?
If cruel, why so sweet the barb that rakes me?
If Love I crave, why this lament that breaks me?
If not, what tears or sighs can mend my plight?
O Death in Life, dear pain, where lies thy might
If I refuse the doom that overtakes me?
If I consent, without a cause I grieve:
So in a tempest do my fortunes heave,
By winds contrary and by waters tost;