When my good angel guides me to the place
Where all my good I do in Stella see,
That heav'n of joys throws only down on me
Thundered disdains and lightnings of disgrace:
But when the rugged'st step of fortune's race
Makes me fall from her sight, then sweetly she
With words, wherein the Muses' treasures be,
Shows love and pity to my absent case.
Now I, wit-beaten long by hardest fate,
So dull am, that I cannot look into
The ground of this fierce love and lovely hate:
Then some good body tell me how I do,

Doubt there hath been, when with his golden chain
The orator so far men's hearts doth bind
That no pace else their guided steps can find
But as he them more short or slack doth rein,
Whether with words this sovereignty he gain,
Clothed with fine tropes, with strongest reasons lined,
Or else pronouncing grace, wherewith his mind
Prints his own lively form in rudest brain.
Now judge by this: in piercing phrases late
Th'anatomy of all my woes I wrate,
Stella 's sweet breath the same to me did read.

Woe, having made with many fights his own
Each sense of mine, each gift, each power of mind,
Grown now his slaves, he forced them out to find
The thorough'st words, fit for woe's self to groan,
Hoping that when they might find Stella alone,
Before she could prepare to be unkind,
Her soul, armed but with such a dainty rind,
Should soon be pierced with sharpness of the moan.
She heard my plaints, and did not only hear,
But them (so sweet is she) most sweetly sing,
With that fair breast making woe's darkness clear.

In martial sports I had my cunning tried,
And yet to break more staves did me address,
While with the people's shouts, I must confess,
Youth, luck, and praise e'en filled my veins with pride;
When Cupid , having me his slave descried
In Mars 's liv'ry, prancing in the press:
" What now, sir fool," said he, " I would no less,
Look here, I say." I looked, and Stella spied,
Who hard by made a window send forth light.
My heart then quaked, then dazzled were mine eyes,
One hand forgot to rule, th'other to fight;

Pardon mine ears; both I and they do pray,
So may your tongue still fluently proceed
To them that do such entertainment need,
So may you still have somewhat new to say.
On silly me do not the burden lay
Of all the grave conceits your brain doth breed,
But find some Hercules to bear, in steed
Of Atlas tired, your wisdom's heav'nly sway.
For me, while you discourse of courtly tides,
Of cunning'st fishers in most troubled streams,
Of straying ways, when valiant error guides,

Stella , the fullness of my thoughts of thee
Cannot be stayed within my panting breast,
But they do swell and struggle forth of me,
Till that in words thy figure be expressed.
And yet as soon as they so formed be,
According to my lord Love's own behest,
With sad eyes I their weak proportion see,
To portrait that which in this world is best.
So that I cannot choose but write my mind,
And cannot choose but put out what I write,
While those poor babes their death in birth do find:
And now my pen these lines had dashed quite,

Fair eyes, sweet lips, dear heart, that foolish I
Could hope by Cupid 's help on you to prey;
Since to himself he doth your gifts apply,
As his main force, choice sport, and easeful stay.
For when he will see who dare him gainsay,
Then with those eyes he looks; lo, by and by
Each soul doth at Love's feet his weapons lay,
Glad if for her he give them leave to die.
When he will play, then in her lips he is,
Where blushing red, that Love's self them doth love,
With either lip he doth the other kiss:

O eyes, which do the spheres of beauty move,
Whose beams be joys, whose joys all virtues be,
Who while they make love conquer, conquer love,
The schools where Venus hath learned chastity;
O eyes, where humble looks most glorious prove
Only loved tyrants, just in cruelty:
Do not, O do not from poor me remove;
Keep still my zenith, ever shine on me.
For though I never see them, but straight ways
My life forgets to nourish languished sprites,
Yet still on me, O eyes, dart down your rays:
And if from majesty of sacred lights,

The Youth

Faster, faster,
O Circe, Goddess,
Let the wild, thronging train
The bright procession
Of eddying forms,
Sweep through my soul!
Thou standest, smiling
Down on me! thy right arm,
Lean'd up against the column there,
Props thy soft cheek;
Thy left holds, hanging loosely,
The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,
I held but now.
Is it, then, evening
So soon? I see, the night-dews,
Cluster'd in thick beads, dim
The agate brooch-stones
On thy white shoulder;
The cool night-wind, too,
Blows through the portico,

22.

That the Great Angell-blinding light should shrinke
His blaze, to shine in a poore Shepheards eye.
That the unmeasur'd God so low should sinke,
As Pris'ner in a few poore Rags to lye.
That from his Mothers Brest hee milke should drinke
Who feeds with Nectar Heav'ns faire family.
That a vile Manger his low Bed should prove,
Who in a Throne of stars Thunders above.

23.

That hee whom the Sun serves, should faintly peepe
Through clouds of Infant flesh: that hee the old
Eternall Word should bee a Child, and weepe.