Through this my strong and new misaventure,
All now is lost to me
Which most was sweet in Love's supremacy.

So much of life is dead in its control,
That she, my pleasant lady of all grace,
Is gone out of the devastated soul:
I see her not, nor do I know her place;
Nor even enough of virtue with me stays
To understand, ah me!
The flower of her exceeding purity.

Because there comes — to kill that gentle thought
With saying that I shall not see her more —
This constant pain wherewith I am distraught,

Even as the day when it is yet at dawning
Seems mild and kind, being fair to look upon,
While the birds carol underneath their awning
Of leaves, as if they never would have done;
Which on a sudden changes, just at noon,
And the broad light is broken into rain
That stops and comes again;
Even as the traveller, who had held his way
Hopeful and glad because of the bright weather,
Forgetteth then his gladness altogether;
Even so am I, through Love, alas the day!

It plainly is through Love that I am so.

Evelyn, sweet Evelyn,
List to my lay;
List to the sighs of my heart;
Hearken the words of a lover, sweet dove,
Do, and a blessing impart.

Evelyn, sweet Evelyn,
List to my lay;
Forsooth you have made me to sing;
Your sweet midnight eyes, and your smiles, fair dove,
Have prompted my heart-chords to ring.

Evelyn, sweet Evelyn,
Favor my suit;
Let love smiles sparkle on me—
Incline thy fond heart to a lover, fair dove,
One love glance, a pris'ner to free.

Lady , with all the pains that I can take,
I'll sing my love renewed, if I may, well,
And only in your praise.
The stag in his old age seeks out a snake
And eats it, and then drinks, (I have heard tell)
Fearing the hidden ways
Of the snake's poison, and renews his youth.
Even such a draught, in truth,
Was your sweet welcome, which cast out of me,
With whole cure instantly,
Whatever pain I felt, for my own good,
When first we met that I might be renew'd.

A thing that has its proper essence changed

Now with the moon the day-star Lucifer
Departs, and night is gone at last, and day
Brings, making all men's spirits strong and gay,
A gentle wind to gladden the new air.
Lo! this is Monday, the week's harbinger;
Let music breathe her softest matin-lay,
And let the loving damsels sing to-day,
And the sun wound with heat at noontide here.
And thou, young lord, arise and do not sleep,
For now the amorous day inviteth thee
The harvest of thy lady's youth to reap.
Let coursers round the door, and palfreys, be,

Love taking leave, my heart then leaveth me,
And is enamour'd even while it would shun;
For I have looked so long upon the sun
That the sun's glory is now in all I see.
To its first will unwilling may not be
This heart (though by its will its death be won),
Having remembrance of the joy forerun:
Yea, all life else seems dying constantly.
Ay and alas! in love is no relief,
For any man who loveth in full heart,
That is not rather grief than gratefulness.
Whoso desires it, the beginning is grief;

If , as thou say'st, thy love tormenteth thee,
That thou thereby wast in the fear of death,
Messer Onesto, couldst thou bear to be
Far from Love's self, and breathing other breath?
Nay, thou wouldst pass beyond the greater sea
(I do not speak of the Alps, an easy path),
For thy life's gladdening; if so to see
That light which for my life no comfort hath,
But rather makes my grief the bitterer:

Of man's delight and man's desire
In one thing is no weariness —
To feel the fury of the fire,
And writhe within the close caress
Of fierce embrace, and wanton kiss,
And final nuptial done aright,
How sweet a passion, shame, is this,
A strong man's love is my delight!

Free women cast a lustful eye
On my gigantic charms, and seek
By word and touch with me to lie,

Earth has borne a little son,
He is a very little one,
He wears a bib all frilled with green
Around his neck to keep him clean.
Though before another Spring
A thousand children Earth may bring
Forth to bud and blossoming —
Lily daughters, cool and slender,
Roses, passionate and tender,
Tulip sons as brave as swords,
Hollyhocks, like laughing lords,
Yet she'll never love them quite
As much as she loves Aconite:
Aconite, the first of all,
Who is so very, very small,
Who is so golden-haired and good,

Down, wanton, down! Have you no shame
That at the whisper of Love's name,
Or Beauty's, presto! up you raise
Your angry head and stand at gaze?

Poor bombard-captain, sworn to reach
The ravelin and effect a breach —
Indifferent what you storm or why,
So be that in the breach you die!

Love may be blind, but Love at least
Knows what is man and what mere beast;
Or Beauty wayward, but requires
More delicacy from her squires.

Tell me, my witless, whose one boast
Could be your staunchness at the post,