Out of my prison I will break anew;
And stoutly will that second work assoil,1
With strong endeavour and attention due.
Till then give leave to me, in pleasant mew2
To sport my Muse, and sing my love's sweet praise;
The contemplation of whose heavenly hue,
My spirit to an higher pitch will raise.
But let her praises yet be low and mean,
Fit for the handmaid of the Faery Queen.
Fair is my love, when her fair golden hairs
With the loose wind ye waving chance to mark;
Fair, when the rose in her red cheeks appears;
Or in her eyes the fire of love does spark.
Fair, when her breast, like a rich laden bark
With precious merchandise she forth doth lay;
Fair, when that cloud of pride, which oft doth dark
Her goodly light, with smiles she drives away.
But fairest she, when so she doth display
The gate with pearls and rubies richly dight;
Through which her words so wise do make their way
To bear the message of her gentle sprite.
The rest be works of Nature's wonderment;
But this the work of heart's astonishment.
Joy of my life! full oft for loving you
I bless my lot, that was so lucky plac'd:
But then the more your own mishap I rue,
That are so much by so mean love embased.
For, had the equal heavens so much you graced
In this as in the rest, ye might invent
Some heavenly wit, whose verse could have enchased
Your glorious name in golden monument.
But since ye deign'd so goodly to relent
1 Absolve,
dis-
charge.
2 Prison.
To me your thrall, in whom is little worth;
That little, that I am, shall all be spent
In setting your immortal praises forth:
Whose lofty argument, uplifting me,
Shall lift you up unto an high degree.
Let not one spark of filthy lustful fire
Break out, that may her sacred peace molest;
Ne one light glance of sensual desire.
Attempt to work her gentle mind's unrest:
But pure affections bred in spotless breast,
And modest thoughts breath'd from well-temper'd
spirits
Go visit her, in her chaste bower of rest,
Accompanied with ángelic delights.
There fill yourself with those most joyous sights,
The which myself could never yet attain:
But speak no word to her of these sad plights,
Which her too constant stiffness doth constrain.
Only behold her rare perfection,
And bless your fortune's fair election.
The world that cannot deem of worthy things,
When I do praise her, say I do but flatter:
So does the cuckoo, when the mavis sings,
Begin his witless note apace to clatter.
But they that skill not of so heavenly matter,
All that they know not, envy or admire;
Rather than envy, let them wonder at her,
But not to deem of her desert aspire.
1 Inward. Deep, in the closet of my parts entire,1
Her worth is written with a golden quill,
That me with heavenly fury doth inspire,
And my glad mouth with her sweet praises fill.
Which when as Fame in her shrill trump shall
Let the world choose to envy or to wonder.
Venomous tongue, tipt with vile adder's sting,
Of that self kind with which the Furies fell
Their snaky heads do comb, from which a spring
Of poisoned words and spiteful speeches well;
Let all the plagues, and horrid pains of hell
Upon thee fall for thine accursed hire;
That with false forged lies, which thou didst tell,
In my true love did stir up coals of ire;
The sparks whereof let kindle thine own fire,
And, catching hold on thine own wicked head,
Consume thee quite, that didst with guile conspire
In
my sweet peace such breaches to have bred!
Shame be thy meed, and mischief thy reward,
Due to thyself, that it for me prepar'd!
Since I did leave the presence of my love,
Many long weary days I have outworn;
And many nights, that slowly seem'd to move
Their sad protract from evening until morn.
For, when as day the heaven doth adorn,
I wish that night the noyous day would end:
And, when as night hath us of light forlorn,
I wish that day would shortly reascend.
Thus I the time with expectation spend,
And fain my grief with changes to beguile,
That further seems his term still to extend,
And maketh every minute seem a mile.
So sorrow still doth seem too long to last;
But joyous hours do fly away too fast.
Since I have lack'd the comfort of that light,
The which was wont to lead my thoughts astray;
I wander as in darkness of the night,
Afraid of every danger's least dismay.
Ne ought I see, though in the clearest day,
When others gaze upon their shadows vain,
But th' only image of that heavenly ray,
Whereof some glance doth in mine eye remain.
Of which beholding the idea plain,
Through contemplation of my purest part,
With light thereof I do myself sustain,
And thereon feed my love-affamish'd heart.
But, with such brightness whilst I fill my mind,
I starve my body, and mine eyes do blind.
Like as the culver,1 on the bared bough,
Sits mourning for the absence of her mate;
And, in her songs, sends many a wishful vow
For his return that seems to linger late:
So I alone, now left disconsolate,
Mourn to myself the absence of my love;
And, wand'ring here and there all desolate,
Seek with my plaints to match that mournful dove :
Ne joy of ought, that under heaven doth hove,
Can comfort me, but her own joyous sight:
Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move,
In her unspotted pleasance to delight.
Dark is my day, whiles her fair light I miss,
And dead my life that wants such lively bliss.
COLLECTED FROM THE ORIGINAL PUBLICATIONS IN
WHICH THEY APPEARED.
To the right worshipful, my singular good friend,
M. Gabriel Harvey, Doctor of the Laws.
HARVEY, the happy above happiest men,
I read; that, sitting like a looker-on
Of this world's stage, dost note with critic pen
The sharp dislikes of each condition:
And, as one careless of suspicion,
Ne fawnest for the favour of the great;
Ne fearest foolish reprehension.
Of faulty men, which danger to thee threat:
But freely dost, of what thee list, entreat,
Like a great lord of peerless liberty;
Lifting the good up to high honour's seat,
And the evil damning evermore to die:
For life, and death, is in thy doomful writing!
So thy renown lives ever by enditing.
Dublin, this xviij. of July 1586.
Your devoted friend, during life,
EDMUND SPENSER.
|