With shield of proof shield me from out the prease1 I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, HIGHWAY, since you my chief Parnassus be, Now, blessed you bear onward blessèd me Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,- No more, my Dear, no more these counsels try; Nor do aspire to Cæsar's bleeding fame; 1 press. Nor aught do care though some above me sit; [From ASTROPHEL AND STELLA.] PHILOMELA THE nightingale, as soon as April bringeth (While late-bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth) Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making; And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing. O Philomela fair, O take some gladness, Alas, she hath no other cause of anguish But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken, Cannot have to content me, Have more cause to lament me, Since wanting is more woe than too much having. O Philomela fair, etc. DORUS TO PAMELA My sheep are thoughts, which I both guide and serve; Their pasture is fair hills of fruitless love; On barren sweets they feed, and feeding starve. I wail their lot, but will not other prove. My sheephook is wan Hope, which all upholds; My weeds Desire, cut out in endless folds; What wool my sheep shall bear, whilst thus they live, In you it is, you must the judgment give. [From ARCADIA SONNET LEAVE me, O Love, which reachest but to dust; Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath, Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me! EDMUND SPENSER [1552-1599] PROTHALAMION CALME was the day, and through the trembling ayre Sweete breathing Zephyrus did softly play, A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre: Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away, Along the shoare of silver streaming Themmes; And all the meades adornd with daintie gemmes, Fit to decke maydens bowres, And crowne their paramours, Against the brydale day, which is not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. There, in a meadow, by the rivers side, And each one had a little wicker basket, In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket; Of every sort, which in that meadow grew, With store of vermeil roses, To decke their bridegromes posies Against the brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. With that I saw two swannes of goodly hewe The snow which doth the top of Pindus strew Nor Jove himselfe, when he a swan would be Yet Leda was, they say, as white as he, Yet not so white as these, nor nothing neare: So purely white they were, That even the gentle streame, the which them bare, That shone as heavens light, Against their brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. Eftsoones the nymphes, which now had flowers their fill, Ran all in haste to see that silver brood, As they came floating on the christal flood; Whom when they sawe, they stood amazèd still, Their wondring eyes to fill. Them seemd they never saw a sight so fayre, Of fowles so lovely, that they sure did deeme To be begot of any earthly seede, But rather angels or of angels breede: Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they say, In sweetest season, when each flower and weede |