The Smokes of Melancholy
I.
WHO hath e’er felt the change of love,And known those pangs that losers prove,May paint my face without seeing me,And write the state how my fancies be,The loathsome buds grown on Sorrow’s tree.
But who by hearsay speaks, and hath not fully feltWhat kind of fires they be in which those spirits melt,Shall guess, and fail, what doth displease,Feeling my pulse, miss my disease.
II.
O no! O no! trial only showsThe bitter juice of forsaken woes;Where former bliss, present evils do stain;Nay, former bliss adds to present pain,While remembrance doth both states contain.Come, learners, then to me, the model of mishap,Ingulphéd in despair, slid down from Fortune’s lap;And, as you like my double lot,Tread in my steps, or follow not.
III.
For me, alas! I am full resolvedThose bands, alas! shall not be dissolved;Nor break my word, though reward come late;Nor fail my faith in my failing fate;Nor change in change, though change change my state:
But always own myself, with eagle-eyed Truth, to flyUp to the sun, although the sun my wings do fry;For if those flames burn my desire,Yet shall I die in Phoenix’ fire.
Ode
WHEN, to my deadly pleasure,When to my lively torment,Lady, mine eyes remainédJoinéd, alas! to your beams.
With violence of heavenlyBeauty, tied to virtue;Reason abashed retiréd;Gladly my senses yielded.
Gladly my senses yielding,Thus to betray my heart’s fort,Left me devoid of all life.
They to the beamy suns went,Where, by the death of all deaths,Find to what harm they hastened.
Like to the silly Sylvan,Burned by the light he best liked,When with a fire he first met.
Yet, yet, a life to their death,Lady you have reservéd;Lady the life of all love.
For though my sense be from me,And I be dead, who want sense,Yet do we both live in you.
Turnéd anew, by your means,Unto the flower that aye turns,As you, alas! my sun bends.
Thus do I fall to rise thus;Thus do I die to live thus;Changed to a change, I change not.
Thus may I not be from you;Thus be my senses on you;Thus what I think is of you;Thus what I seek is in you;All what I am, it is you.
Verses
To the tune of a Neapolitan song, which beginneth, “No, no, no, no.”
NO, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe,Although with cruel fire,First thrown on my desire,She sacks my rendered sprite;For so fair a flame embracesAll the places,Where that heat of all heats springeth,That it bringethTo my dying heart some pleasure,Since his treasureBurneth bright in fairest light. No, no, no, no.
No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe,Although with cruel fire,First thrown on my desire,She sacks my rendered sprite;Since our lives be not immortal,But to mortalFetters tied, do wait the hourOf death’s power,They have no cause to be sorryWho with gloryEnd the way, where all men stay. No, no, no, no.
No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe,Although with cruel fire,First thrown on my desire,She sacks my rendered sprite;No man doubts, whom beauty killeth,Fair death feeleth,And in whom fair death proceedeth,Glory breedeth:So that I, in her beams dying,Glory trying,Though in pain, cannot complain. No, no, no, no.
Song
To the tune of a Neapolitan Villanel.
ALL my sense thy sweetness gained;Thy fair hair my heart enchained;My poor reason thy words moved,So that thee, like heaven, I loved.
Fa, la, la, leridan, dan, dan, dan, deridan:Dan, dan, dan, deridan, deridan, dei:While to my mind the outside stood,For messenger of inward good.
Nor thy sweetness sour is deemed;Thy hair not worth a hair esteemed;Reason hath thy words removed,Finding that but words they proved.
Fa, la, la, leridan, dan, dan, dan, deridan,Dan, dan, dan, deridan, deridan, dei:For no fair sign can credit win,If that the substance fail within.
No more in thy sweetness glory,For thy knitting hair be sorry;Use thy words but to bewail theeThat no more thy beams avail thee;Dan, dan,Dan, dan,Lay not thy colours more to view,Without the picture be found true.
Woe to me, alas, she weepeth!Fool! in me what folly creepeth?Was I to blaspheme enraged,Where my soul I have engaged?Dan, dan,Dan, dan,And wretched I must yield to this;The fault I blame her chasteness is.
Sweetness! sweetly pardon folly;Tie me, hair, your captive wholly:Words! O words of heavenly knowledge!Know, my words their faults acknowledge;Dan, dan,Dan, dan,And all my life I will confess,The less I love, I live the less.
Translation
From “La Diana de Monte-Mayor,” in Spanish: where Sireno, a shepherd, whose mistress Diana had utterly forsaken him, pulling out a little of her hair, wrapped about with green silk, to the hair he thus bewailed himself.
WHAT changes here, O hair,I see, since I saw you!How ill fits you this green to wear,For hope, the colour due!Indeed, I well did hope,Though hope were mixed with fear,No other shepherd should have scopeOnce to approach this hair.
Ah hair! how many daysMy Dian made me show,With thousand pretty childish plays,If I ware you or no:Alas, how oft with tears,—O tears of guileful breast!—She seeméd full of jealous fears,Whereat I did but jest.
Tell me, O hair of gold,If I then faulty be,That trust those killing eyes I would,Since they did warrant me?Have you not seen her mood,What streams of tears she spent,’Till that I sware my faith so stood,As her words had it bent?
Who hath such beauty seenIn one that changeth so?Or where one’s love so constant been,Who ever saw such woe?Ah, hair! are you not grievedTo come from whence you be,Seeing how once you saw I lived,To see me as you see?
On sandy bank of late,I saw this woman sit;Where, “Sooner die than change my state,”She with her finger writ:Thus my belief was staid,Behold Love’s mighty handOn things were by a woman said,And written in the sand.
The same Sireno in “Monte-Mayor,” holding his mistress’s glass before her, and looking upon her while she viewed herself, thus sang:—
Of this high grace, with bliss conjoined,No farther debt on me is laid,Since that in self-same metal coined,Sweet lady, you remain well paid;
For if my place give me great pleasure,Having before my nature’s treasure,In face and eyes unmatchéd being,You have the same in my hands, seeingWhat in your face mine eyes do measure.
Nor think the match unevenly made,That of those beams in you do tarry,The glass to you but gives a shade,To me mine eyes the true shape carry;For such a thought most highly prized,Which ever hath Love’s yoke despised,Better than one captived perceiveth,Though he the lively form receiveth,The other sees it but disguised.
Sonnets
THE dart, the beams, the sting, so strong I prove,Which my chief part doth pass through, parch, and tie,That of the stroke, the heat, and knot of love,Wounded, inflamed, knit to the death, I die.
Hardened and cold, far from affection’s snareWas once my mind, my temper, and my life;While I that sight, desire, and vow forbare,Which to avoid, quench, lose, nought boasted strife.
Yet will not I grief, ashes, thraldom changeFor others’ ease, their fruit, or free estate;So brave a shot, dear fire, and beauty strange,Bid me pierce, burn, and bind, long time and late,And in my wounds, my flames, and bonds, I findA salve, fresh air, and bright contented mind.
VIRTUE, beauty, and speech, did strike, wound, charm,My heart, eyes, ears, with wonder, love, delight,First, second, last, did bind, enforce, and arm,His works, shows, suits, with wit, grace, and vows’ might,
Thus honour, liking, trust, much, far, and deep,Held, pierced, possessed, my judgment, sense, and will,Till wrongs, contempt, deceit, did grow, steal, creep,Bands, favour, faith, to break, defile, and kill,
Then grief, unkindness, proof, took, kindled, taught,Well-grounded, noble, due, spite, rage, disdain:But ah, alas! in vain my mind, sight, thought,Doth him, his face, his words, leave, shun, refrain.For nothing, time, nor place, can loose, quench, easeMine own embracéd, sought, knot, fire, disease.
Wooing-Stuff
FAINT amorist, what, dost thou thinkTo taste Love’s honey, and not drinkOne dram of gall? or to devourA world of sweet, and taste no sour?Dost thou ever think to enterTh’ Elysian fields, that dar’st not ventureIn Charon’s barge? a lover’s mindMust use to sail with every wind.He that loves and fears to try,Learns his mistress to deny.Doth she chide thee? ’tis to show it,That thy coldness makes her do it:Is she silent? is she mute?Silence fully grants thy suit:Doth she pout, and leave the room?Then she goes to bid thee come:Is she sick? why then be sure,She invites thee to the cure:Doth she cross thy suit with “No?”Tush, she loves to hear thee woo:Doth she call the faith of manIn question? Nay, she loves thee than;And if e’er she makes a blot,She’s lost if that thou hit’st her not.He that after ten denials,Dares attempt no farther trials,Hath no warrant to acquireThe dainties of his chaste desire.
Sonnets
SINCE shunning pain, I ease can never find;Since bashful dread seeks where he knows me harmed;Since will is won, and stoppéd ears are charmed;Since force doth faint, and sight doth make me blind;Since loosing long, the faster still I bind;Since naked sense can conquer reason armed;Since heart, in chilling fear, with ice is warmed;In fine, since strife of thought but mars the mind,I yield, O Love, unto thy loathed yoke,Yet craving law of arms, whose rule doth teach,That, hardly used, who ever prison broke,In justice quit, of honour made no breach:Whereas, if I a grateful guardian have,Thou art my lord, and I thy vowéd slave.
When Love puffed up with rage of high disdain,Resolved to make me pattern of his might,Like foe, whose wits inclined to deadly spite,Would often kill, to breed more feeling pain;He would not, armed with beauty, only reignOn those affects which easily yield to sight;But virtue sets so high, that reason’s light,For all his strife can only bondage gain:So that I live to pay a mortal fee,Dead palsy-sick of all my chiefest parts,Like those whom dreams make ugly monsters see,And can cry help with naught but groans and starts:Longing to have, having no wit to wish,To starving minds such is god Cupid’s dish.
Song
To the tune of “Non credo gia che piu infelice amante.”
THE nightingale, as soon as April bringethUnto her rested sense a perfect waking,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 expressethWhat grief her breast oppresseth,For Tereus’ force on her chaste will prevailing.O Philomela fair! O take some gladness,That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
II.
Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish,But Tereus’ love, on her by strong hand wroken,Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,Full womanlike, complains her will was broken,But I, who daily craving,Cannot have to content me,Have more cause to lament me,Since wanting is more woe than too much having.O Philomela fair! O take some gladness,That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
Song
To the tune of “Basciami vita mia.”
SLEEP, baby mine, Desire’s nurse, Beauty, singeth;Thy cries, O baby, set mine head on aching:The babe cries, “’Way, thy love doth keep me waking.”
Lully, lully, my babe, Hope cradle bringethUnto my children alway good rest taking:The babe cries, “Way, thy love doth keep me waking.”
Since, baby mine, from me thy watching springeth,Sleep then a little, pap Content is making;The babe cries, “Nay, for that abide I waking.”
I.
THE scourge of life, and death’s extreme disgrace;The smoke of hell, the monster calléd Pain:Long shamed to be accursed in every place,By them who of his rude resort complain;Like crafty wretch, by time and travel taught,His ugly evil in others’ good to hide;Late harbours in her face, whom Nature wroughtAs treasure-house where her best gifts do bide;And so by privilege of sacred seat,A seat where beauty shines and virtue reigns,He hopes for some small praise, since she hath great,Within her beams wrapping his cruel stains.Ah, saucy Pain, let not thy terror last,More loving eyes she draws, more hate thou hast.
II.
Woe! woe to me, on me return the smart:My burning tongue hath bred my mistress pain?For oft in pain, to pain my painful heart,With her due praise did of my state complain.I praised her eyes, whom never chance doth move;Her breath, which makes a sour answer sweet;Her milken breasts, the nurse of child-like love;Her legs, O legs! her aye well-stepping feet:Pain heard her praise, and full of inward fire,(First sealing up my heart as prey of his)He flies to her, and, boldened with desire,Her face, this age’s praise, the thief doth kiss.O Pain! I now recant the praise I gave,And swear she is not worthy thee to have.
III.
Thou pain, the only guest of loathed Constraint;The child of Curse, man’s weakness foster-child;Brother to Woe, and father of Complaint:Thou Pain, thou hated Pain, from heaven exiled,How hold’st thou her whose eyes constraint doth fear,Whom cursed do bless; whose weakness virtues arm;Who others’ woes and plaints can chastely bear:In whose sweet heaven angels of high thoughts swarm?What courage strange hath caught thy caitiff heart?Fear’st not a face that oft whole hearts devours?Or art thou from above bid play this part,And so no help ’gainst envy of those powers?If thus, alas, yet while those parts have woe;So stay her tongue, that she no more say, “O.”
IV.
And have I heard her say, “O cruel pain!”And doth she know what mould her beauty bears?Mourns she in truth, and thinks that others feign?Fears she to feel, and feels not others’ fears?Or doth she think all pain the mind forbears?That heavy earth, not fiery spirits, may plain?That eyes weep worse than heart in bloody tears?That sense feels more than what doth sense contain?No, no, she is too wise, she knows her faceHath not such pain as it makes others have:She knows the sickness of that perfect placeHath yet such health, as it my life can save.But this, she thinks, our pain high cause excuseth,Where her, who should rule pain, false pain abuseth.
LIKE as the dove, which seeléd up doth fly,Is neither freed, nor yet to service bound;But hopes to gain some help by mounting high,Till want of force do force her fall to ground:Right so my mind, caught by his guiding eye,And thence cast off where his sweet hurt he found,Hath neither leave to live, nor doom to die;Nor held in evil, nor suffered to be sound.But with his wings of fancies up he goes,To high conceits, whose fruits are oft but small;Till wounded, blind, and wearied spirit, loseBoth force to fly, and knowledge where to fall:O happy dove, if she no bondage tried!More happy I, might I in bondage bide!
IN wonted walks, since wonted fancies change,Some cause there is, which of strange cause doth rise:For in each thing whereto mine eye doth range,Part of my pain, me-seems, engravéd lies.The rocks, which were of constant mind the mark,In climbing steep, now hard refusal show;The shading woods seem now my sun to dark,And stately hills disdain to look so low.The restful caves now restless visions give;In dales I see each way a hard ascent:Like late-mown meads, late cut from joy I live;Alas, sweet brooks do in my tears augment:Rocks, woods, hills, caves, dales, meads, brooks, answer me;Infected minds infect each thing they see.IF I could think how these my thoughts to leave,Or thinking still, my thoughts might have good end;If rebel sense would reason’s law receive;Or reason foiled, would not in vain contend:Then might I think what thoughts were best to think:Then might I wisely swim, or gladly sink.
If either you would change your cruel heart,Or, cruel still, time did your beauties stain:If from my soul this love would once depart,Or for my love some love I might obtain;Then might I hope a change, or ease of mind,By your good help, or in myself, to find.
But since my thoughts in thinking still are spent.With reason’s strife, by senses overthrown;You fairer still, and still more cruel bent,I loving still a love that loveth none:I yield and strive, I kiss and curse the pain,Thought, reason, sense, time, You, and I, maintain.
A Farewell
OFT have I mused, but now at length I findWhy those that die, men say, they do depart:Depart: a word so gentle to my mind,Weakly did seem to paint Death’s ugly dart.
But now the stars, with their strange course, do bindMe one to leave, with whom I leave my heart;I hear a cry of spirits faint and blind,That parting thus, my chiefest part I part.
Part of my life, the loathéd part to me,Lives to impart my weary clay some breath;But that good part wherein all comforts be,Now dead, doth show departure is a death:
Yea, worse than death, death parts both woe and joy, From joy I part, still living in annoy.
FINDING those beams, which I must ever love,To mar my mind, and with my hurt to please,I deemed it best, some absence for to prove,If farther place might further me to ease.
My eyes thence drawn, where livéd all their light,Blinded forthwith in dark despair did lie,Like to the mole, with want of guiding sight,Deep plunged in earth, deprivéd of the sky.
In absence blind, and wearied with that woe,To greater woes, by presence, I return;Even as the fly, which to the flame doth go,Pleased with the light, that his small corse doth burn:
Fair choice I have, either to live or dieA blinded mole, or else a burnéd fly.