shun his wars,
And is a sun amidst the lesser stars.
Her grace, smiles, slights, her words in order set;
Her hair dispersed or in a golden net;
Her eyes inflaming with a light divine
So burn my heart, I dare no more repine.
Ah, who is able fully to express
Her pleasing ways, her merit? No excess,
No bold hyperboles I need to fear,
My humble style cannot enough come near
The truth; my words are like a little stream
Compared with th' ocean, so large a theme
Is that high praise; new worth, not seen before,
Is seen in her, and can be seen no more;
Therefore all tongues are silenced; and I,
Her prisoner now, see her at liberty:
And night and day implore (O unjust fate!)
She neither hears nor pities my estate:
Hard laws of Love! But though a partial lot
I plainly see in this, yet must I not
Refuse to serve: the gods, as well as men,
With like reward of old have felt like pain.
Now know I how the mind itself doth part
(Now making peace, now war, now truce)--what art
Poor lovers use to hide their stinging woe:
And how their blood now comes, and now doth go
Betwixt their heart and cheeks, by shame or fear:
How they be eloquent, yet speechless are;
And how they both ways lean, they watch and sleep,
Languish to death, yet life and vigour keep:
I trod the paths made happy by her feet,
And search the foe I am afraid to meet.
I know how lovers metamorphosed are
To that they love: I know what tedious care
I feel; how vain my joy, how oft I change
Design and countenance; and (which is strange)
I live without a soul: I know the way
To cheat myself a thousand times a day:
I know to follow while I flee my fire
I freeze when present; absent, my desire
Is hot: I know what cruel rigour Love
Practiseth on the mind, and doth remove
All reason thence, and how he racks the heart:
And how a soul hath neither strength nor art
Without a helper to resist his blows:
And how he flees, and how his darts he throws:
And how his threats the fearful lover feels:
And how he robs by force, and how he steals:
How oft his wheels turn round (now high, now low)
With how uncertain hope, how certain woe:
How all his promises be void of faith,
And how a fire hid in our bones he hath:
How in our veins he makes a secret wound,
Whence open fla