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I turned and hummed a bitter song
That mocked the wholesome human heart; And then we met in wrath and wrong,
We met, but only meant to part. Full cold my greeting was and dry;
She faintly smiled, she hardly moved; I saw, with half-unconscious eye,
She wore the colors I approved.
That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
For slander's mark was ever yet the fair ; The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air. So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater, being wooed of time; For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present’st a pure unstained prime. Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days,
Either not assailed, or victor being charged; Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarged. If some suspect of ill masked not thy show, Then, thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst
She took the little ivory chest;
With half a sigh she turned the key, Then raised her head with lips comprest,
And gave my letters back to me. And gave the trinkets and the rings,
My gifts, when gifts of mine could please; As looks a father on the things
Of his dead son, I looked on these.
She told me all her friends had said ;
I raged against the public liar. She talked as if her love were dead;
But in my words were seeds of fire. “ No more of love; your sex is known:
I never will be twice deceived ; Henceforth I trust the man alone;
The woman cannot be believed.
So are you to my thoughts, as food to life,
Or as sweet-seasoned showers are to the ground; And for the peace of you I hold such strife
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found; Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure; Now counting best to be with you alone, Then bettered that the world may see my pleas
ure; Sometime all full with feasting on your sight,
And by and by clean starved for a look;
Save what is had or must from you be took.
" Through slander, meanest spawn of hell
(And woman's slander is the worst), And you, whom once I loved so well,
Through you my life will be accurst."
FAREWELL! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
And for that riches where is my deserving?
And so my patent back again is swerving.
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Of different flowers in odor and in hue,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
Drawn after you — you pattern of all those.
The forward violet thus did I chide : Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness; Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport: that smells, Both grace and faults are loved of more and If not from my love's breath? the purple pride less;
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells, Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort. In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. As on the finger of a throned queen
The lily I condemned for thy hand, The basest jewel will be well esteemed,
And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair; So are those errors that in thee are seen,
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, To truths translated, and for true things deemed. One blushing shame, another white despair; How many lambs might the stern wolf betray, A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate ! And to this robbery had annexed thy breath; How many gazers might'st thou lead away,
But for his theft, in pride of all his growth If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state! A vengeful canker eat him up to death. But do not so; I love thee in such sort
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, As thou being mine, mine is thy good report. But sweet in color it had stolen from thee.
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,
What old December's bareness everywhere! And yet this time removed was summer's time;
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease; Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit;
And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
Even such a beauty as you master now.
Of this our time, all you prefiguring :
They had not skill enough your worth to sing;
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Come sleep, 0 sleep! the certain knot of peace, Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe; And the sad augurs mock their own presage :
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, Incertainties now crown themselves assured,
The indifferent judge between the high and low!
With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now, with the drops of this most balmy time
Of those fierce darts despair doth at me throw. My love looks fresh, and death to me sub-Oh make in me those civil wars to cease ; scribes,
I will good tribute pay if thou do so. Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes :
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
A rosy garland and a weary head; When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.
And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments; love is not love, Which alters when it alteration finds,
In martial sports I had my cunning tried, Or bends with the remover to remove.
And yet to break more staves did me address; Oh no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
While with the people's shouts I must confess, That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
Youth, luck, and praise e'en filled my veins with It is the star to every wandering bark,
pride; Whose worth's unknown, although his height be When Cupid having me, his slave, descried taken,
In Mars's livery, prancing in the press, Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and
“ What now, Sir Fool ?” said he, “ I would no less; cheeks
Look here, I say.”— I looked, and Stella spied, Within his bending sickle's compass come ;
Who, hard by, made a window send forth light; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
My heart then quaked; then dazzled were mine eyes; But bears it out, even to the edge of doom.
One hand forgot to rule, the other to fight; If this be error, and upon me proved,
Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries. I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
My foe came on and beat the air for me,
Oh! never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seemed my flame to qualify; As easy might I from myself depart,
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie.
Like him that travels, I return again —
So that myself bring water for my stain.
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
O HAPPY Thames that didst my Stella bear ;
I saw myself with many a smiling line
While those fair planets on thy streams did shine;
While wanton winds, with beauties so divine Ravished, staid not till in her golden hair
They did themselves, oh sweetest prison! twine; And fain those Eol's youth there would their stay
Have made, but forced by nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks display.
She so dishevelled, blushed: from window I, With sight thereof, cried out, oh fair disgrace! Let honor's self to thee grant highest place.
I know frail beauty's like the purple flower To which one morn oft birth and death affords, That love a jarring is of mind's accords.
Where sense and will bring under reason's power: Know what I list, this all cannot me move, But that, alas ! I both must write and love.
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the
skies, How silently, and with how wan a face !
What ! may it be, that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries ? Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case ;
I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace,
Then even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me:
Are beauties-there as proud as here they be?
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess ? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
I give Thee Eternity.
If it be true that any beauteous thing
MICHEL ANGELO. (Italian.) Translation of J. E. TAYLOR.
How many paltry, foolish, painted things,
That now in coaches trouble every street, Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings, Ere they be well wrapped in their winding
sheet, Where I to thee eternity shall give
When nothing else remaineth of these days, And queens hereafter shall be glad to live
Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise ; Virgins and matrons reading these, my rhymes,
Shall be so much delighted with thy story, That they shall grieve they lived not in these times,
To have seen thee, their sex's only glory: So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng, Still to survive in my immortal song.
To bittoria Colonna.
Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
And I be undeluded, unbetrayed ; For if of our affections none find grace
In sight of heaven, then wherefore hath God made
Glory to that Eternal Peace is paid,
His hope is treacherous only whose love dies
MICAEL ANGELO. (Italian.) Translation of WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
I know that all beneath the moon decays;
And what by mortals in this world is brought,
In time's great periods shall return to nought; That fairest states have fatal nights and days. I know that all the muses' heavenly lays,
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought; That there is nothing lighter than vain praise.
Cry: "Speak once more- thou lovest!” Who can Sonnets from the Portuguese.
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall If thou must love me, let it be for nought
roll Except for love's sake only. Do not say Too many flowers, though each shall crown the “I love her for her smile, her look, her way
year Of speaking gently,- for a trick of thought
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me –
To love me also in silence, with thy soul.
IF I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
And be all to me Shall I never miss Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,
Home-talk and blessing, and the common kiss A eature might forget to weep, who bore
That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange, Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby,
When I look up, to drop on a new range But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Of walls and floors — another home than this ?
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is
That's hardest. If to conquer Love has tried,
To conquer Grief tries more, as all things prove; To a man, dearest, except this to thee,
For grief indeed is love and grief beside.
Alas, I have grieved so, I am hard to love.
Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree,
First time he kissed me, he but only kissed
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its “O list !” Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst shears
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,
That was the chrism of love, which love's own
crown, That thou dost love me. Though the word re- With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. peated
The third upon my lips was folded down Should seem “a cuckoo-song," as thou dost | In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed, treat it,
I have been proud, and said, “My love, my Remember, never to the hill or plain,
own !” Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain, C'omes the fresh Spring in all her green com
How do I love thee Let me count the ways: pleted.
I love thee to the depth, and breadth, and height Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted
My soul can reach, when feeling, out of sight, By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain
For the ends of being and ideal grace.