94. On the Excellence of His Mistress

THOSE eyes that hold the hand of every heart,
That hand that holds the heart of every eye,

That wit that goes beyond all nature's art,
The sense too deep for wisdom to descry:
That eye, that hand, that wit, that heavenly sense
Doth shew my only mistress' excellence.

O eyes that pierce into the purest heart!

O hands that hold the highest thoughts in thrall! O wit that weighs the depth of all desart!

O sense that shew the secret sweet of all! The heaven of heavens with heavenly power preserve thee, Love but thyself, and give me leave to serve thee.

To serve, to live to look upon those eyes,

To look, to live to kiss that heavenly hand,
To sound that wit that doth amaze the mind,
To know that sense, no sense can understand,
To understand that all the world may know,
Such wit, such sense, eyes, hands, there are no moe.

N. Breton

95.

For Pity, Pretty Eyes, Surcease

FOR pity, pretty eyes, surcease

To give me war, and grant me peace.
Triumphant eyes, why bear you arms
Against a heart that thinks no harms?

96.

A heart already quite appalled,
A heart that yields and is enthralled ?
Kill rebels, proudly that resist;
Not those that in true faith persist,
And conquered serve your deity.
Will you, alas! command me die?
Then die I yours, and death my cross;
But unto you pertains the loss.

T. Lodge

Bright Star of Beauty

To the Lady L. S.

BRIGHT star of beauty, on whose eye-lids sit

A thousand nymph-like and enamoured graces,

The goddesses of memory and wit,

Which in due order take their several places;
In whose dear bosom, sweet, delicious Love
Lays down his quiver, that he once did bear;
Since he that blessed paradise did prove,
Forsook his mother's lap to sport him there.
Let others strive to entertain with words,
My soul is of another temper made;
I hold it vile that vulgar wit affords,
Devouring time my faith shall not invade:
Still let my praise be honoured thus by you,
Be you most worthy, whilst I be most true.
M. Drayton

97. What Poor Astronomers Are They

WHAT poor astronomers are they,

Take women's eyes for stars!

And set their thoughts in battle 'ray,
To fight such idle wars;

When in the end they shall approve,
'Tis but a jest drawn out of Love.

And Love itself is but a jest
Devised by idle heads,

To catch young Fancies in the nest,
And lay them in fool's beds;

That being hatched in beauty's eyes
They may be fledged ere they be wise.

But yet it is a sport to see,
How Wit will run on wheels;
While Will cannot persuaded be,
With that which Reason feels,
That women's eyes and stars are odd
And Love is but a feigned god.

But such as will run mad with Will,

I cannot clear their sight

But leave them to their study still,

To look where is no light,

Till, time too late, we make them try,
They study false Astronomy.

Anon.

98.

99.

Willing Bondage

TER hair the net of golden wire,

HER

Wherein my heart, led by my wandering eyes

So fast entangled is that in no wise

It can, nor will, again retire;

But rather will in that sweet bondage die

Than break one hair to gain her liberty.

What Guile Is This?

Anon.

WHAT guile is this, that those her golden tresses

She doth attire under a net of gold;

And with sly skill so cunningly them dresses,
That which is gold or hair may scarce be told?
Is it that men's frail eyes, which gaze too bold,
She may entangle in that golden snare;
And, being caught, may craftily enfold

Their weaker hearts, which are not well aware?
Take heed, therefore, mine eyes, how ye do stare
Henceforth too rashly on that guileful net,
In which, if ever ye entrappèd are,

Out of her bands ye by no means shall get.
Fondness it were for any, being free,
To covert fetters, though they golden be.

E. Spenser 100. Upon Julia's Hair Filled with Dew

ΙΟΙ.

102.

Or glittered to my sight
As when the beams
Have their reflected light

Danced by the streams.

Daphne

MY Daphne's hair is twisted gold,

R. Herrick

Bright stars a-piece her eyes do hold,
My Daphne's brow enthrones the graces,
My Daphne's beauty stains all faces;
On Daphne's cheek grow rose and cherry,
On Daphne's lip a sweeter berry;

Daphne's snowy hand but touched does melt,
And then no heavenlier warmth is felt;
My Daphne's voice tunes all the spheres,
My Daphne's music charms all ears;
Fond am I thus to sing her praise,
These glories now are turned to bays.

The Glove

THOU

HOU more than most sweet glove,
Unto my more sweet love,

Suffer me to store with kisses
This empty lodging that now misses
The pure rosy hand that ware thee,
Whiter than the kid that bare thee.
Thou art soft, but that was softer;

Cupid's self hath kissed it ofter

7. Lyly