What thou givest wings; thus joys I feel in thee
Hang on my lips and will not utter'd be.
"Sweet touch, the engine that love's bow doth bend, The sense wherewith he feels him deified,
The object whereto all his actions tend,
In all his blindness his most pleasing guide,
For thy sake will I write the Art of Love,
Since thou dost blow his fire and feed his pride,
Since in thy sphere his health and life doth move,
For thee I hate who hate society,
And such as self-love makes his slavery.
"In these dog-days how this contagion smothers The purest blood with virtue's diet fined, Nothing their own, unless they be some other's Spite of themselves, are in themselves confined, And live so poor they are of all despised,
Their gifts held down with scorn should be divined, And they like mummers mask, unknown, unprized:
A thousand marvels mourn in some such breast, Would make a kind and worthy patron blest.
"To me, dear sovereign, thou art patroness,
And I, with that thy graces have infused,
Will make all fat and foggy brains confess
Riches may from a poor verse be deduced:
And that gold's love shall leave them grovelling here,
When thy perfections shall to heaven be mused,
Deck'd in bright verse, where angels shall appear,
The praise of virtue, love, and beauty singing, Honour to noblesse, shame to avarice bringing."
Here Ovid, interrupted with the view
Of other dames, who then the garden painted,
Shrouded himself, and did as death eschew
All note by which his love's fame might be tainted:
And as when mighty Macedon had won
The monarchy of earth, yet when he fainted,
Grieved that no greater action could be done,
And that there were no more worlds to subdue.
So love's defects, love's conqueror did rue.
But as when expert painters have display'd
To quickest life a monarch's royal hand,
Holding a sceptre, there is yet bewray'd
But half his fingers; when we understand
The rest not to be seen; and never blame
The painter's art, in nicest censures scann'd.
So in the compass of this curious frame
Ovid well knew there was much more intended,
With whose omission none must be offended.
Intentio, animi actio.
Explicit convivium.
A CORONET FOR HIS MISTRESS
PHILOSOPHY.
MUSES that sing Love's sensual empery,
And lovers kindling your enraged fires
At Cupid's bonfires burning in the eye,
Blown with the empty breath of vain desires,
You that prefer the painted cabinet
Before the wealthy jewels it doth store yee,
That all your joys in dying figures set,
And stain the living substance of your glory,
Abjure those joys, abhor their memory,
And let my love the honour'd subject be
Of love, and honour's complete history;
Your eyes were never yet let in to see
The majesty and riches of the mind,
But dwell in darkness; for your God is blind.
But dwell in darkness, for your God is blind,
Humour pours down such torrents on his eyes;
Which, as from mountains, fall on his base kind,
And eat your entrails out with ecstasies.
Colour, whose hands for faintness are not felt,
Can bind your waxen thoughts in adamant;
And with her painted fires your heart doth melt,
Which beat your souls in pieces with a pant. But my love is the cordial of souls,
Teaching by passion what perfection is, In whose fix'd beauties shine the sacred scroll, And long-lost records of your human bliss, Spirit to flesh, and soul to spirit giving, Love flows not from my liver but her living.
Love flows not from my liver but her living,
From whence all stings to perfect love are darted
All power, and thought of prideful lust depriving
Her life so pure and she so spotless-hearted.
In whom sits beauty with so firm a brow,
That age, nor care, nor torment can contract it;
Heaven's glories shining there, do stuff allow,
And virtue's constant graces do compact it.
Her mind-the beam of God-draws in the fires
Of her chaste eyes, from all earth's tempting
fuel;
Which upward lifts the looks of her desires, And makes each precious thought in her a jewel. And as huge fires compress'd more proudly flame, So her close beauties further blaze her fame.
So her close beauties further blaze her fame;
When from the world, into herself reflected;
She lets her shameless glory in her shame,
Content for heaven to be of earth rejected.
She thus depress'd, knocks at Olympus' gate,
And in th' untainted temple of her heart
Doth the divorceless nuptials celebrate
'Twixt God and her; where love's profaned dart Feeds the chaste flames of Hymen's firmament, Wherein she sacrificeth, for her part;
The robes, looks, deeds, desires and whole de
Of female natures, built in shops of art, Virtue is both the merit and reward
Of her removed and soul-infused regard.
Of her removed and soul-infused regard,
With whose firm species, as with golden lances,
She points her life's field, for all wars prepared,
And bears one chanceless mind, in all mischances;
Th' inverted world that goes upon her head,
And with her wanton heels doth kick the sky,
My love disdains, though she be honoured,
And without envy sees her empery
Loathes all her toys, and thoughts cupidinine,
Arranging in the army of her face
All virtue's forces, to dismay loose eyne,
That hold no quarter with renown or grace.
War to all frailty; peace of all things pure,
Her look doth promise and her life assure.
Her look doth promise and her life assure;
A right line forcing a rebateless point,
In her high deeds, through everything obscure,
To full perfection; not the weak disjoint
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