Томас Лодж (Thomas Lodge)

Sonnets to Phillis. 39

My matchless mistress, whose delicious eyes
Have power to perfect nature's privy wants,
Even when the sun in greatest pomp did rise,
With pretty tread did press the tender plants.
  Each stalk whilst forth she stalks, to kiss her feet
  Is proud with pomp, and prodigal of sweet.
Her fingers fair in favouring every flower
That wooed their ivory for a wishèd touch,
By chance--sweet chance!--upon a blessed hour
Did pluck the flower where Love himself did couch.
  Where Love did couch by summer toil suppressed,
  And sought his sleeps within so sweet a nest.
The virgin's hand that held the wanton thrall,
Imprisoned him within the roseate leaves;
And twixt her teats, with favour did install
The lovely rose, where Love his rest receives.
  The lad that felt the soft and sweet so nigh,
  Drowned in delights, disdains his liberty;
And said, let Venus seek another son,
For here my only matchless mother is;
From whose fair orient orbs the drink doth run,
That deifies my state with greater bliss.
  This said, he sucked, my mistress blushing smiled,
  Since Love was both her prisoner and her child.


AN ODE

Now I find thy looks were feignèd,
Quickly lost, and quickly gainèd;
Soft thy skin, like wool of wethers,
Heart unstable, light as feathers,
Tongue untrusty, subtile-sighted,
Wanton will, with change delighted,
Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason!

Of thine eyes, I made my mirror,
From thy beauty came mine error,
All thy words I counted witty,
All thy smiles I deemèd pity.
Thy false tears that me aggrievèd,
First of all my trust deceivèd.
Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason!

Feigned acceptance when I askèd,
Lovely words with cunning maskèd,
Holy vows but heart unholy;
Wretched man, my trust was folly!
Lily white and pretty winking,
Solemn vows, but sorry thinking.
Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason!

Now I see, O seemly cruel,
Others warm them at my fuel!
Wit shall guide me in this durance,
Since in love is no assurance.
Change thy pasture, take thy pleasure;
Beauty is a fading treasure.
Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason!

Prime youth lusts not age still follow,
And make white these tresses yellow;
Wrinkled face for looks delightful
Shall acquaint the dame despightful;
And when time shall eat thy glory,
Then too late thou wilt be sorry.
Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

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