The Rating of Poets • The Rating of Poems
Poem by Thomas Lodge
Sonnets to Phillis. 20
Some praise the looks, and others praise the locks
Of their fair queens, in love with curious words;
Some laud the breast where love his treasure locks,
All like the eye that life and love affords.
But none of these frail beauties and unstable
Shall make my pen riot in pompous style;
More greater gifts shall my grave muse enable,
Whereat severer brows shall never smile.
I praise her honey-sweeter eloquence,
Which from the fountain of true wisdom floweth,
Her modest mien that matcheth excellence,
Her matchless faith which from her virtue groweth;
And could my style her happy virtues equal,
Time had no power her glories to enthral.
EGLOGA PRIMA DEMADES DAMON
DEMADES
Now scourge of winter's wrack is well nigh spent,
And sun gins look more longer on our clime,
And earth no more to sorrow doth consent,
Why been thy looks forlorn that view the prime?
Unneth thy flocks may feed to see thee faint,
Thou lost, they lean, and both with woe attaint.
For shame! Cast off these discontented looks;
For grief doth wait on life, though never sought;
So Thenot wrote admired for pipe and books.
Then to the spring attemper thou thy thought,
And let advice rear up thy drooping mind,
And leave to weep thy woes unto the wind.
DAMON
Ah Demades, no wonder though I wail,
For even the spring is winter unto me!
Look as the sun the earth doth then avail,
When by his beams her bowels warmèd be;
Even so a saint more sun-bright in her shining
First wrought my weal, now hastes my winter's pining.
Which lovely lamp withdrawn from my poor eyes,
Both parts of earth and fire drowned up in woe
In winter dwell. My joy, my courage dies;
My lambs with me that do my winter know
For pity scorn the spring that nigheth near,
And pine to see their master's pining cheer.
The root which yieldeth sap unto the tree
Draws from the earth the means that make it spring;
And by the sap the scions fostered be,
All from the sun have comfort and increasing
And that fair eye that lights this earthly ball
Kills by depart, and nearing cheereth all.
As root to tree, such is my tender heart,
Whose sap is thought, whose branches are content;
And from my soul they draw their sweet or smart,
And from her eye, my soul's best life is lent;
Which heavenly eye that lights both earth and air,
Quells by depart and quickens by repair.
DEMADES
Give period to the process of thy plaint,
Unhappy Damon, witty in self-grieving;
Tend thou thy flocks; let tyrant love attaint
Those tender hearts that made their love their living.
And as kind time keeps Phillis from thy sight,
So let prevention banish fancy quite.
Cast hence this idle fuel of desire,
That feeds that flame wherein thy heart consumeth;
Let reason school thy will which doth aspire,
And counsel cool impatience that presumeth;
Drive hence vain thoughts which are fond love's abettors,
For he that seeks his thraldom merits fetters.
The vain idea of this deity
Nursed at the teat of thine imagination,
Was bred, brought up by thine own vanity,
Whose being thou mayst curse from the creation;
And so thou list, thou may as soon forget love,
As thou at first didst fashion and beget love.
DAMON
Peace, Demades, peace shepherd, do not tempt me;
The sage-taught wife may speak thus, but not practise;
Rather from life than from my love exempt me,
My happy love wherein my weal and wrack lies;
Where chilly age first left love, and first lost her,
There youth found love, liked love, and love did foster.
Not as ambitious of their[C] own decay,
But curious to equal your fore-deeds,
So tread we now within your wonted way;
We find your fruits of judgments and their seeds;
We know you loved, and loving learn that lore;
You scorn kind love, because you can no more.
Though from this pure refiner of the thought
The gleanings of your learnings have you gathered
Your lives had been abortive, base and naught,
Except by happy love they had been fathered;
Then still the swain, for I will still avow it;
They have no wit nor worth that disallow it.
Then to renew the ruins of my tears
Be thou no hinderer, Demades, I pray thee.
If my love-sighs grow tedious in thine ears,
Fly me, that fly from joy, I list not stay thee.
Mourn sheep, mourn lambs, and Damon will weep by you;
And when I sigh, "Come home, sweet Phillis," cry you.
Come home, sweet Phillis, for thine absence causeth
A flowerless prime-tide in these drooping meadows;
To push his beauties forth each primrose pauseth,
Our lilies and our roses like coy widows
Shut in their buds, their beauties, and bemoan them,
Because my Phillis doth not smile upon them.
The trees by my redoubled sighs long blasted
Call for thy balm-sweet breath and sunny eyes,
To whom all nature's comforts are hand-fasted;
Breathe, look on them, and they to life arise;
They have new liveries with each smile thou lendest,
And droop with me, when thy fair brow thou bendest.
I woo thee, Phillis, with more earnest weeping
Than Niobe for her dead issue spent;
I pray thee, nymph who hast our spring in keeping,
Thou mistress of our flowers and my content,
Come home, and glad our meads of winter weary,
And make thy woeful Damon blithe and merry.
Else will I captive all my hopes again,
And shut them up in prisons of despair,
And weep such tears as shall destroy this plain,
And sigh such sighs as shall eclipse the air,
And cry such cries as love that hears my crying
Shall faint and weep for grief and fall a-dying.
My little world hath vowed no sun shall glad it,
Except thy little world her light discover,
Of which heavens would grow proud if so they had it.
Oh how I fear lest absent Jove should love her!
I fear it, Phillis, for he never saw one
That had more heaven-sweet looks to lure and awe one.
I swear to thee, all-seeing sovereign
Rolling heaven's circles round about our center,
Except my Phillis safe return again,
No joy to heart, no meat to mouth shall enter.
All hope (but future hope to be renowned,
For weeping Phillis) shall in tears be drowned.
DEMADES
How large a scope lends Damon to his moan,
Wafting those treasures of his happy wit
In registering his woeful woe-begone!
Ah bend thy muse to matters far more fit!
For time shall come when Phillis is interred,
That Damon shall confess that he hath erred.
When nature's riches shall, by time dissolved,
Call thee to see with more judicial eye
How Phillis' beauties are to dust resolved,
Thou then shalt ask thyself the reason why
Thou wert so fond, since Phillis was so frail,
To praise her gifts that should so quickly fail.
Have mercy on thyself, cease being idle,
Let reason claim and gain of will his homage;
Rein in these brain-sick thoughts with judgment's bridle,
A short prevention helps a mighty domage.
If Phillis love, love her, yet love her so
That if she fly, thou may'st love's fire forego.
Play with the fire, yet die not in the flame;
Show passions in thy words, but not in heart;
Lest when thou think to bring thy thoughts in frame,
Thou prove thyself a prisoner by thine art.
Play with these babes of love, as apes with glasses,
And put no trust in feathers, wind, or lasses.
DAMON
Did not thine age yield warrantise, old man,
Impatience would enforce me to offend thee;
Me list not now thy forward skill to scan,
Yet will I pray that love may mend or end thee.
Spring flowers, sea-tides, earth, grass, sky, stars shall banish,
Before the thoughts of love or Phillis vanish.
So get thee gone, and fold thy tender sheep,
For lo, the great automaton of day
In Isis stream his golden locks doth steep;
Sad even her dusky mantle doth display;
Light-flying fowls, the posts of night, disport them,
And cheerful-looking vesper doth consort them.
Come you, my careful flock, forego you master,
I'll fold you up and after fall a-sighing;
Words have no worth my secret wounds to plaster;
Naught may refresh my joys but Phillis nighing.
Farewell, old Demades.
DEMADES
Damon, farewell.
How 'gainst advice doth headlong youth rebel!
[Footnote C: Our?]
AN ELEGY
Ah cruel winds, why call you hence away?
Why make you breach betwixt my soul and me?
Ye traitorous floods, why nil your floats delay
Until my latest moans discoursèd be?
For though ye salt sea-gods withhold the rain
Of all your floats and gentle winds be still,
While I have wept such tears as might restrain
The rage of tides and winds against their will.
Ah shall I love your sight, bright shining eyes?
And must my soul his life and glory leave?
Must I forsake the bower where solace lives,
To trust to tickle fates that still deceive?
Alas, so wills the wanton queen of change,
That each man tract this labyrinth of life
With slippery steps, now wronged by fortune strange,
Now drawn by counsel from the maze of strife!
Ah joy! No joy because so soon thou fleetest,
Hours, days, and times inconstant in your being!
Oh life! No life, since with such chance thou meetest!
Oh eyes! No eyes, since you must lose your seeing!
Soul, be thou sad, dissolve thy living powers
To crystal tears, and by their pores express
The grief that my distressèd soul devours!
Clothe thou my body all in heaviness;
My suns appeared fair smiling full of pleasure,
But now the vale of absence overclouds them;
They fed my heart with joys exceeding measure
Which now shall die, since absence needs must shroud them.
Yea, die! Oh death, sweet death, vouchsafe that blessing,
That I may die the death whilst she regardeth!
For sweet were death, and sweet were death's oppressing,
If she look on who all my life awardeth.
Oh thou that art the portion of my joy,
Yet not the portion, for thou art the prime;
Suppose my griefs, conceive the deep annoy
That wounds my soul upon this sorry time!
Pale is my face, and in my pale confesses
The pain I suffer, since I needs must leave thee.
Red are mine eyes through tears that them oppresses,
Dulled are my sp'rits since fates do now bereave thee.
And now, ah now, my plaints are quite prevented!
The winds are fair the sails are hoisèd high,
The anchors weighed, and now quite discontented,
Grief so subdues my heart as it should die.
A faint farewell with trembling hand I tender,
And with my tears my papers are distained.
Which closèd up, my heart in them I render,
To tell thee how at parting I complained.
Vouchsafe his message that doth bring farewell,
And for my sake let him with beauty dwell.
THIRSIS EGLOGA SECUNDA
Muses help me, sorrow swarmeth,
Eyes are fraught with seas of languish;
Heavy hope my solace harmeth,
Mind's repast is bitter anguish.
Eye of day regarded never
Certain trust in world untrusty;
Flattering hope beguileth ever
Weary, old, and wanton lusty.
Dawn of day beholds enthronèd
Fortune's darling, proud and dreadless;
Darksome night doth hear him moanèd,
Who before was rich and needless.
Rob the sphere of lines united,
Make a sudden void in nature;
Force the day to be benighted,
Reave the cause of time and creature;
Ere the world will cease to vary,
This I weep for, this I sorrow.
Muses, if you please to tarry,
Further helps I mean to borrow.
Courted once by fortune's favour,
Compassed now with envy's curses,
All my thoughts of sorrow savour,
Hopes run fleeting like the sources.
Ay me! Wanton scorn hath maimèd
All the joy my heart enjoyèd;
Thoughts their thinking have disclaimèd,
Hate my hopes hath quite annoyèd.
Scant regard my weal hath scanted,
Looking coy hath forced my lowering;
Nothing liked where nothing wanted
Weds mine eyes to ceaseless showering.
Former love was once admirèd,
Present favour is estrangèd,
Loath the pleasure long desirèd;
Thus both men and thoughts are changèd.
Lovely swain with lucky guiding,
Once (but now no more so friended)
Thou my flocks hast had in minding,
From the morn till day was ended.
Drink and fodder, food and folding,
Had my lambs and ewes together;
I with them was still beholding,
Both in warmth and winter weather.
Now they languish since refusèd,
Ewes and lambs are pained with pining;
I with ewes and lambs confusèd,
All unto our deaths declining.
Silence, leave thy cave obscurèd;
Deign a doleful swain to tender;
Though disdains I have endurèd,
Yet I am no deep offender.
Phillis' son can with his finger
Hide his scar, it is so little;
Little sin a day to linger,
Wise men wander in a tittle.
Thriftless yet my swain have turnèd,
Though my sun he never showeth:
Though I weep, I am not mournèd;
Though I want, no pity groweth.
Yet for pity love my muses;
Gentle silence be their cover;
They must leave their wonted uses,
Since I leave to be a lover.
They shall live with thee inclosèd,
I will loathe my pen and paper
Art shall never be supposèd,
Sloth shall quench the watching taper.
Kiss them, silence, kiss them kindly
Though I leave them, yet I love them;
Though my wit have led them blindly,
Yet my swain did once approve them.
I will travel soils removèd,
Night and morrow never merry;
Thou shalt harbour that I lovèd,
I will love that makes me weary.
If perchance the sheep estrayeth,
In thy walks and shades unhaunted,
Tell the teen my heart betrayeth,
How neglect my joys hath daunted.Thomas Lodge
Thomas Lodge's other poems:
- Sonnets to Phillis. 39
- Sonnets to Phillis. 8
- Sonnets to Phillis. 13
- Sonnets to Phillis. 32
- Sonnets to Phillis. 33
Print 1202 Views
English Poetry. E-mail eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru