Complete Works of Edmund Spenser

by Edmund Spenser

  That with one looke she doth my life dismay, 290

  And with another doth it streight recure:

  Her smile me drawes, her frowne me drives away.

  Thus doth she traine and teach me with her lookes:

  Such art of eyes I never read in bookes.

  Amoretti XXII

  This holy season, fit to fast and pray, 295

  Men to devotion ought to be inclynd:

  Therefore, I lykewise, on so holy day,

  For my sweet saynt some service fit will find.

  Her temple fayre is built within my mind,

  In which her glorious ymage placed is, 300

  On which my thoughts doo day and night attend,

  Lyke sacred priests that never thinke amisse.

  There I to her, as th’ author of my blisse,

  Will builde an altar to appease her yre;

  And on the same my hart will sacrifise, 305

  Burning in flames of pure and chast desyre:

  The which vouchsafe, O goddesse, to accept,

  Amongst thy deerest relicks to be kept.

  Amoretti XXIII

  Penelope, for her Ulisses sake,

  Deviz’d a web her wooers to deceave, 310

  In which the worke that she all day did make,

  The same at night she did againe unreave.

  Such subtile craft my damzell doth conceave,

  Th’ importune suit of my desire to shonne:

  For all that I in many dayes doo weave 315

  In one short houre I find by her undonne.

  So when I thinke to end that I begonne,

  I must begin and never bring to end:

  For with one looke she spils that long I sponne,

  And with one word my whole years work doth rend. 320

  Such labour like the spyders web I fynd,

  Whose fruitlesse worke is broken with least wynd.

  Amoretti XXIV

  When I behold that beauties wonderment,

  And rare perfection of each goodly part,

  Of Natures skill the onely complement, 325

  I honor and admire the Makers art.

  But when I feele the bitter balefull smart

  Which her fayre eyes unwares doe worke in mee,

  That death out of theyr shiny beames doe dart,

  I thinke that I a new Pandora see; 330

  Whom all the gods in councell did agree,

  Into this sinfull world from heaven to send,

  That she to wicked men a scourge should bee,

  For all their faults with which they did offend.

  But since ye are my scourge, I will intreat 335

  That for my faults ye will me gently beat.

  Amoretti XXV

  How long shall this lyke dying lyfe endure,

  And know no end of her owne mysery,

  But wast and weare away in termes unsure,

  Twixt feare and hope depending doubtfully? 340

  Yet better were attonce to let me die,

  And shew the last ensample of your pride,

  Then to torment me thus with cruelty,

  To prove your powre, which I too wel have tride.

  But yet if in your hardned brest ye hide 345

  A close intent at last to shew me grace,

  Then all the woes and wrecks which I abide

  As meanes of blisse I gladly wil embrace,

  And wish that more and greater they might be,

  That greater meede at last may turne to mee. 350

  Amoretti XXVI

  Sweet is the rose, but growes upon a brere;

  Sweet is the junipere, but sharpe his bough;

  Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh nere;

  Sweet is the firbloome, but his braunches rough;

  Sweet is the cypresse, but his rynd is tough; 355

  Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill;

  Sweet is the broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough;

  And sweet is moly, but his root is ill.

  So every sweet with soure is tempred still,

  That maketh it be coveted the more: 360

  For easie things, that may be got at will,

  Most sorts of men doe set but little store.

  Why then should I accoumpt of little paine,

  That endlesse pleasure shall unto me gaine?

  Amoretti XXVII

  Faire proud! now tell me, why should faire be proud, 365

  Sith all worlds glorie is but drosse uncleane,

  And in the shade of death it selfe shall shroud,

  How ever now thereof ye little weene?

  That goodly idoll, now so gay beseene,

  Shall doffe her fleshes borowd fayre attyre, 370

  And be forgot as it had never beene,

  That many now much worship and admire.

  Ne any then shall after it inquire,

  Ne any mention shall thereof remaine,

  But what this verse, that never shall expyre, 375

  Shall to you purchas with her thankles paine.

  Faire, be no lenger proud of that shall perish,

  But that which shall you make immortall cherish.

  Amoretti XXVIII

  The laurel leafe which you this day doe weare

  Gives me great hope of your relenting mynd: 380

  For since it is the badg which I doe beare,

  Ye, bearing it, doe seeme to me inclind.

  The powre thereof, which ofte in me I find,

  Let it lykewise your gentle brest inspire

  With sweet infusion, and put you in mind 385

  Of that proud mayd whom now those leaves attyre.

  Proud Daphne, scorning Phæbus lovely fyre,

  On the Thessalian shore from him did flie:

  For which the gods, in theyr revengefull yre,

  Did her transforme into a laurell tree. 390

  Then fly no more, fayre love, from Phebus chace,

  But in your brest his leafe and love embrace.

  Amoretti XXIX

  See how the stubborne damzell doth deprave

  My simple meaning with disdaynfull scorne,

  And by the bay which I unto her gave 395

  Accoumpts my self her captive quite forlorne.

  The bay (quoth she) is of the victours borne,

  Yielded them by the vanquisht as theyr meeds,

  And they therewith doe poetes heads adorne,

  To sing the glory of their famous deedes. 400

  But sith she will the conquest challeng needs,

  Let her accept me as her faithfull thrall,

  That her great triumph, which my skill exceeds,

  I may in trump of fame blaze over all.

  Then would I decke her head with glorious bayes, 405

  And fill the world with her victorious prayse.

  Amoretti XXX

  My love is lyke to yse, and I to fyre;

  How comes it then that this her cold so great

  Is not dissolv’d through my so hot desyre,

  But harder growes the more I her intreat? 410

  Or how comes it that my exceeding heat

  Is not delayd by her hart frosen cold,

  But that I burne much more in boyling sweat,

  And feele my flames augmented manifold?

  What more miraculous thing may be told, 415

  That fire, which all things melts, should harden yse,

  And yse, which is congeald with sencelesse cold,

  Should kindle fyre by wonderful devyse?

  Such is the powre of love in gentle mind,

  That it can alter all the course of kynd. 420

  Amoretti XXXI

  Ah! why hath Nature to so hard a hart

  Given so goodly giftes of beauties grace,

  Whose pryde depraves each other better part,

  And all those pretious ornaments deface?

  Sith to all other beastes of bloody race 425

  A dreadfull countenaunce she given hath,

  That with theyrterro
ur al the rest may chace,

  And warne to shun the daunger of theyr wrath.

  But my proud one doth worke the greater scath,

  Through sweet allurement of her lovely hew, 430

  That she the better may in bloody bath

  Of such poore thralls her cruell hands embrew.

  But did she know how ill these two accord,

  Such cruelty she would have soone abhord.

  Amoretti XXXII

  The paynefull smith with force of fervent heat 435

  The hardest yron soone doth mollify;

  That with his heavy sledge he can it beat,

  And fashion to what he it list apply.

  Yet cannot all these flames in which I fry

  Her hart, more harde then yron, soft a whit; 440

  Ne all the playnts and prayers with which I

  Doe beat on th’ andvyle of her stubberne wit:

  But still, the more she fervent sees my fit,

  The more she frieseth in her wilfull pryde;

  And harder growes, the harder she is smit, 445

  With all the playnts which to her be applyde.

  What then remaines but I to ashes burne,

  And she to stones at length all frosen turne?

  Amoretti XXXIII

  Great wrong I doe, I can it not deny,

  To that most sacred empresse, my dear dred, 450

  Not finishing her Queene of Faëry,

  That mote enlarge her living prayses, dead.

  But Lodwick, this of grace to me aread:

  Do ye not thinck th’ accomplishment of it

  Sufficient worke for one mans simple head, 455

  All were it, as the rest, but rudely writ?

  How then should I, without another wit,

  Thinck ever to endure so tædious toyle,

  Sins that this one is tost with troublous fit

  Of a proud love, that doth my spirite spoyle? 460

  Cease then, till she vouchsafe to grawnt me rest,

  Or lend you me another living brest.

  Amoretti XXXIV

  Lyke as a ship, that through the ocean wyde

  By conduct of some star doth make her way,

  Whenas a storme hath dimd her trusty guyde, 465

  Out of her course doth wander far astray;

  So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray

  Me to direct, with cloudes is overcast,

  Doe wander now in darknesse and dismay,

  Through hidden perils round about me plast. 470

  Yet hope I well, that when this storme is past,

  My Helice, the lodestar of my lyfe,

  Will shine again, and looke on me at last,

  With lovely light to cleare my cloudy grief.

  Till then I wander carefull comfortlesse, 475

  In secret sorrow and sad pensivenesse.

  Amoretti XXXV

  My hungry eyes, through greedy covetize

  Still to behold the object of their paine,

  With no contentment can themselves suffize,

  But having pine, and having not complaine. 480

  For lacking it, they cannot lyfe sustayne,

  And having it, they gaze on it the more:

  In their amazement lyke Narcissus vaine,

  Whose eyes him starv’d: so plenty makes me poore.

  Yet are mine eyes so filled with the store 485

  Of that faire sight, that nothing else they brooke,

  But lothe the things which they did like before,

  And can no more endure on them to looke.

  All this worlds glory seemeth vayne to me,

  And all their showes but shadowes, saving she. 490

  Amoretti XXXVI

  Tell me, when shall these wearie woes have end,

  Or shall their ruthlesse torment never cease,

  But al my dayes in pining languor spend,

  Without hope of aswagement or release?

  Is there no meanes for me to purchace peace, 495

  Or make agreement with her thrilling eyes:

  But that their cruelty doth still increace,

  And dayly more augment my miseryes?

  But when ye have shewed all extremityes,

  Then thinke how litle glory ye have gayned 500

  By slaying him, whose lyfe though ye despyse,

  Mote have your life in honour long maintayned.

  But by his death, which some perhaps will mone,

  Ye shall condemned be of many a one.

  Amoretti XXXVII

  What guyle is this, that those her golden tresses 505

  She doth attyre under a net of gold,

  And with sly skill so cunningly them dresses,

  That which is gold or heare may scarse be told?

  Is it that mens frayle eyes, which gaze too bold,

  She may entangle in that golden snare, 510

  And being caught, may craftily enfold

  Theyr weaker harts, which are not wel aware?

  Take heed therefore, myne eyes, how ye doe stare

  Henceforth too rashly on that guilefull net,

  In which if ever ye entrapped are, 515

  Out of her bands ye by no meanes shall get.

  Fondnesse it were for any, being free,

  To covet fetters, though they golden bee.

  Amoretti XXXVIII

  Arion, when, through tempests cruel wracke,

  He forth was thrown into the greedy seas, 520

  Through the sweet musick which his harp did make

  Allur’d a dolphin him from death to ease.

  But my rude musick, which was wont to please

  Some dainty eares, cannot, with any skill,

  The dreadfull tempest of her wrath appease, 525

  Nor move the dolphin from her stubborne will;

  But in her pride she dooth persever still,

  All carelesse how my life for her decayse:

  Yet with one word she can it save or spill.

  To spill were pitty, but to save were prayse. 530

  Chose rather to be praysd for dooing good,

  Then to be blam’d for spilling guiltlesse blood.

  Amoretti XXXIX

  Sweet smile, the daughter of the Queene of Love,

  Expressing all thy mothers powrefull art,

  With which she wonts to temper angry Jove, 535

  When all the gods he threats with thundring dart:

  Sweet is thy vertue, as thy selfe sweet art.

  For when on me thou shinedst late in sadnesse,

  A melting pleasance ran through every part,

  And me revived with hart robbing gladnesse: 540

  Whylest rapt with joy resembling heavenly madnes,

  My soule was ravisht quite, as in a traunce,

  And feeling thence no more her sorowes sadnesse,

  Fed on the fulnesse of that chearefull glaunce.

  More sweet than nectar, or ambrosiall meat, 545

  Seem’d every bit which thenceforth I did eat.

  Amoretti XL

  Mark when she smiles with amiable cheare,

  And tell me whereto can ye lyken it;

  When on each eyelid sweetly doe appeare

  An hundred Graces as in shade to sit. 550

  Lykest it seemeth, in my simple wit,

  Unto the fayre sunshine in somers day,

  That, when a dreadfull storme away is flit,

  Thrugh the broad world doth spred his goodly ray:

  At sight whereof, each bird that sits on spray, 555

  And every beast that to his den was fled,

  Comes forth afresh out of their late dismay,

  And to the light lift up theyr drouping hed.

  So my storme beaten hart likewise is cheared

  With that sunshine, when cloudy looks are cleared. 560

  Amoretti XLI

  Is it her nature, or is it her will,

  To be so cruell to an humbled foe?

  If nature, then she may it mend with skill,

/>   If will, then she at will may will forgoe.

  But if her nature and her wil be so, 565

  That she will plague the man that loves her most,

  And take delight t’ encrease a wretches woe,

  Then all her natures goodly guifts are lost;

  And that same glorious beauties ydle boast

  Is but a bayt such wretches to beguile, 570

  As, being long in her loves tempest tost,

  She meanes at last to make her piteous spoyle.

  O fayrest fayre, let never it be named,

  That so fayre beauty was so fowly shamed.

  Amoretti XLII

  The love which me so cruelly tormenteth 575

  So pleasing is in my extreamest paine,

  That all the more my sorrow it augmenteth,

  The more I love and doe embrace my bane.

  Ne doe I wish (for wishing were but vaine)

  To be acquit fro my continuall smart, 580

  But joy, her thrall for ever to remayne,

  And yield for pledge my poore captyved hart;

  The which, that it from her may never start,

  Let her, yf please her, bynd with adamant chayne,

  And from all wandring loves, which mote pervart 585

  His safe assurance, strongly it restrayne.

  Onely let her abstaine from cruelty,

  And doe me not before my time to dy.

  Amoretti XLIII

  Shall I then silent be, or shall I speake?

  And if I speake, her wrath renew I shall: 590

  And if I silent be, my hart will breake,

  Or choked be with overflowing gall.

  What tyranny is this, both my hart to thrall,

  And eke my toung with proud restraint to tie;

  That nether I may speake nor thinke at all, 595

  But like a stupid stock in silence die!

  Yet I my hart with silence secretly

  Will teach to speak, and my just cause to plead,

  And eke mine eies, with meek humility,

  Love-learned letters to her eyes to read: 600

  Which her deep wit, that true harts thought can spel,