POEM: SONG
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To the tune of "Basciami vita mia." Sleep, baby mine, Desires nurse, Beauty, sih; Thy cries>?</a>, O baby, set mine head on ag: The babe cries, "Way, thy love doth keep me waking."Lully, lully, my babe, Hope cradle brih Unto my children alway good rest taking: The babe cries, "Way, thy love doth keep me waking."
Since, baby mine, from me thy watg sprih, Sleep then a little, pap tent is making; The babe cries, "Nay, for that abide I waking."
I.
The sce of life, ahs extreme disgrace; The smoke of hell, the monster called Pain: Long shamed to be accursed in every place, By them who of his rude resort plain; Like crafty wretch, by time and travel taught, His ugly evil in ood to hide; Late harbours in her face, whom Nature wrought As treasure-house where her best gifts do bide; And so by privilege of sacred seat, A seat where beauty shines and virtue reigns, He hopes for some small praise, since she hath great, Within her beams ing his cruel stains. Ah, saucy Pai not thy terror last, More loving eyes she draws, more hate thou hast.
II.
Woe! woe to me, ourn the smart: My burning toh bred my mistress pain? For oft in pain, to pain my painful heart, With her due praise did of my state plain. I praised her eyes, whom never ove; Her breath, which makes a sour answer sweet; Her milkes, the nurse of child-like love; Her legs, O legs! her aye well- steppi: Pain heard her praise, and full of inward fire, (First sealing up my heart as prey of his) He flies to her, and, boldened with desire, Her face, this ages praise, the thief doth kiss. O Pain! I now ret the praise I gave, And swear she is not worthy thee to have.
III.
Thou pain, the only gue>９9ｌｉb?</a>st of loathed straint; The child of Curse, mans weakness foster-child; Brother to Woe, and father of plaint:
Thou Pain, thou hated Pain, from heaven exiled, How holdst thou her whose eyes straint doth fear, Whom cursed do bless; whose weakness virtues arm; Who others woes and plaints chastely bear: In whose sweet heaven angels of high thoughts swarm? What ce strah caught thy caitiff heart? Fearst not a face that oft whole hearts devours?
Or art thou from above bid play this part, And so no help gainst envy of those pow>藏书网</a>ers? If thus, alas, yet while those parts have woe; So stay her tohat she no more say, "O."
IV.
And have I heard her say, "O cruel pain!" And doth she know what mould her beauty bears? Mourns she in truth, and thinks that others feign?
Fears she to feel, and feels not others fears? Or doth she think all pain the mind forbears? That heavy earth, not fiery spirits, may plain? That eyes weep worse tha in bloody tears? That sense feels more than what doth sense tain? No, no, she is too wise, she knows her face Hath not such pain as it makes others have: She knows the siess of that perfect place Hath yet such health, as it my life save. But this, she thinks, our pain high cause excuseth, Where her, who should rule pain, false pain abuseth.
* * * Like as the dove, which seeled up doth fly, Is her freed, nor yet to service bound; But hopes to gain some help by mounting high, Till want of force do force her fall to ground: Right so my mind, caught by his guiding eye, And thence cast off where his sweet hurt he found, Hath her leave to live, nor doom to die; Nor held in evil, nor suffered to be sound. But with his wings of fancies up he goes, To high ceits, whose fruits are oft but small; Till wounded, blind, and wearied spirit, lose Both force to fly, and knowledge where to fall: O happy dove, if she no boried! More happy I, might I in bondage bide!
* * * In wonted walks, since wonted fancies ge, Some cause there is, which of strange cause doth rise: For in each thing whereto mine eye de, Part of my pain, me-seems, engraved lies. The rocks, which were of stant mind the mark, In climbing steep, now hard refusal show; The shading woods seem now my sun to dark, And stately hills disdain to look so low. The restful caves now restless visions give; In dales I see each way a hard ast: Like late-mown meads, late cut from joy I live; Alas, sweet brooks do in my tears augment: Rocks, woods, hills, caves, dales, meads, brooks, answer me; Ied minds i each thing they see. If I could think how these my thoughts to leave, Or thinking still, my thoughts might have good end; If rebel sense would reasons law receive; Or reason foiled, would not in vain tend: Then might I think what thoughts were best to think: Then might I wisely swim, ladly sink.
If either you would ge your cruel heart, Or, cruel still, time did your beauties stain: If from my soul this love would once depart, Or for my love some love I might obtain; Then might I hope a ge, or ease of mind, By yood help, or i<q></q>n myself, to find.
But since my thoughts in thinking still are spent. With reasons strife, by senses overthrown; You fairer still, and still more cruel bent, I loving still a love that loveth none: I yield and strive, I kiss and curse the pain, Thought, reason, seime, You, and I, maintain.
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