Mine eye bewrays the secrets of my heart,
My heart unfolds his grief before her face;
Her face—bewitching pleasure of my smart!—
Deigns not one look of mercy and of grace.
My guilty eye of murder and of treason,—
Friendly conspirator of my decay,
Dumb eloquence, the lover's strongest reason!—
Doth weep itself for anger quite away,
And chooseth rather not to be, than be
Disloyal, by too well discharging duty;
And being out, joys it no more can see
The sugared charms of all deceiving beauty.
But, for the other greedily doth eye it,
I pray you tell me, what do I get by it?
XLVI
So soon as peeping Lucifer, Aurora's star,
The sky with golden periwigs doth spangle;
So soon as Phœbus gives us light from far,
So soon as fowler doth the bird entangle;
Soon as the watchful bird, clock of the morn,
Gives intimation of the day's appearing;
Soon as the jolly hunter winds his horn,
His speech and voice with custom's echo clearing;
Soon as the hungry lion seeks his prey
In solitary range of pathless mountains;
Soon as the passenger sets on his way,
So soon as beasts resort unto the fountains;
So soon mine eyes their office are discharging,
And I my griefs with greater griefs enlarging.
XLVII
I see, I hear, I feel, I know, I rue
My fate, my fame, my pain, my loss, my fall,
Mishap, reproach, disdain, a crown, her hue,
Cruel, still flying, false, fair, funeral,
To cross, to shame, bewitch, deceive, and kill
My first proceedings in their flowing bloom.
My worthless pen fast chainèd to my will,
My erring life through an uncertain doom,
My thoughts that yet in lowliness do mount,
My heart the subject of her tyranny;
What now remains but her severe account
Of murder's crying guilt, foul butchery!
She was unhappy in her cradle breath,
That given was to be another's death.
XLVIII
"Murder! O murder!" I can cry no longer.
"Murder! O murder!" Is there none to aid me?
Life feeble is in force, death is much stronger;
Then let me die that shame may not upbraid me;
Nothing is left me now but shame or death.
I fear she feareth not foul murder's guilt,
Nor do I fear to lose a servile breath.
I know my blood was given to be spilt.
What is this life but maze of countless strays,
The enemy of true felicity,
Fitly compared to dreams, to flowers, to plays!
O life, no life to me, but misery!
Of shame or death, if thou must one,
Make choice of death and both are gone.
XLIX
My cruel fortunes clouded with a frown,
Lurk in the bosom of eternal night;
My climbing thoughts are basely haulèd down;
My best devices prove but after-sight.
Poor outcast of the world's exilèd room,
I live in wilderness of deep lament;
No hope reserved me but a hopeless tomb,
When fruitless life and fruitful woes are spent.
Shall Phœbus hinder little stars to shine,
Or lofty cedar mushrooms leave to grow?
Sure mighty men at little ones repine,
The rich is to the poor a common foe.
Fidessa, seeing how the world doth go,
Joineth with fortune in my overthrow.
L