For when his stately citie was destroyd,
That monument of great antiquitie,
When his poore hart, with griefe and sorrow cloyd,
Fled to his wife, last hope in miserie;
Pyrrhus, more hard than adamantine rockes,
Held him and halde him by his aged lockes.
These two examples by the way I show,
To prove th' indecencie of men's long haire:
Though I could tell thee of a thousand moe,
Let these suffice for thee, my lovely faire,
Whose eye's my starre, whose smiling is my sunne,
Whose love did ende before my joyes begunne.
Fond love is blinde, and so art thou, my deare,
For thou seest not my love and great desart;
Blinde love is fond, and so thou dost appeare,
For fond and blinde, thou greevst my greeving hart:
Be thou fond-blinde, blinde-fond, or one, or all,
Thou art my love, and I must be thy thrall!
Oh lend thine yvorie forehead for loves booke,
Thine eyes for candles to behold the same;
That when dim-sighted ones therein shall looke,
They may discerne that proud disdainefull dame;
Yet claspe that booke, and shut that cazement light,
Lest, th'one obscurde, the other shine too bright.
Sell thy sweet breath to th' daintie musk-ball makers,
Yet sell it so as thou mayst soone redeeme it:
Let others of thy beauty be pertakers,
Else none but Daphnis will so well esteeme it.
For what is beauty, except it be well knowne?
And how can it be knowne, except first showne?
Learne of the gentlewomen of this age,
That set their beauties to the open view,
Making disdaine their lord, true love their page,
A custome zeale doth hate, desert doth rue:
Learne to looke red, anon waxe pale and wan,
Making a mocke of love, a scorne of man.
A candle light, and cover'd with a vaile,
Doth no man good, because it gives no light;
So Beauty of her beauty seemes to faile,
When being not seene it cannot shine so bright:
Then show thyselfe and know thyselfe withall,
Lest climing high thou catch too great a fall.
Oh foule eclipser of that fayre sun-shine,
Which is intitled Beauty in the best,
Making that mortall, which is els divine,
That staines the fayre which women steeme not least:
Get thee to Hell againe, from whence thou art,
And leave the center of a woman's hart.
Ah be not staind, sweet boy, with this vilde spot,
Indulgence daughter, mother of Mischaunce;
A blemish that doth every beauty blot,
That makes them loath'd, but never doth advaunce
Her clyents, fautors, friends, or them that love her,
And hates them most of all, that most reprove her.
Remember age, and thou canst not be prowd,
For age puls downe the pride of every man;
In youthfull yeares by Nature tis allowde
To have selfe-will, doo Nurture what she can;
Nature and Nurture once together met,
The soule and shape in decent order set.