Ah, Corydon, though many be thy years,
And crooked elde[1] hath some experience left,
Yet is thy mind of judgment quite bereft,
In view of love, whose power in me appears.
The ploughman little wots to turn the pen,
Or bookman skills to guide the ploughman's cart;
Nor can the cobbler count the terms of art,
Nor base men judge the thoughts of mighty men.
Nor withered age, unmeet for beauty's guide,
Uncapable of love's impression,
Discourse of that whose choice possession
May never to so base a man be tied.
But I, whom nature makes of tender mould,
And youth most pliant yields to fancy's fire,
Do build my haven and heaven on sweet desire,
On sweet desire, more dear to me than gold.
Think I of love, oh, how my lines aspire!
How haste the Muses to embrace my brows,
And hem my temples in with laurel boughs,
And fill my brains with chaste and holy fire!
Then leave my lines their homely equipage,
Mounted beyond the circle of the sun:
Amazed I read the stile when I have done,
And hery[2] love that sent that heavenly rage.
Of Phoebe then, of Phoebe then I sing,
Drawing the purity of all the spheres,
The pride of earth, or what in heaven appears,
Her honored face and fame to light to bring.
In fluent numbers, and in pleasant veins,
I rob both sea and earth of all their state,
To praise her parts: I charm both time and fate,
To bless the nymph that yields me lovesick pains.
My sheep are turned to thoughts, whom froward will
Guides in the restless labyrinth of love;
Fear lends them pasture wheresoe'er they move,
And by their death their life reneweth still.
My sheephook is my pen, mine oaten reed
My paper, where my many woes are written.
Thus silly swain, with love and fancy bitten,
I trace the plains[3] of pain in woeful weed.