Give me her that goodness chooseth
For its own sake! and refuseth
To have greatest honours gained
With her secret conscience stained.
Give me her! that would be poor;
Die disgraced; nay, thought a whore;
And each Time's reproach become
Till the general Day of Doom:
Rather than consent to act
Pleasing sin: though by the fact,
With esteem of "virtuous," she
Might the German Empress be!
Such my Mistress is! and nought
Shall have power to change her thought.
Pleasures cannot tempt her eye,
On their baits to glance awry.
For their good, she still esteems
As it is; not, as it seems:
And she takes no comfort in
Sweetest Pleasure soured with Sin.
By herself, she hath such care
That her actions decent are.
For were she in secret hid,
None might see what she did;
She would do as if for spies
Every wall was stuck with eyes:
And be chary of her honour
'Cause the heavens do look upon her!
And O, what had power to move,
Flames of lust or wanton love
So far, to disparage us;
If we all, were minded thus?
These are beauties that shall last
When the crimson blood shall waste!
And the shining hair wax gray
Or, with age, be worn away!
These yield pleasures such as might
Be remembered with delight,
When we gasp our latest breath
On the loathèd bed of death.
Though discreetly speak She can;
She'll be silent, rather than
Talk while others may be heard:
As if She did hate, or feared
The condition, who will force
All to wait on their discourse.
Reason hath on her bestowed,
More of knowledge, than she owed
To that sex; and Grace, with it,
Doth aright, her practice fit.
Yet hath Fate so framèd her
As She may, at some time, err;
But if e'er her judgement stray,
'Tis that other women may,
Those much pleasing beauties see,
Which in yielding natures be.
For since no perfection can
Here on earth be found in man;
There's more good in free submissions,
Than there's ill in our transgressions.
Should you hear her, once, contend
In discoursing, to defend,
As She can, a doubtful cause;
She, such strong positions draws
From known truths, and doth apply
Reasons with such majesty,
As if She did undertake,
From some Oracle to speak;
And you could not think what might
Breed more love, or more delight.
Yet, if you should mark again
Her discreet behaviour, when
She finds reason to repent
Some wrong-pleaded argument;
She so temperately lets all
Her mis-held opinions fall,
And can, with such mildness bow,
As 'twill more enamour you,
Than her knowledge. For there are
Pleasing sweets without compare
In such yieldings! which do prove
Wit, Humility, and Love.
Yea, by those mistakings, you
Her condition so shall know,
And the nature of her mind
So undoubtedly shall find,
As will make her more endeared
Than if she had never erred.
Farther (that she nought may miss
Which worth praise in woman is),
This, unto the rest I add.
If I, wound or sickness had;
None should for my curing run!
No, not to Apollo's son!
She, so well the virtue knows
Of each needful herb that grows;
And so fitly, can apply
Salves to every malady:
That if She, no succour gave me,
'Twere no means of Art could save me!
Should my Soul oppressèd lie,
Sunk with grief and sorrow nigh;
She hath balm for minds distressed,
And could ease my pained breast.
She, so well knows, how to season
Passionate discourse with Reason;
And knows how to sweeten it,
Both with so much Love and Wit,
That it shall prepare the Sense
To give way with less offence.
For grievèd minds can ill abide
Counsel churlishly applied;
Which instead of comfortings,
Desperation often brings.
But, hark, Nymphs! Methinks, I hear
Music sounding in mine ear!
'Tis a Lute! and he's the best
For a voice, in all the West,
That doth touch it! And the Swain
I would have you hear, so fain;
That to my Song, forbear will I,
To attend his melody.
Hither comes he, day by day,
In these groves to sing and play:
And in yon close arbour, he
Sitteth now, expecting me.
He so bashful is, that mute
Will his tongue be, and his lute;
Should he happen to espy
This unlooked for company.
If you, therefore, list to hear him;
Let's with silence walk more near him!
'Twill be worth your pains, believe me!
(If a voice, content may give ye!)
And, await you shall not long!
For he now begins a Song.
SONNET I.
What is the cause, when elsewhere I resort,
I have my gestures, and discourse more free:
And if I please, can any Beauty court!
Yet stand so dull, and so demure by Thee?
Why are my speeches broken, whilst I talk?
Why do I fear almost thy hand to touch?
Why dare I not embrace thee, as we walk?
Since, with the greatest Nymphs, I've dared as much!
Ah, know that none of those I e'er affected!
And therefore used a careless courtship there;
Because I, neither their disdain respected;
Nor reckoned them nor their embraces dear!
But loving Thee! my love hath found content;
And rich delights, in things indifferent.
SONNET II.
Why covet I, thy blessed eyes to see!
Whose sweet aspect may cheer the saddest mind?
Why, when our bodies must divided be,
Can I no hour of rest or pleasure find?
Why do I sleeping, start; and waking, moan,
To find that of my dreamèd hopes I miss?
Why do I often contemplate alone,
Of such a thing as thy Perfection is?
And wherefore, when we meet, doth Passion stop
My speechless tongue, and leave me in a panting?
Why doth my heart, o'ercharged with fear and hope,
In spite of reason, almost droop to fainting?
Because, in me, thy excellences moving,
Have drawn to me, an excellence in loving!