MINE THE PICTURE INE eye hath play'd the painter, and hath stell'd Thy beauty's form in table of my heart; My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, For through the painter must you see his skill, Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done : Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art; They draw but what they see, know not the heart. A BOAST LET those who are in favour with their stars Of public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread But as the marigold at the sun's eye, And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior famouséd for fight, Then happy I, that love and am beloved L'ENVOI LORD of my love, to whom in vassalage To thee I send this written embassage, Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, But that I hope some good conceit of thine In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it; Till whatsoever star that guides my moving Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me. G 82 SONGS AND SONNETS THE LOVER'S NIGHT THOUGHTS WEARY with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; But then begins a journey in my head, To work my mind, when body's work's expired: For then my thoughts, from far where I abide, And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, Save that my soul's imaginary sight Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, Makes black night beauteous and her old face new. Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind OF SHAKESPEARE BY NIGHT AND BY DAY OW can I then return in happy plight How That am debarr'd the benefit of rest? When day's oppression is not eased by night, But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd? And each, though enemies to either's reign, 83 I tell the day, to please him thou art bright, And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven: So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night, When sparkling stars twire not, thou gild'st the even. But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger. |