Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare.
Youth is full of sport, age’s breath is short.
Youth is nimble, age is lame,
Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold.
Youth is wild and age is tame.
Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee.
O my love, my love is young.
Age, I do defy thee. O sweet shepherd, hie thee,
For methinks thou stay’st too long.
13
Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good,
A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly,
A flower that dies when first it ’gins to bud,
A brittle glass that’s broken presently.
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.
And as goods lost are seld or never found,
As faded gloss no rubbing will refresh,
As flowers dead lie withered on the ground,
As broken glass no cement can redress,
So beauty blemished once, for ever lost,
In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.
14
Good night, good rest—ah, neither be my share.
She bade good night that kept my rest away,
And daffed me to a cabin hanged with care
To descant on the doubts of my decay.
‘Farewell,’ quoth she, ‘and come again tomorrow.’
Fare well I could not, for I supped with sorrow.
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,
In scorn or friendship nill I conster whether.
‘Tmay be she joyed to jest at my exile,
‘Tmay be, again to make me wander thither.
‘Wander’-a word for shadows like myself,
As take the pain but cannot pluck the pelf.
Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east!
My heart doth charge the watch, the morning rise
Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest,
Not daring trust the office of mine eyes.
While Philomela sings I sit and mark,
And wish her lays were tuned like the lark.
For she doth welcome daylight with her dite,
And daylight drives away dark dreaming night.
The night so packed, I post unto my pretty;
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight,
Sorrow changed to solace, and solace mixed with
sorrow,
Forwhy she sighed and bade me come tomorrow.
Were I with her, the night would post too soon,
But now are minutes added to the hours.
To spite me now each minute seems a moon,
Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers!
Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now
borrow;
Short night tonight, and length thyself tomorrow.
Sonnets to Sundry Notes of Music
15
It was a lording’s daughter, the fairest one of three,
That liked of her master as well as well might be,
Till looking on an Englishman, the fairest that eye
could see,
Her fancy fell a-turning.
Long was the combat doubtful that love with love did
fight: 5
To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight.
To put in practice either, alas, it was a spite
Unto the seely damsel.
But one must be refused, more mickle was the pain
That nothing could be used to turn them both to gain.
For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with
disdain—
Alas, she could not help it.
Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day,
Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away.
Then lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gay;
For now my song is ended.
17
My flocks feed not, my ewes breed not,
My rams speed not, all is amiss.
Love is dying, faith’s defying,
Heart’s denying causer of this.
All my merry jigs are quite forgot,
All my lady’s love is lost, God wot.
Where her faith was firmly fixed in love,
There a nay is placed without remove.
One seely cross wrought all my loss—
O frowning fortune, cursed fickle dame!
For now I see inconstancy
More in women than in men remain.
In black mourn I, all fears scorn I,
Love hath forlorn me, living in thrall.
Heart is bleeding, all help needing—
O cruel speeding, freighted with gall.
My shepherd’s pipe can sound no deal,
My wether’s bell rings doleful knell,
My curtal dog that wont to have played
Plays not at all, but seems afraid,
With sighs so deep procures to weep
In howling wise to see my doleful plight.
How sighs resound through heartless ground,
Like a thousand vanquished men in bloody fight!
Clear wells spring not, sweet birds sing not,
Green plants bring not forth their dye.