sleeves turned up, loose hair, and breast enlarged44—
her father’s corn (moving her fair limbs) measure.45
“O,” cried I, “of so mean work be discharged:
Measure my case—how by your beauty’s filling
with seed of woes my heart brim full is charged.
Your father bids you save and chides for spilling.
Save then my soul. Spill not my thoughts well heaped.
No lovely praise was ever got by killing.”
These bold words she did hear. This fruit I reaped,
that she—whose look alone might make me blessed—
did smile on me, and then away she leaped.
Dorus:
Once—ô sweet once!—I saw (with dread oppressed)
her whom I dread so that, with prostrate lying,
her length the earth in love’s chief clothing dressed.46
I saw that richness fall, and fell a crying:
“Let not dead earth enjoy so dear a cover,
but deck therewith my soul, for your sake dying.
“Lay all your fear upon your fearful lover.
Shine eyes on me, that both our lives be guarded;
so I your sight, you shall yourself recover.”
I cried, and was with open rays47 rewarded.
But straight they fled, summoned by cruel honor—
honor, the cause desert is not regarded.
Thyrsis:
This maid, thus made for joys—O Pan, bemoan her,
that without love she spends her years of love.48
So fair a field would well become an owner,
and if enchantment can a hard heart move,
teach me what circle may acquaint her sprite
affection’s charms in my behalf to prove.
The circle is my round-about-her sight.
The power I will invoke dwells in her eyes.
My charm should be, she haunt me day and night.
Dorus:
Far other case, ô muse, my sorrow tries,
bent to such one in whom, myself must say,
nothing can mend one point that in her lies.
What circle then in so rare force bears sway
whose spirit all spirits can foil, raise, damn or save?
No charm holds her, but well possess she may.
Possess she does, and makes my soul her slave—
my eyes the bands, my thoughts the fatal knot.
No thralls like those that inward bondage have.
Thyrsis:49
Kala, at length conclude my lingering lot.
Disdain me not, although I be not fair.
Who is an heir of many hundred sheep
does beauties keep, which never sun can burn,
nor storms do turn. Fairness serves oft to wealth,
yet all my health I place in your good will,
which if you will (ô do!) bestow on me,
such as you see, such still you shall me find—
constant and kind. My sheep your food shall breed,
their wool your weed. I will you music yield
in flowery field, and as the day begins
with twenty gins we will the small birds take
and pastimes make, as nature things has made.
But when in shade we meet of mirtle boughs,
then love allows our pleasures to enrich
the thought of which does pass all wordly pelf.
Dorus:
Lady, yourself (whom neither name I dare)50
(and titles are but spots to such a worth),
hear plaints come forth from dungeon of my mind.
The noblest kind rejects not other’s woes.
I have no shows of wealth; my wealth is you.
My beauty’s hue—your beams; my health—your deeds.
My mind for weeds your virtue’s livery wears;
my food is tears, my tunes wamenting51 yield.
Despair my field; the flowers?—spirits’ wares.
My day?—new cares. My gins?—my daily sight
in which do light small birds of thoughts o’er thrown.
My pastimes? None; time passes on my fall.
Nature made all—but me? Of dolors made.
I find no shade but where my sun does burn,
no place to turn without it fries,
nor help by life or death—who living, dies.
Thyrsis:
But if my Kala thus my suit denies,52
which so much reason bears,
let crows pick out my eyes which too much saw.
If she still hate love’s law,
my earthly mold doth melt in watery tears.
Dorus:
My earthly mold doth melt in watery tears,
and they again resolve
to air of sighs. Sighs to the heart’s fire turn,
which
