All is amiss. Love is dying, faith's defying, heart's denying.
Money is the sovereign queen of all delights - for her, the lawyer pleads, the soldier fights.
As it fell upon a day in the merry month of May, sitting in a pleasant shade which a grove of myrtles made.
He that is thy friend indeed, he will help thee in thy need: if thou sorrow, he will weep; if you wake, he cannot sleep; thus of every grief in heart he with thee doth bear a part.
It is reported of faire Thetis Sonne,
(Achilles famous for his chiualry,
His noble minde and magnanimity,)
That when the Troian wars were new begun,
Whos'euer was deepe-wounded with his speare,
Could neuer be recured of his maime,
Nor euer after be made whole againe:
Except with that speares rust he holpen were.
Euen so it fareth with my fortune now,
Who being wounded with his piercing eie,
Must either thereby finde a remedy,
Or els to be releeu'd, I know not how.
Then if thou hast a minde still to annoy me,
Kill me with kisses, if thou wilt destroy me.
The Stoicks thinke, (and they come neere the truth,)
That vertue is the chiefest good of all,
The Academicks on Idea call.
The Epicures in pleasure spend their youth,
The Perrepatetickes iudge felicitie,
To be the chiefest good aboue all other,
One man, thinks this: and that conceaues another:
So that in one thing very few agree.
Let Stoicks haue their vertue if they will,
And all the rest their chiefe-supposed good,
Let cruell Martialists delight in blood,
And Mysers ioy their bags with gold to fill:
My chiefest good, my chiefe felicity,
Is to be gazing on my loues faire eie.
Against the Dispraisers of Poetry
Chaucer is dead; and Gower lies in grave;
The Earl of Surrey long ago is gone;
Sir Philip Sidney's soul the heavens have;
George Gascoigne him before was tombed in stone.
Yet, though their bodies lie full low in ground,
As every thing must die that erst was born,
Their living fame no fortune can confound,
Nor ever shall their labors be forlorn.
And you, that discommend sweet poetry,
(So that the subject of the same be good)
Here may you see your fond simplicity,
Sith kings have favored it, of royal blood.
The King of Scots (now living) is a poet,
As his Lepanto and his Furies show it.
Some talke of Ganymede th' Idalian Boy,
And some of faire Adonis make their boast,
Some talke of him whom lovely Laeda lost,
And some of Ecchoes love that was so coy.
They speake by heere-say, I of perfect truth,
They partially commend the persons named,
And for them, sweet Encomions have framed:
I onely t'him have sacrifized my youth.
As for those wonders of antiquitie,
And those whom later ages have injoy'd
(But ah what hath not cruell death destroide?
Death, that envies this worlds felicitie),
They were (perhaps) lesse faire then Poets write.
But he is fairer then I can indite.
Cherry-lipped Adonis in his snowy shape,
Might not compare with his pure ivory white,
On whose fair front a poet's pen might write,
Whose rosiate red excels the crimson grape.
His love-enticing delicate soft limbs,
Are rarely framed t' intrap poor gazing eyes;
His cheeks, the lily and carnation dyes,
With lovely tincture which Apollo's dims.
His lips ripe strawberries in nectar wet,
His mouth a hive, his tongue a honeycomb,
Where muses (like bees) make their mansion.
His teeth pure pearl in blushing coral set.
Oh how can such a body sin-procuring,
Be slow to love, and quick to hate, enduring?
Thus was my love, thus was my Ganymed,
(Heavens joy, worlds wonder, natures fairest work,
In whose aspect Hope and Dispaire doe lurke)
Made of pure blood in whitest snow yshed,
And for sweete Venus only form'd his face,
And his each member delicately framed,
And last of all faire Ganymede him named,
His limbs (as their Creatrix) her imbrace.
But as for his pure, spotles, vertuous minde,
Because it sprung of chaste Dianaes blood,
(Goddesse of Maides, directresse of all good,)
Hit wholy is to chastity inclinde.
And thus it is: as far as I can prove,
He loves to be beloved, but not to love.