Classic Audiobook Collection - Pamphilia to Amphilanthus by Lady Mary Wroth ~ Full Audiobook [poetry]

Episode Date: July 17, 2025

Pamphilia to Amphilanthus by Lady Mary Wroth audiobook. Genre: poetry Pamphilia to Amphilanthus is Lady Mary Wroth's groundbreaking early modern sonnet sequence, spoken in the voice of Pamphilia, a woman caught between her vow of constancy and the painful knowledge that her beloved, Amphilanthus, is changeable. Through tightly wrought sonnets and interwoven songs, Pamphilia turns the conventions of courtly love inside out: instead of a silent lady adored from afar, she becomes the thinking, desiring, self-questioning center of the story. The poems trace her private battle as she tries to govern passion with reason, protect her dignity in a world of rumor and political display, and make meaning out of longing that refuses to end. Along the way, Wroth explores how love can be both a source of identity and a kind of captivity, especially for a woman whose choices are constrained by court, reputation, and expectation. Intimate, intellectually sharp, and emotionally relentless, this sequence offers a rare, sustained portrait of female interiority, where devotion, jealousy, hope, and endurance collide in language as precise as it is aching. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:29:17) Chapter 02 (00:55:44) Chapter 03 (01:03:56) Chapter 04 (01:17:38) Chapter 05 (01:30:24) Chapter 06 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Pemphilia to Amphalanthus by Lady Mary Roth. Read by Elizabeth Klett, Part 1. Sonnets 1 to 24, and Songs 1 through 4. Sonnet 1. When night's black mantle could most darkness prove, And sleep, Death's image did my senses higher from knowledge of myself. Then thoughts did move swifter than those most swiftness need require. In sleep, a chariot drawn by winged desire I saw, Where sat bright Venus, queen of love,

And at her feet her son, still adding fire to burning hearts, which she did hold above, But one heart flaming more than all the rest, the goddess held, and put it to my breast. Dear son, now shoot, said she, thus must we win. He her obeyed, and martyred my poor heart. I waking hoped as dreams it would depart, Yet since, O me, a lover I have been, too. Dear eyes, how well indeed you do adorn that blessed sphere which gazing souls hold dear, The loved place of sought for triumphs near the court of glory, where love's force was born,

How may they term you April's sweetest morn? When pleasing looks, from those bright lights appear a sunshine day, From clouds and mist still clear, Kind nursing fires for wishes yet unborn. Two stars of heaven sent down to grace the earth, placed in that throne which gives all joys their birth, Shining and burning, pleasing yet their charms,

which wounding even in hurts are deemed delights, So pleasant is their force, So great their mights, As happy they can triumph in their harms. Three, Yet is their hope, Then love but play thy part, Remember well thyself,

And think on me, Shine in those eyes which conquered have my heart, And see if mine be slack to answer thee. Lodge in that breast, and pity moving sea, For flames which in mine burn in truest smart, Exiling thoughts that touch in constancy, Or those which waste not in the constant art,

Watch but my sleep, if I take any rest, For thought of you my spirit so distressed, As pale and famished I for mercy cry, Will you your servant leave? Think but on this, who wears love's crown, Must not do so amiss, But seek their good, Who on thy force do lie. Four. Forbear dark night. My joys now bud again. Lately grown dead, while cold aspects Did chill the root at heart, And my chief hope quite kill. And thunders struck me in my

Pleasure's wane, Then I, alas, with bitter sobs and pain, Privately groaned, My fortune's present ill. All light of comfort dimmed, woes and prides fill, With strange increase of grief I grieved in vain. And most, when, as a memory to good, molested me, which still as witness stood of those best days in former time I knew, late gone as wonders passed, like the great snow, melted and wasted, with what change must know. Now back the life comes, whereas once it grew. Five. Can pleasing sight misfortune ever bring? Can firm desire a painful torment try?

Can winning eyes prove to the heart a sting? Or can sweet lips in treason hidden lie? The sun most pleasing blinds the strongest eye, if too much looked on, breaking the sight's string. Desires still crossed must unto mischief high, And as despair a luckless chance may fling. Eyes having won, rejecting proves a sting, Killing the bud before the tree doth spring. Sweet lips, not loving, do as poison prove.

Desire, sight, eyes, lips, seek, see, see, prove and find. You love may win, but curses if unkind. then show you harms dislike and joy in love. Six. O strive not still to heap disdain on me, Nor pleasure take your cruelty to show on hapless me, On whom all sorrows flow, and biding make, Has given and lost by thee.

Alas, even grief is grown to pity me. Scorn cries out against itself such ill to show, and would give place for joy's delights to flow. Yet wretched I, all tortures bear from thee. Long have I suffered, and esteemed it dear, since such thy will yet grew my pain more near. Wish you my end, say so, you shall it have, For all the depth of my heart-held despair,

Is that for you, I feel not death for care, But now I'll seek it, since you will not save. Song One The spring now come at last to trees, fields, to flowers, and meadows makes to taste his pride, while sad showers which from mine eyes do flow, makes known with cruel pains. Cold winter yet remains, no sign of spring we know. The sun which to the earth gives heat, light, and pleasure, joys and spring, hateth earth, plenty makes his treasure. His heat to me. His heat to me. me is cold, his light all darkness is, since I am barred of bliss, I heat nor light behold. A shepherdess thus said, who was with grief oppressed, for truest love betrayed, barred her from quiet rest, and weeping thus, said she, My end approacheth near, Now willow must I wear my fortune So will be. With branches of this tree I'll dress my hapless head, Which shall my wreaths, witness be. My hopes in love are dead. My clothes embroidered all shall be with garlands round,

some scattered, others bound, some tide, some like to fall. The bark my book shall be, where daily I will write this tale of hapless me, true slave to fortunes spite. The root shall be my bed, where nightly I will lie wailing in constancy, since all true love is dead. these lines I will leave, if some such lover come, who may them right conceive and place them on my tomb, she who still constant loved, now dead with cruel care, killed with unkind despair, and change her end here proved. Sonnet seven. Love, leave to urge.

Thou knowest thou hast the hand. Tis cowardest to strive where none resist. Pray, leave thee off. I yield unto thy band. Do not thus still in thine own power persist. Behold! I yield! Let forces be dismissed. I am thy subject, conquered, bound to stand, never thy foe, but did thy claim assist, seeking thy due of those who did withstand. But now it seems thou wouldst I should thee, love. I do confess, twas thy will made me choose, and thy fair shows made me a lover prove,

When I my freedom did for pain refuse. Yet this, sir God, Your boyship I despise, Your charms I obey, But love not want of eyes. Eight, Led by the power of grief to whalings brought, By false conceit of change fallen on my part,

I seek for some small ease by lines which bought, Increase the pain, Grief is not cured by art. Ah, how unkindness moves within the heart, Which still is true and free from changing thought, What unknown woe it breeds, What endless smart, With ceaseless tears which causelessly are wrought,

It makes me now to shun all shining light, And seek for blackest clouds me light to give, Which to all others only darkness drive. They on me shine, for sun disdains my sight, Yet though I dark do live, I triumph may, Unkindness, nor this wrong shall love allay. Nine Be you all pleased, your pleasures grieve not me.

Do you delight? I envy not your joy. Have you content? Contentment with you be. Hope you for bliss. Hope still, and still enjoy. Let sad misfortune, hapless me destroy, Leave crosses to rule me, and still rule free, While all delights their contraries employ, To keep good back, and I but torments see. Joys are bereaved me, harms to only tarry,

Despair takes place, disdain hath got the hand. Yet firm love holds my senses in such band, since despised, I with sorrow marry. Then if with grief I now must coupled be, sorrow I'll wed. Despair thus governs me. Ten. The weary traveller, who tired, sought in places distant far, yet found no end of pain or labour, nor his state to mend, at last with joy as to his home back brought, finds not more ease though he with joy be fraught, when past as fear content like souls ascend, Then I, on whom new pleasures do descend, Which now as high as first-born bliss is wrought, He, tired with his pains, I with my mind, He all content receives by ease of limbs, I, greatest happiness that I do find, Belief for faith, while hope in pleasure swims.

Truth saith twas wrong conceit bred my despite, Which once acknowledged brings my heart's delight. Eleven You endless torment that my rest oppress. How long will you delight in my sad pain? Will never love your favour more express? Shall I still live and ever feel disdain? Alas! Now stay and let my grief obtain some end. Feed not my heart with sharp distress. Let me once see my cruel fortunes gain, At least release, and long-felt woes redress.

Let not the blame of cruelty disgrace the honoured title of your god-head love. Give not just cause for me to say, A place is found for rage alone on me to move. O, quickly end, and do not long debate my needful aid, lest help do come too late. 12. Cloe'd with the torments of a tedious night, I wish for day. Which come, I hope for joy.

When cross I find new tortures to destroy, My woe-killed heart, first hurt by mischief's might, Then cry for night, And once more day takes flight, And brightness gone. What rest should here in joy usurp it is? Hate will her force employ. Night cannot grief in tomb, though black as spite.

My thoughts are sad, her face as sad doth seem. My pains are long, her hours tedious are. My grief is great, and endless is my care. Her face, her force, and all of woes esteem. Then welcome night, and farewell flattering day, which all hopes breed, and yet our joys delay. Song two. All night I weep, all day I cry, I me.

I still do wish, though yet deny, I me. I sigh, I mourn, I say that still I only am the store for ill, I me. In coldest hopes I freeze yet burn, I me. From flames I strive to fly, yet turn, I'm me. From grief I haste But sorrows high, And on my heart all woes do lie, I me. From contraries I seek to run, I me, But contraries I cannot shun, I me. For they delight their force to try, And to despair my thoughts do tie, I me. Whither alas

Then shall I go, I me When as despair all hopes Out go, I me, If to the forest Cupid hies, and my poor soul to his law ties I me To the court, oh no He cries, Fye, I me, There no true love you shall espy, I me,

Leave that place to falsest lovers, Your true love all truth discovers, I me, then quoth quiet rest, and no more prove, I me. All places are alike to love, I me. And constant be in this begun, yet say till life with love be done. I me. Sonnet 13.

Dear, famish not what you yourself gave food. Destroy not what your glory is to save. Kill not that soul to which you spirit gave in pity. not to stain your triumph stood. An easy thing it is to shed the blood of one who at your will yields to the grave. But more you may true worth by mercy crave, when you preserve, not spoil, but nourish good. Your sight is all the food I do desire. Then sacrifice me not in hidden fire, or stop the breath which did your praises move.

Think but how easy tis a sight to give. Even dessert, since by it I do live. I but chameleon-like would live and love. 14. Am I thus conquered? Have I lost the powers, that to withstand which joys to ruin me? Must I be still, while it my strength devours, and captive leads me prisoner bound, unfree? Love first shall leave men's fantasies to them free.

Desire shall quench love's flames, spring, hate sweet showers. Love shall loose all his darts, have sight, and see his shame and wishings hinder happy hours. Why should we not love's purblind charms resist? Must we be servile, doing what he list? No, seek some host to harbor thee. I fly thy babish tricks, and freedom do profess. But, oh, my hurt. makes my lost heart confess, I love and must. So farewell liberty. Fifteen. Truly, poor knight,

Thou welcome art to me. I love thee better in this sad attire than that which raiseth some men's fancies higher, like painted outsides which foul inward be. I love thy grave and saddest looks to see, which seems my soul and dying heart entire, like to the ashes of some happy fire, that flamed in joy but quenched in misery. I love thy countenance, and thy sober pace, which evenly goes, and as of loving grace to us, and me among the rest, oppressed, gives quiet peace to my poor self alone, and freely grants day leave. When thou art gone, to give clear light, to see, or,

all ill redressed. Sixteen. Sleep, fie, possess me not, nor do not fright me with thy heavy and thy death-like might, For counterfeiting's vilder than death's sight, And such deluding more my thoughts do spite. Thou sufferest falsest shapes my soul to fright, Sometimes in likeness of a hopeful sprite, And oft times like my love, as in despite, joying thou canst with malice, kill delight. When I, a poor fool made by thee, Think joy doth flow, When thy fond shadows do destroy My that while senseless self, Left free to thee.

But now, do well, Let me for ever sleep, And so forever that dear image keep, Or still wake That my senses may be free. Seventeen. Sweet shades. Why do you seek to give delight to me? who deem delight in this vile'd place, But torment sorrow in mine own disgrace, To taste of joy, Or your vain-pleasing sight! Show them your pleasures who saw never night of grief,

Where joying, spawning, smiling face appears as day, Where grief found never space, Yet for a sigh, a groan, or envies spite. But, oh, on me a world of woes do lie, or else on me all harms strive to rely, And to attend like servants bound to me. Heat in desire, while frosts of care I prove, Wanting my love, yet surf it do with love,

Burn and yet freeze, better in hell to be. Eighteen Which should I better like of, day or night? Since all the day I live in bitter woe, enjoying light more clear my wrongs to know, and yet most sad feeling in it all spite. In night when darkness doth forbid all light, yet see I grief apparent to the show, followed by jealousy whose fond tricks flow, and on unconstant waves of doubt alight. I can behold rage cowardly to feed upon foul error which these humours breed.

shame, doubt, and fear, yet boldly will think ill. All those in both I feel, Then which is best, dark to joy by day, light in night oppressed? Leave both and end, these but each other spill. Song three, Stay, my thoughts, do not aspire to vain hopes of high desire. See you not all means bereft, to enjoy no joy is left, Yet still methinks my thoughts do say, Some hopes do live amid dismay. Hope then once more, Hope for joy, bury fear which joys destroy, Thought hath yet some comfort

Given, which despair hath from us driven. Therefore dearly my thoughts cherish, Never let such thinking perish. Tis an idle thing to plain, Oder far to die for pain, Think and see how thoughts do rise, winning where there no hope lies, which alone is lover's treasure, for by thoughts we love do measure. Then, kind thought, my fantasy guide, let me never hapless slide, still maintain thy force and me, let me thinking still be free, nor leave thy might until my death, but let me thinking yield up breath. Sonnet 19. Come, darkest night, becoming sorrow best, Light, leave thy light, fit for a lightsome soul. Darkness doth truly suit with me oppressed, Whom absence power doth from mirth control.

The very trees with hanging heads condol's sweet summers parting, and of leaves distressed, in dying colours make a griefful roll. So much, alas, to sorrow are not. they pressed. Thus, of dead leaves her farewell carpets made, their fall, their branches, all their mornings prove, with leafless, naked bodies, whose hues fade from hopeful green to wither in their love. If trees and leaves for absence mourners be, no marvel that I grieve, Who like want see! Twenty! The sun which glads the earth at his bright sight, when in the morn he showed,

shows his golden face, and takes the place from tedious, drowsy night, making the world still happy in his grace. Shows happiness remains not in one place, nor may the heavens alone to us give light, but hide that cheerful face, though no long space, yet long enough for trial of their might. But never sunset could be so obscure, no desert ever had a shade so sad, nor could black darkness ever prove so bad as pains which absence makes me now endure. The missing of the sun a while makes night, but absence of my joy sees never light. 21. When last I saw thee, I did not see thee.

It was thine image which in my thoughts lay so lively figured, as no time's delay could suffer me in heart to parted be. And sleep so favourable is to me, as not to let thy loved remembrance stray, lest that I waking might have cause to say, there was one minute found to forget thee. Then, since my faith is such, so kind my sleep, that gladly thee presents into my thought, and still true lover-like thy face doth keep, so as some pleasure shadow-like is wrought, my loving, nay, of conscience, give, reward to me in whom thyself doth live. 22. Like to the Indians scorched with the sun, the sun which they do as their God adore.

So am I used by love, for evermore I worship him, less favors have I won. Better are they who thus to blackness run, and so can only whiteness want deplore. Then I, who pale and white, am with grief's store, Nor can have hope, But to see hopes undone. Besides their sacrifice received in sight, Of their chose saint, Mine hid as worthless right, Grant me to see where I my offerings give. Then let me wear the mark of Cupid's might, In heart, as they in skin of Phoebus light, Not ceasing offerings to love while I live. 23 When every one to pleasing pastime highs

Some hunt, some hawk, some play, While some delight in sweet discourse, And music shows joys might, Yet I, my thoughts do far above these prize, The joy which I take is, That free from eyes, I sit and wonder at this day-like night, So to dispose themselves as void of right,

And leave true pleasure for poor vanities. When others hunt, My thoughts I have in chase. If hawk, my mind at wished end doth fly. Discourse, I with my spirit, talk and cry, While others music choose as greatest grace. O God, say I, can these fond pleasures move? Or music be but in sweet thoughts of love?

Twenty-four. Once did I hear an aged father say unto his son, Who with attention hears what age and wise experience, ever clears from doubts of fear or reason to betray. My son, said he, behold thy father gray. I once had as thou hast, fresh, tender years, and like thee sported destitute of fears. But my young faults made me too soon decay.

Love once I did, and like thee feared my love, led by the hateful thread of jealousy, striving to keep, I lost my liberty, and, gained my grief, which still my sorrows move. In time shun this. To love is no offence, but doubt in youth, in age breathes penitence. Song four. Sweetest love, return again.

Make not too long stay. Killing mirth and forcing pain, sorrow leading way. Let us not thus parted be, love and absence near agree. But since you must needs depart, and me hapless leave, In your journey take my heart, Which will not deceive, Yours it is, To you it flies, Joying in those lovid eyes. So in part we shall not part, though we absent be. Time nor place, nor greatest smart, shall my bands make free. Tide I am, yet think it gain, In such knots I feel no pain.

But can I live? lost chiefest part of me. Heart is fled, and sight is crossed, these my fortunes be. Yet, dear heart go, soon return, as good there as here to burn. End of part one. Pampfilia to Amphalanthus, by Lady Mary Roth. Part two. Sonnet's 25 through 48, and Songs 5 through 7. Sonnet 25 Poor eyes be blind

The light behold no more Since that is gone which is your dear delight Ravished from you by greater power and might Making your loss again to others store Or flow and drown till sight to you restore That blessed star And as in hateful spite Send forth your tears and floods to kill all sight

And looks that lost wherein you joyed before Burry these beams which in some kindled fires, and conquered have their love-burnt heart's desires, losing, and yet no gain by you esteemed, till that bright star do once again appear, brighter than Mars when he doth shine most clear. See not then by his might be you redeemed. Twenty-six Dear, cherish this, and with it my soul's will. Nor for it ran away do it abuse. Alas, it left poor me your breast to choose, as the blessed shrine, where it would

harbour still. Then favour show, and not unkindly kill the heart which fled to you, but do excuse that which for better did the worse refuse. And pleased I'll be, though heartless my life spill. But if you will be kind, and just indeed, send me your heart, which in mine's place shall feed on faithful love to your devotion bound. There shall it see the sacrifices made of pure and spotless love, which shall not vaid, while soul and body are together found. Twenty-seven. Fy, tedious hope! Why do you still rebel? Is it not yet enough you flattered me? But cunningly you seek to use a spell how to betray, must these your trophies be? I looked from you far sweeter fruit to see. But blasted were your blossoms when they fell, and those delights expected

from hands free, withered and dead, and what seemed bliss proves hell. No town was won by a more plotted slight than I by you, who may my fortune write, in embers of that fire which ruined me. Thus hope your falsehood calls you to be tried. Your loath I see the trial to abide. Prove true at last, and gain your liberty. Twenty-eight. Grief, killing grief, have not my torments been already great and strong enough, but still thou dost increase, nay, glory in mine ill, And woes new past, a fresh new woes begin. Am I the only purchase thou canst win? Was I ordained to give despair her fill, or fittest I should mount misfortune'st's hill, who in the plain of joy cannot live in. If it be so, grief come as welcome, guest, since I must

suffer for another's rest. Yet this good grief let me entreat of thee, use still thy force, but not from those I love let me all pains and lasting torments prove. So I miss these, lay all thy weights on me. Twenty-nine. Fly hence, O joy no longer here abide, Too great thy pleasures are for my despair to look on, Losses now must prove my fare, Who not long since on better food relied, But fool, How oft had I heaven's changing spied, Before of mine own fate I could have care, Yet now, past time I can, Too late beware, when nothing's left but sorrows faster tied.

While I enjoyed that sun whose sight did lend me joy, I thought that day could have no end. But soon a night came clothed in absence dark, Absence more sad, more bitter than his gall, or death when on true lovers it doth fall, Whose fires of love, disdain rests poor spark. Thirty You blessed shades which give me silent rest,

Witness but this when death hath closed mine eyes, And separated me from earthly ties, Being from hence to higher places addressed. How often you I have lain here oppressed, And have my miseries in woeful cries Delivered forth mounting up to the skies. Yet helpless, back returned to wound my breast, Which wounds did but strive how to breed more harm to me,

Who can be cured by no one charm but that of love, which yet may me relieve. If not, let death my former pains redeem, my trusty friends, my faith untouched esteem, and witness I could love, whoso could grieve. Song five. Time, only cause of my unrest, by whom I hoped once to be blessed, how cruel art thou turned. That first gaf'st life unto my love, and still a pleasure not to move or change though ever burned. Have I thee slacked, or left undone one loving right, and so have won thy rage or bitter changing, that now no minutes I shall see wherein I may least happy be, thy favours so astranging. Blame thyself, and not my folly, time gave time but to be holy. True love such ends best

loveth. Unworthy love doth seek for ends, A worthy love but worth pretends, Nor other thoughts It proveth. Then stay thy swiftness, cruel time, And let me once more blessed climb to joy, That I may praise thee. Let me pleasure sweetly tasting, Joy in love, and faith not wasting, And on fame's wings I'll raise thee. Never shall thy glory dying, be until thine own untying, that time no longer liveth. Tis again such time to lend, since so thy fame shall never end, but joy for what she giveth.

Sonnet 31 After long trouble in a tedious way of love's unrest, laid down to ease my pain, hoping for rest, new torments I did gain possessing me, as if I ought to obey. When fortune came, though blinded, yet did stay,

and in her blessed arms did me in chain. I, cold with grief, thought no warmth to obtain, or to dissolve that ice of joy's decay. Till rise, said she, reward to thee doth send by me the servant of true lovers joy, banish all clouds of doubt, all fears destroy, And now on fortune and on love depend. I her obeyed,

And rising felt that love indeed was best, when I did least it move. 32. How fast thou flyest, O time, on love's swift wings, to hopes of joy that flatters our desire, Which to a lover still contentment brings, yet when we should enjoy, thou dost retire. Thou stayest thy pace, false time, from our desire, when to our ill thou haste thou hastes with eagle's wings. Slow only to make us see thy retire was for despair, and harm which sorrow brings. O, slake thy pace and milder pass to love. Be like the bee, whose wings she doth but use to bring home profit, master's good to prove, laden and weary, yet again pursues.

So laid thyself with honey of sweet joy, and do not me the hive of love destroy. 33. How many eyes, poor love, hast thou to guard thee from thy most desired wish and end? Is it because some say thou art blind, that barred from sight thou shouldst no happiness attend? Who blame thee so, small justice can pretend, since twixt thee and the sun no question hard can be, his sight but outward, thou canst bend the heart, and guide it freely thus unbarred? Art thou, while we both blind and bold, oft dare accuse thee of the harms, Ourselves should find, Who led with folly, and by rashness blind thy sacred power do with a child's Compare? Yet love, this boldness pardon, for admire thee sure we must, or be born without fire.

Thirty-four. Take heed, mine eyes, how you your looks do cast. lest they betray my heart's most secret thought, Be true unto yourselves, for nothing's bought more dear than doubt, Which brings a lover's fast. Catch you all watching eyes ere they be passed, Or take yours fixed, where your best love hath sought the pride of your desires. Let them be taught their faults for shame they could no truer last. Then look, and look with joy, for conquest one,

of those that searched your hurt in double kind, So you kept safe, Let them themselves look blind, Watch, gaze, and mark till they to madness run, While you mine eyes enjoy, full sight of love, contented that such happiness's move. Thirty-five. False hope which feeds but to destroy,

And spill what it first breeds, unnatural to the birth of thine own womb, conceiving but to kill, and plenty gives to make the greater dearth. So tyrants do, who falsely ruling earth outwardly grace them, and with prophets fill, advance those who appointed are to death,

to make their greater fall to please their will. Thus shadow they their wicked, vile intent, colouring evil with a show of good, while in fair shows their malice so is spent. Hope kills the heart, and tyrants shed the blood. For hope, deluding, brings us to the pride of our desires, the farther down to slide. 36. How well, poor heart, thou witness canst I love.

How oft my grief hath made thee shed forth tears, drops of thy dearest blood, And how oft fears borne testimony of the pains I prove. What torments hast thou suffered, While above joy thou tortured wert with racks, Which longing bears, Pinched with desires, Which yet but wishing rears firm in my faith, In constancy to move. Yet is it said that sure love cannot be, Where so small show of passion is descried, When thy chief pain is, that I must it hide from all, save only one, who should it see? For no more passion in my heart doth move Than in a million that makes show of love.

Song six You happy, blessed eyes, Which in that ruling place Have force both to delight and to disgrace, Whose light allures and ties all hearts to your command. Oh, look on me, who do at mercy stand. Tis you that rule my life, Tis you my comfort.

give, then let not scorn to me my ending drive, nor let the frowns of strife have might to hurt those lights, which while they shine they are true love's delights. See but when night appears, and sun hath lost his force. How his loss doth all joys from us to force, and when he shines and clears the heavens from clouds of night, how happy then is made our gazing sight! more than sun's fair light your beams do seem to me, Whose sweetest looks do tie, And yet make free, Why should you then so spite poor me, As to destroy the only pleasure That I taste of joy?

Shine then, O dearest lights, with favour and with love, And let no cause your cause of frownings move. But as the soul's delights, So bless my then blessed eyes, Which unto you their true affection ties. Then shall the sun give place, as to your greater might, yielding that you do show more perfect light. O, then but grant this grace unto your love-tide slave, to shine on me, who to you all faith gave. And when you please to frown, use your most killing eyes on them, who in on truth and falsehood lies. But, dear, on me cast down sweet looks, for true desire, that banish due all thoughts of feigned fire. Sonnet thirty-seven.

Night, welcome art thou to my mind distressed, dark, heavy, sad, yet not more sad than I. Never couldst thou find fitter company for thine own humour than I thus oppressed. If thou be'st dark, my wrongs still unredressed, saw never light, nor smallest bliss can by. If heavy joy from me too fast doth high, And care outgoes my hope of quiet rest. Then now in friendship join with hapless me, Who am as sad and dark as thou canst be, Hating all pleasure or delight of life, Silence and grief, With thee I best do love. And from you three I know I cannot move, Then let us live companions without strife." 38.

What pleasure can a banished creature have in all the pastimes then invented are by wit or learning? Absence making war against all peace that may abiding crave? Can we delight but in a welcome grave, where we may bury pains? And so be far from loathed company, who always jar upon the string of mirth that pastime gave. The knowing part of joy is deemed the heart. If that be gone what joy can joy impart when senseless is the feeler of a while? our mirth. No, I am banished, and no good shall find, but all my fortunes must with mischief bind, who but for misery did gain a birth.

39. If I were given to mirth, twould be more cross, thus to be robbed of my chiefest joy, but silently I bear my greatest loss, who use to sorrow, grief will not destroy. Nor can I, as those pleasant wits enjoy my own framed words, which I account the dross of purer thoughts, or reckon them as moss, while they, witsick, themselves to breath employ. Alas, think I, your plenty shows your want, for where most feeling is words are more scant, yet pardon me, live, and your pleasure take. Grudge not if I neglected envy show. "'Tis not to you that I dislike to owe.

But, crossed myself, wish some like me to make.' "'Forty.' "'It is not love which you poor fools do deem, "'that doth appear by fond and outward shows of kissing, "'toying, or by swearing's glows. "'Oh, no, these are far off from love's esteem. "'Halas! they are not such that can redeem love lost, "'or winning keep those chosen blows.

Though oft with face and looks love overthrows, Yet so slight conquest doth not him be seem, It is not a show of sighs or tears can prove who loves indeed, Which blasts of feigned love, Increase or die, has favours from them slide. But in the soul, true love and safety lies, Garded by faith, which to desert still highs, and yet, kind looks, do many blessings hide. 41 You blessed stars which do heaven's glory show, And at your brightness make our eyes admire, Yet envy not, though I on earth below,

Enjoy a sight which moves in me more fire. I do confess, such beauty breeds desire, You shine and clearest light on us bestow, Yet doth a sight on earth more warmth inspire into my loving soul his grace to know. Clear, bright, and shining, as you are, is this light of my joy. Fixed, steadfast, nor will move his light from me, nor I change from his love. But still increase, as the eighth of all my bliss, his sight gives life unto my love-rolled eyes, my love content, because in his love lies. Forty-two.

If ever love had force in human breast, if ever he could move impensive heart, or if that he such power could but impart to breed those flames whose heat brings joy unrest, Then look on me, I am to these addressed. I am the soul that feels the greatest smart, I am that heartless trunk of hearts depart, And I that one by love and grief oppressed, None ever felt the truth of love's great miss of eyes till I deprived was of bliss. For had he seen, he must have pity showed.

I should not have been made this stage of woe, where sad disasters have their open show. Oh no, more pity he had sure bestowed. Song Seven Sorrow I yield, and grieve that I did miss. Will not thy rage be satisfied with this? As sad a devil as thee Made me unhappy be Wilt thou not yet consent to leave

But still strive how to show thy cursed devilish skill I mourn And dying am, what would you more? My soul attends to leave this cursed shore Where harms do only flow Which teach me but to know the saddest hours Of my life's unrest And tired minutes with grief's hand oppressed.

Yet all this will not pacify thy spite No, nothing can bring ease but my last night. Then quickly let it be, while I unhappy see that time so sparing to grant lover's bliss, We'll see for time lost, there shall no grief miss. Nor let me ever cease from lasting grief, but endless let it be without relief, To win again of love the favour I did prove, and with my end please him, Since dying, I have offended him, yet unwillingly. Sonnet 43

O dearest eyes, the lights and guides of love, the joys of Cupid, Who himself born blind to your bright shining doth his triumphs bind, For in your seeing doth his glory move! How happy are those places where you prove your heavenly beams, Which make the sun to find envy and grudging, he so long hath shined for your clear lights to match his beams above. But now, alas, your sight is here forbid, and darkness must these poor lost rooms possess. So be all blessed lights from henceforth hid, that this black deed of darkness have excess.

For why should heaven afford least light to those who for my misery such darkness chose? 44 How fast thou hastes, O spring, with sweetest speed, To catch thy waters which before are run, And of the greater rivers welcome one, Ere these new-born streams these places feed. Yet you do well, lest staying here might breed dangerous floods, Your sweetest banks tore run,

And yet much better my distress to shun, Which makes my tears your swiftest course succeed. But best you do, when with storks'erroth, so hasty flight you fly my ills, which now myself outgo, whose broken heart can testify such woe, that so, or charged, my life-blood wasteth quite. Sweet spring, then keep your way be never spent, and my ill days, or griefs, asunder, rent. Forty-five. Good now be still, and do not me torment, with multitudes of questions, be at rest, and only Let me quarrel with my breast, Which still lets in new storms my soul to rent.

Fye! Will you still my mischiefs more augment? You say, I answer, cross, I, that confessed long since, yet must I ever be oppressed, With your tongue torture which will ne'er be spent. Well, then, I see no way but this will fright, that devil's speech. Alas, I am possessed, and mad folk senseless are of wisdom's right, the hellish spirit, absence doth the rest. Hall my poor senses to his cruel might.

Spare me then till I am myself and blessed. Forty-six. Love thou hast all. For now thou hast made me so thine, As if for thee I were ordained. Then take thy conquest, Nor let me be pained more in thy son, When I do seek thy shade.

No place for help have I left to invade, that showed a face where least ease might be gained. Yet found I pain in crease, and but obtained, That this no way was to have love allayed when hot and thirsty to a well I came, trusting by that to quench part of my flame. But there I was by love afresh embraced. Drink I could not, but in it I did see myself a living glass as well as she, For love to see himself in, truly placed.

Forty-seven. O stay, mine eyes, shed not these fruitless tears, since hope is past to win you back again. That treasure which being lost breeds all your pain. Cease from this poor betraying of your fears. Think this too childish is, for where grief rears so high a power for such a wretched gain, sighs nor laments should thus be spent in vain, true sorrow never outward wailing bears. Be ruled by me. Keep all the rest in store, Till no room as that may contain one more, Than in that sea of tears drown hapless me,

And I'll provide such store of size, As part shall be enough to break the strongest heart. This done, we shall from torments freed be. Forty-eight. How like a fire doth love increase in me! The longer that it lasts, the stronger still, The greater, purer, brighter, and doth fill no eye with wonder more than hopes still be.

Bread in my breast, when fires of love are free to use that part to their best-pleasing will, and now unpossible it is to kill the heat so great where love his strength doth see. Mine eyes can scarce sustain the flames, my heart doth trust in them my passions to impart, and languishingly strive to show my love. My breath not able is to breathe least part of that. increasing fuel of my smart yet love I will till I but ashes prove." Pampilia. End of Part 2. Pampilia to Amphalanthus by Lady Mary Roth. Part 3. A sonnet and six songs. Sonnet

Let grief as far be from your dearest breast as I do wish, or in my hands to ease. Then should it banished be, and sweetest rest be placed to give content by love to please. Let those disdains which on your heart do seize, doubly return to bring her soul's unrest, since true love will not that be loved displease. Or let least smart to their minds be addressed, but oftentimes mistakings be in love. Be they as far from false accusing right, and still truth govern with a constant might, so shall you only wished pleasures prove. And as for me, she that shows you least scorn, with all despite and hate, be her heart torn. Song. O me, the time is come to part, and with it my life-killing smart. Fond hope leave me,

My dear must go to meet more joy, And I more woe. Where still of mirth in joy thy fill, One is enough to suffer ill, My heart so well to sorrow used, Can better be by new griefs bruised. Thou whom the heavens themselves like made, Should never sit in mourning shade. No, I alone must mourn and end, Who have a life in grief to spend. My swiftest pace to wailings bent, Shows joy had but a short time lent, To bide in me where woes must dwell, And charm me with their cruel spell. And yet, when they their witchcrafts try, They only make me wish to die. But ere my faith in love they change, In horrid darkness will I range. Song

Say, Venus, How long have I loved and served you here? Yet all my passions scorned or doubted, although clear. Alas, think love, deserveeth love, and you have loved. Look on my pains, and see if you the like have proved. Remember then you are the goddess of desire, and that your sacred power hath touched and felt this fire. Persuade these flames in me to cease, or them redress in me, poor me,

whose storms of love have an excess. My restless nights may show for me how much I love. My sighs unfained can witness what my heart doth prove. My saddest looks do show the grief my soul endures. Yet all these torments from your hands no help procures. Command that wayward child, your son, to grant your right, And that his bow and shafts he yield to your fair sight. To you who have the eyes of joy, the heart of love, and then new hopes may spring, that

I may pity move. Let him not triumph that he can both hurt and save, and more brag that to you yourself a wound he gave. Rule him. Or what shall I expect of good to see? Since he that hurt you, he, alas, may murder me. Song, I that am of all most— crossed, having, and that had have lost, may with reason thus complain, since love breeds

love, and love's pain. That which I did most desire, to allay my loving fire, I may have, yet now must miss, since another ruler is. Would that I know ruler had, or the service not so bad, then might I with bliss in joy that which now my hopes destroy, and that wicked pleasure got brings with it the sweetest lot, I that must not taste the best, fed must starve, and restless rest. Song. Love as well can make abiding in a faithful shepherd's breast as in princes, whose thoughts

sliding like swift rivers never rest. Change to their minds is best feeding, to a shepherd all his. his care, who, when his love is exceeding, thinks his faith his richest fair. Beauty but a slight inviting cannot stir his heart to change. Constancy, his chief delighting, strives to flee from fancies strange. Fairness to him is no pleasure, if in other than his love, nor can esteem that a treasure which in her smiles doth not move. A shepherd once confessed, Who loved well, but was not loved, though with scorn and grief

Oppressed, could not yet to change be moved. But himself, he thus contented, while in love he was accursed, this hard hap he not repented, Since best lovers speed the worst. Song Dearest, If I, by my deserving, may maintain in your thoughts my love, Let me it still enjoy, nor faith destroy, But pity love where it doth move. Let no other new love invite you, To leave me who so long have served, Nor let your power decline, But purely shine on me, who have all truth preserved.

Or had you once found my heart straying, Then would not I accuse your change, But being constant still, It needs must kill one who's true. soul knows not how to range. Yet may you love's sweet smiles recover, since all love is not yet quite lost, but attempt not love too long, lest so great wrong make him think he is too much crossed. Song. Fairest and still truest eyes. Can you the lights be and the spies of my desires? Can you shine clear for love's delight? And yet the breeders be of spice. spite and jealous fires. Mark what looks do you behold, such as by jealousy are told they want your love.

See how they sparkle and distrust, which by a heat of thoughts unjust in them do move. Learn to guide your course by art, change your eyes into your heart, and patient be, till fruitless jealousy give leave, by safest absence to receive what you would see. Then let love his triumph have, and suspicion such a grave as not to move. While wished freedom brings that bliss that you enjoy what all joy is, happy to love. End of part three. Pamphelia to Amphalanthus by Lady Mary Roth. Part four.

Eleven sonnets and three songs. Sonnet one. In night, yet may we see some kind. of light, when as the moon doth please to show her face, and in the sun's room yields her light and grace, which otherwise must suffer dullest night. So are my fortunes barred from true delight, cold and uncertain, like to this strange place, decreasing, changing in an instant space, and even at full of joy turned to despite. Justly on fortune was bestowed the wheel, whose face.

Favors fickle and unconstant reel, drunk with delight of change and sudden pain, where pleasure hath no settled place of stay, but turning still for our best hopes decay, and this, alas, we lovers often gain. 2. Love, like a juggler, comes to play his prize, and all minds draw his wonders to admire, to see how cunningly he, He, wanting eyes, can yet deceive the best sight of desire. The wanton child, how he can feign his fire so prettily, as none sees his disguise, how finally do his tricks, while we fools hire the badge and office of his tyrannies. For in the end such juggling he doth make, as he our hearts instead of eyes doth take, For men can only by their slights abuse, the sight with nimble and delightful skill.

But if he play, his gain is our lost will. Yet childlike, we cannot his sports refuse. Three. Most blessed night, the happy time for love, the shade for lovers and their love's delight, the reign of love for servants free from spite, the hopeful season for Joy's sports to move. Now hast thou made thy glory higher prove. Then did the God whose pleasant reed did smite all Argus eyes

into a death-like night, till they were safe, that none could love reprove. Now thou hast closed those eyes from prying sight that nourished jealousy more than joy's right, while vain suspicion fosters their mistrust, making sweet sleep to master all suspect, Which else their private fears would not neglect, But would embrace both blinded and unjust.

For cruel suspicion, O, be now at rest, Let daily torments bring to thee some stay. Alas, make not my ill thy easeful prey, Nor give loose reins to rage when love's oppressed. I am by care, sufficient. distressed. No rack can stretch my heart more, nor way can I find out, for least content to lay one happy foot of joy, one step that's blessed. But to my end thou flyest with greedy eye, seeking to bring grief by base jealousy.

Oh, in how strange a cage am I kept in! No little sign of favour can I prove, but must be weighed and turned to wronging love, and with each humour must my state begin. 5. How many nights have I with pain endured, Which as so many ages I esteemed, Since my misfortune, Yet no wit redeemed,

But rather faster tied to grief assured. How many hours have my sad thoughts endured Of killing pains? Yet is it not esteemed by cruel love, Who might have these redeemed In all these years of hours to joy assured? But fond child, had he a care to save, as first to conquer, this my pleasure's grave, Had not been now to testify my woe, I might have been an image of delight, As now a tomb

for sad misfortunes spite, Which love unkindly for reward doth show. Six. My pain still smothered in my grieved breast, Seeks for some ease, Yet can cannot passage find. To be discharged of this unwelcome guest, When most I strive, more fast his burdens bind, Like to a ship on good winds cast by wind, The more she strives, more deep in sand is pressed,

Till she be lost. So am I in this kind, sunk, And devoured and swallowed by unrest. Lost, ship-racked, spoiled, debarred of smallest hope, Nothing of pleasure left, Save thoughts have scope, Which wonder may. Go then my thoughts and cry,

Hopes perished, Love, tempest, beaten, Joy lost, Killing despair hath all these blessings crossed. Yet faith still cries. Love will not falsify. Seven. An end, fond jealousy.

Alas! Thou thy hiddenest and thy most secret art. Thou canst no new invention frame, but part, I have already seen and felt with woe. All thy dissemblings which by feignage show won my belief, while truth did rule my heart, I with glad mind embraced, and deemed my smart the spring of joy, whose streams with bliss should flow. I thought excuses had been reasons true, and that no falsehood could have thee ensue. So soon belief in honest minds is wrought.

But now I find thy flattery and skill, Which idly made me to observe thy will. Thus is my learning by my bondage bought. Eight. Poor love in chains, And fetters like a thief I met led forth, Has chased Diana's gain, Vowing the untaught lad should no relief from her receive,

Who gloried in fond pain. She called him thief, with vows he did maintain he never stole, but some sad slight of grief had given to those who did his power disdain, in which revenge his honour was the chief. She said he murdered, and therefore must die. He that he caused, but love, did harms deny. But while she thus discoursing with him stood, the nymphs untied him, and his chains took off, thinking him safe, but he, loose, made a scoff, smiling and scorning them, flew to the wood. Nine. Pray, do not use these words, I must be gone. Alas, do not foretell mine ills to come.

Let not my care be to my joys a tomb, but rather find my loss with loss alone. Cause me not thus a more distressed one, not feeling bliss, because of this sad doom of present cross, for thinking will or come and loose all pleasure, since grief breedeth none. Let the misfortune come at once to me, nor suffer me with grief to punish'd be. Let me be ignorant of mine own ill. Then now with the foreknowledge quite to lose, that which with so much care and pains love chose for his reward, but joy now, then mirth kill. Folly would needs make me a lover be, when I did little think of loving thought, or ever to be tied, while she told me that none can live, but to these bans are brought. I, ignorant, did grant, and so was bought, and sold again to lover's slavery. The duty to that vanity once taught, such band is, as we will not seek to free. Yet when I well did understand his might, how he inflamed and forced one to effect i loved and smarted counting it delight so still to waste which reason did reject when love came blindfold and did challenge me indeed i loved but wanton boy not he

song the springtime of my first loving finds yet no winter of removing nor frosts to make my hopes decrease but with the summer still increase. The trees may teach us love's remaining, who suffer change with little painting, though winter make their leaves decrease, yet with the summer they increase. As birds by silence show their morning in cold, yet sing at springs returning, so may love nipped a while decrease, but as the summer soon increase. Those that do love but for a season do falsify both love and reason, for reason wills if love decrease, it like the summer should increase. Though love sometimes may be mistaken, the truth yet ought not to be shaken, or though the heat a while decrease, it with the summer may increase. And since the springtime of my loving found never winter

of removing, nor frosts to make my hopes decrease, shall as the summer still increase. Song. Love a child is ever crying. Please him, and he straight is flying. Give him, he the more is craving, never satisfied with having. His desires have no measure, endless folly is his treasure. What he promiseth he breaketh. Trust not one word that he speaketh. He vows nothing but false matter, and to cousin you he'll flatter. Let him gain the hand he'll leave you, and still glory to deceive you. He will triumph in your wailing, and yet cause be of your failing. These his virtues are, and slighter are his gifts, his favours lighter. Feathers are as firm and staying, wolves no fiercer in their praying, as a child then leave him crying, nor seek him so

given to flying. Being past the pains of love, freedom gladly seeks to move, says that love's delights were pretty, but to dwell in them, twere pity. And yet truly says that love must of force in all hearts move, but though his delights are pretty, to dwell on them were a pity. Let love slightly pass like love, never let it too deep move, for though love's delights are pretty, to dwell in them were great pity. Love no pity hath of love, rather griefs than pleasures move, so though his delights are pretty, to dwell in them would be a pity. Those that like the smart of love, in them let it freely move, else though his delights are pretty, do not dwell in them for pity.

O pardon, Cupid, I confess my fault, then mercy grant me in so just a kind, for treason never lodged in my mind against thy might, so much as in a thought. And now my folly I have dearly bought, Nor could my soul least rest or quiet find, Since rashness did my thoughts to error bind, Which now thy fury and my harm hath wrought. I curse that thought, And hand which that first framed, For which by thee I am most justly blamed. But now that hand shall guided be aright, And give a crown unto thy endless praise, Which shall thy glory and thy greatness raise more than these poor things could thy honor spite end of part four

pamphylia to amphilanthus by lady mary roth part five a crown of sonnets dedicated to love one in this strange labyrinth how shall i turn ways are on all sides while the way i miss if to the right hand there In love I burn. Let me go forward. Therein danger is. If to the left, suspicion hinders bliss. Let me turn back. Shame cries I ought to return. Nor faint, though crosses with my fortune's kiss.

Stand still is harder, although sure to mourn. Thus let me take the right or left-hand way. Go forward or stand still or back retire. I must these doubts endure without allay or help, But travel fine for my best hire. Yet that which most my troubled sense doth move, Is to leave all, and take the thread of love. 2.

Is to leave all and take the thread of love, Which line straight leads unto the soul's content, Where choice delights with pleasure's wings do move, And idle fantasy never room had lent. When chaste thoughts guide us, then our minds are bent to take that good which ills from us remove. Light of true love brings fruit which none repent. But constant lovers seek and wish to prove. Love is the shining star of blessings light, the fervent fire of zeal, the root of peace,

the lasting lamp fed with the oil of right, image of faith, and womb for joys increase. Love is true virtue, and his ends delight. His flames are joys, his band's true lovers might. 3 His flames are joys His bands true lovers might No stain is there But pure as purest white Where no cloud can appear to dim his light

Nor spot defile But shame will soon requite Here are affections Tried by love's just might As gold by fire And black discerned by white Error by truth and darkness Known by light

Where faith is valid for love to requite. Please him and serve him, glory in his might, and firm he'll be as innocency white, clear as the air, warm as the sun's beams, as daylight just as truth, constant as fate, joyed to requite. Then love obey, strive to observe his might, and be in his brave court a glorious light. Four. And be in his brave court a glorious light, Shine in the eyes of faith, And constancy maintain the fires of love, Still burning bright,

Not slightly sparkling, but light flaming be. Never to slake till earth no stars can see, Till sun and moon do leave to us dark night, And second chaos once again do free us, And the world from all delusions spite. Till then, affections which his followers are, govern our hearts, and prove his powers gain. To taste this pleasing sting, seek with all care for happy smarting is it with small pain, such as although it pierce your tender heart,

and burn, yet burning, you will love the smart. Five. And burn, yet burning you will love the smart, when you shall feel the weight of true desire, so pleasing as you would not wish your part of burden should be missing from that fire. But faithful and unfaenet heat aspire, which sin abolisheth, and doth impart salves to all fear, with virtues which inspires souls with divine love, which shows his chaste art, and guide he is to joings, open eyes he hath to happiness, and best can learn us, means how to deserve. This he descrys, who blind, yet doth our hiddenest thoughts discern. Thus we may gain since living in blessed love, He may our prophet and our tutor prove. Six. He may our prophet, and our tutor prove,

In whom alone we do this power find, To join two hearts as in one frame to move, two bodies, but one soul to rule the mind. Eyes which must care to one dear object bind, ears to each other's speech, as if above all else they sweet and learned were. This kind content of lovers witnesseth true love. It doth enrich the wits, and make you see that in yourself which you knew not before, forcing you to admire such gifts should be hid from your knowledge, yet in you the store. millions of these adorn the throne of love. How blessed be they then, who his favors prove? Seven.

How blessed be they, then, who his favors prove, A life whereof the birth is just desire, Breeding sweet flame which hearts invite to move, In these loved eyes which kindle Cupid's fire, And nurse his longings with his thoughts entire, fixed on the heat of wishes formed by love. Yet whereas fire destroys, this doth aspire, Increase, and foster all delights above.

Love will a painter make you, Such as you shall be able to draw your only dear, More lively, perfect, lasting, And more true than rarest workmen, And to you more near. These be the least, then all must needs confess, He that shuns love Doth love himself the less

Eight He that shuns love Doth love himself the less And cursed he whose spirit Not admires the worth of love Where endless blessedness reigns and commands Maintained by heavenly fires

Made of virtue joined by truth Blown by desires Strengthened by worth Renewed by carefulness Flaming in never-changing thoughts briars of jealousy shall hear miss welcomeness, nor coldly pass in the pursuits of love like one long frozen in a sea of ice, and yet but chastly let your passions move, no thought from virtuous love your minds entice, never to others ends your fancies place, but where they may return with

honour's grace. Nine chasid are, as worthless of the face, or style of love, who hath lascivious been. Our hearts are subject to her son, where sin never did dwell, or rest one minute's space, What faults he hath in her did still begin, And from her breast he sucked his fleeting pace. If lust be counted love, tis falsely named, by wickedness a fairer gloss to set upon that vice, which else makes men ashamed in the own phrase to warrant, but beget this child for love, who ought like a monster born, be from the court of love and reason torn.

10. Be from the court of love and reason torn, for love in reason now doth put his trust. Desert and liking are together born. Children of love and reason, parents just. Reason advisor is, love, ruler must be. be of the state, which crown he long hath worn. Yet so, as neither will in least mistrust the government, where no fear is of scorn. Then reverence both their mites thus made of one, but wantonness and all those errors shun, which wrongers be, impostors, and alone maintainers

of all follies ill begun, fruit of a sour and unwholesome ground, unprofitably pleasing, and unsound. 11. Unprofitably pleasing and unsound. When heaven gave liberty to frail dull earth, to bring forth plenty that in ills abound, which ripest yet do bring a certain dearth, a timeless and unseasonable birth, planted in ill, in worse time springing found, which hemlock-like might feed a sick-wits mirth, where unruled vapours swim in endless round. Then joy we not in what we ought to shun, where shadey-yed, pleasures show, but true-born fires are quite quenched out, or by poor ashes won, a while

to keep those cool and wan desires. O no, let love his glory have, and might be given to him, who triumphs in his right. 12. Be given to him, who triumphs in his right, nor fading be, but like those blossoms fair, which fall for good, and lose their colors bright, yet die not, but with fruit their loss repair. So may love make you pale with loving care, when sweet enjoying shall restore that light, more clear in beauty, then we can compare, if not to Venus in her chosen night. And who so give themselves in this dear kind, these happinesses shall attend them

still, to be supplied with joys enriched in mind, with treasures of content, and pleasures fill. Thus love to be divine doth here appear, Free from all fogs, but shining fair and clear. 13. Free from all fogs but shining fair and clear, wise in all good and innocent in ill, where holy friendship is esteemate dear, with truth in love and justice in our will. In love these titles only have their fill of happy life maintainer, and the mere defense of right, the punisher of skill, and fraud from whence directions doth appear. To thee then, Lord, commander of all hearts, ruler of our affections, kind and just, great king of love,

my soul from feigned smarts or thought of change, I offer to your trust. This crown, myself, and all that I have more, except my heart which you bestowed before. 14 Except my heart, which you bestowed before, And for a sign of conquest, gave away as worthless to be kept in your choice store, Yet one more spotless with you doth not stay. The tribute which my heart doth truly pay, His faith untouched, pure thoughts discharge the score of debts for me,

Where constancy bears sway, And rules as lord, unharmed by envy soar. Yet other mischiefs fail not to attend, As enemies to you, my foes must be. Cursed jealousy doth all her forces bend to my undoing, thus my harms I see. So though in love I fervently do burn, In this strange labyrinth, how shall I turn? End of Part 5 Pampilia to Amphalanthus by Lady Mary Roth. Part 6. Four songs and nine sonnets.

Song one Sweet, let me enjoy thy sight More clear, more bright than morning sun, Which in springtime gives delight, And by which summer's pride is won. Present sight doth pleasures move, Which in sad absence we must miss, But when met again in love,

Then twice redoubled as our bliss. Yet this comfort absence gives, And only faithful loving tries, that, though parted, love's force lives as just in heart as in our eyes. But such comfort banish quite, far sweeter is it still to find favour in thy loved sight, which present smiles with joys combined. Eyes of gladness, lips of love, and hearts from passion not to turn, but in sweet affections move, in flames of faith to live and burn. Dearest then, this kind of kindness. This kind of, give, and grant me life which is your sight wherein I'm more blessed live than

graced with the sun's fair light. Two. Sweet Sylvia in a shaded wood, with her fair nymphs laid down, saw not far off where Cupid stood, the monarch of Love's crown, all naked, playing with his wings within a myrtle-tree, which sight a sudden laughter brings, his godhead so to see. And fondly they began to jest, with scoffing and delight, not knowing he did breed unrest, And that his wills his right, When he perceiving of their scorn, grew in such desperate rage, Who but for honour first was born, could not his rage assuage.

Till, shooting of his murdering dart, Which not long lighting was, knowing the next way to the heart, did through a poor nymph pass, This shot the others made to bow, Besides, all those to blame, whose scorners be or not allow of powerful Cupid's name. Take heed, then, nor do idly smile, nor love's commands despise, for soon will he your strength beguile, although he want his eyes. Three. Come merry spring, delight us, for winter long did spite us. In pleasure still persevere, thy beauty's ending never.

Spring and grow, lasting so, With joys increasing ever. Let cold from hence be banished, till hopes from me be vanished, But bless thy dainties growing, In fullness freely flowing, Sweet birds sing, for the spring, All mirth is now bestowing. Fillamel in this arbor makes now her loving harbour, Yet of her state complaining, her notes in mildness straining, which thought sweet yet do meet, Her former luckless painting

For Lovers learn to speak but truth Swear not and your oaths forego Give your age a constant youth Vow no more than what you'll do Think it sacrilege to break what you promise Shall in love and in tears what you do speak Forget not when the ends you prove

Do not think it glory is to entice, and then deceive, Your chief honours lie in this, By worth what one is, Not to leave. Tis not for your fame to try, What we weak not oft refuse, In our bounty our faults lie, When you to do a fault will choose. Fye, leave this, A greater gain, Tis to keep when you have won, Then what purchased is with pain, Soon after in all scorn to shun. For if we worthless to be prized, why at first will you it move? And if worthy, why despised? You cannot swear and lie and love. Love, alas, you cannot like, tis but for a fashion moved. None can choose and then dislike, unless it be by falsehood proved. But your choice is, and your love.

How most number to deceive, as if honours claim did move, like Popish law none safe to leave. Fly this folly, and return unto truth in love, And try none but martyr's happy burn, More shameful ends they have that lie. Sonnet One My heart is lost. What can I now expect? An evening fair after a drowsy day?

Alas, fond fancy, This is not the way to cure a morning heart or self-neglect. They who should help do me and help reject, embracing loose desires and wanton play, While wanton-based delights do bear the sway, And impudency reigns without respect. O Cupid, let thy mother know her shame, Tis time for her to leave this youthful flame,

Which doth dishonour her, is ages blame, And takes away the greatness of thy name. Thou God of love, she only queen of lust, Yet strives by weakening thee to be unjust. Late in the forest I did Cupid see, cold, wet, and crying, he had lost his way, and being blind was farther like to stray, which sight a kind compassion bred in me. I kindly took and dried him, while that he, poor child, complained, he stervid was with stay and pined for want of his accustomed prey, for none in that wild place his host would be.

I glad was of his finding, thinking sure this service should my freedom still procure, and in my arms I took him then unharmed, carrying him safe unto a myrtle bower. But in the way he made me feel his power, burning my heart, who had him kindly warmed. Three. Juno, still jealous of her husband Jove, descended from above on earth to try, whether she there could find his chosen love, which made him from the heavens so often fly. Close by the place where I for shade did lie, she chasing came. But when she saw me move, Have you not seen this way, said she, to high one, in whom virtue never ground did prove?

He in whom love doth breed to stir more hate, courting a wantum nymph for his delight. His name is Jupiter, my lord, by fate, who for her leaves me, heaven, his throne and light. I saw him not, said I, although here are many in whose hearts love hath made like war. Four. When I beheld the image of my dear, with greedy looks mine eyes would that way bend, fear and desire did inwardly contend, fear to be marked, desire to draw still near. And in my soul a spirit would appear, which boldness warranted, and did pretend to be my genius, yet I durst not lend, my eyes in trust, where others seemed so clear. Then did I search, from whence this danger rose, If such unworthiness in me did rest,

As my starved eyes must not with sight be blessed, When jealousy her poison did disclose, Yet in my heart unseen of jealous eye, The truer image shall in triumph lie. Five Like to huge clouds of smoke, which well may hide the face of fairest day, though for a while, So wrong may shadow me, till truth do smile, And justice sun-like hath those vapours tied. O doting time! Canst thou for shame let slide,

So many minutes, while ills do beguile thy age and worth, And falsehoods thus to file thy ancient good, Where now but crosses bide. Look but once up, And leave thy toiling pace, and on my miseries thy dim eye place go not so fast but give my care some end turn not thy glass alas unto my ill since thou with sand it canst not so far fill but to each one my sorrows will extend Six. O, that no day would ever more appear, but cloudy night to govern this sad place.

Nor light from heaven these hapless rooms to grace, since that light's shadowed which my love holds dear. Let thickest mists in envy master here, and sun-born day for malice show no face, disdaining light where Cupid and the race of lovers are despised, and shame shines clear. Let me be dark, since barred of my te'rowered. chief light, and wounding jealousy commands by might. But stage-play-like disguised pleasures give, to me it seems as ancient fictions make the stars, all fashions and all shapes partake, while in my thought's true form of love shall live. Seven. No time, no room, no thought or writing can give rest, or quiet to my loving heart, or can my memory or fantasy scan, the measure of

of my still renewing smart. Yet would I not, dear love, thou shouldst depart, But let my passions as they first began, Rule, wound, and please, It is thy choicest art, To give disquiet which seems ease to man. When all alone I think upon thy pain, How thou dost travel our best selves to gain,

Then hourly thy lessons I do learn. Think on thy glory, which shall still ascend, until the world come to a final end, and then shall we thy lasting power discern. How glow-worm like the sun doth now appear. Cold beams do from his glorious face descend, which shows his days and force draw to an end, or that to leave taking his time goes near. This day his face did seem but pale, though clear. The reason is he to the north must lend his light, and warmth must to that climate bend, whose frozen, chosen parts could not love's heat hold dear. Alas, if thou bright sun to part from hence grieve so,

What must I, hapless, who from thence, Where thou dost go my blessing shall attend? Thou shalt enjoy that sight for which I die, And in my heart thy fortunes do envy. Yet grieve, I'll love thee, For this state may mend. Nine My muse, now happy, lay thyself to rest. Sleep in the quiet of a faithful love. Write you no more, but let these fantasies move some other hearts. Wake not to new unrest.

But if you study be those thoughts addressed to truth, which shall eternal goodness prove, enjoying of true joy the most and best, the endless gain which never will remove, leave the discourse of Venus and her son to young beginners, and their brains inspire with stories of greatness. love, and from that fire, get heat to write the fortunes they have won. And thus leave off.

What's past shows you can love. Now let your constancy, your honour, prove. End of Pamphylia to Amphalanthus, by Lady Mary Roth.