Spenser left Cambridge in 1578 to become secretary to the Bishop of Rochester; the following year he went into the service of Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester; and in 1580 he became secretary to Lord Grey, Lord Deputy of Ireland. Though he made frequent visits to London, he remained in the Irish civil service for the rest of his life.
Spenser set out to make himself the best known poet in England, and he succeeded. Even before he entered Cambridge, he had translated Petrarch and du Bellay; and he worked largely within the forms and from the points of view that were most fashionable in his day. A thorough-going Petrarchist, he had a somewhat sentimental concern for the English language which manifested itself in a frequently inaccurate archaic diction; he was ardently nationalistic; and he acceded to the easy idealism of Renaissance neo-Platonism. His most famous work is, of course, The Faerie Queen, which is almost a monument to Petrarchan method. Highly elaborate, eloquent, repetitive, it is at once a medieval romance, an epic, and an allegory; yet its medievalism is fictitious and gothic, it has none of the brute power of the epic, and its allegory is unsure and inconsistent. The most persistent principle of its structure is its rhetoric, which is probably a principle insufficient to sustain a poem of nearly thirty-five thousand lines. Spenser’s best poems are his two marriage poems; in these, the elaborate, formal, almost ritualistic rhetoric and syntax are used to meaningful advantage. And though both poems are overdecorated, the decoration is beautiful and often moving.
TEXT:
The Works of Edmund Spenser, A Variorum Edition, edited by Edwin Greenlaw, et. al. The Minor Poems, vol. 2, edited by Charles G. Osgood and Henry G. Lotspeich (1947).
Ye learnëd sisters, which have oftentimes
Been to me aiding, others to adorn,
Whom ye thought worthy of your graceful rimes,
That even the greatest did not greatly scorn
To hear their names sung in your simple lays,
But joyed in their praise;
And when ye list your own mishaps to mourn,
Which death, or love, or fortune’s wreck did raise,
Your string could soon to sadder tenor turn,
And teach the woods and waters to lament
Your doleful dreariment.
Now lay those sorrowful complaints aside,
And having all your heads with garland crowned,
Help me mine own love’s praises to resound,
Ne let the same of any be envíed:
So Orpheus did for his own bride,
So I unto my self alone will sing—
The woods shall to me answer, and my Echo ring.
Early, before the world’s light-giving lamp
His golden beam upon the hills doth spread,
Having dispersed the night’s uncheerful damp,
Do ye awake, and with fresh lustyhead,
Go to the bower of my belovëd love,
My truest turtle dove:
Bid her awake, for Hymen is awake,
And long since ready forth his mask to move,
With his bright tead that flames with many a flake,
And many a bachelor to wait on him,
In their fresh garments trim.
Bid her awake, therefore, and soon her dight,
For lo! the wishëd day is come at last,
That shall for all the pains and sorrows past,
Pay to her usury of long delight:
And whilst she doth her dight,
Do ye to her of joy and solace sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.
Bring with you all the nymphs that you can hear,
Both of the rivers and the forests green,
And of the sea that neighbors to her near,
All with gay garlands goodly well beseen.
And let them also with them bring in hand
Another gay garlánd
For my fair love, of lilies and of roses,
Bound truelove-wise with a blue silk riband.
And let them make great store of bridal posies,
And let them eke bring store of other flowers
To deck the bridal bowers.
And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread,
For fear the stones her tender foot should wrong,
Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along,
And diapered like the discolorëd mead.
Which done, do at her chamber door await,
For she will waken straight;
The whiles do ye this song unto her sing,
The woods shall to you answer, and your echo ring.
Ye nymphs of Mulla, which with careful heed
The silver scaly trouts do tend full well,
And greedy pikes which use therein to feed,
(Those trouts and pikes all others do excel)
And ye likewise which keep the rushy lake,
Where none do fishes take,
Bind up the locks the which hang scattered light,
And in his waters, which your mirror make,
Behold your faces as the crystal bright,
That when you come whereas my love doth lie,
No blemish she may spy.
And eke ye lightfoot maids which keep the deer
That on the hoary mountain use to tower,
And the wild wolves, which seek them to devour,
With your steel darts do chase from coming near,
Be also present here
To help to deck her, and to help to sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.
Wake now, my love, awake! for it is time:
The rosy Morn long since left Tithones’ bed,
All ready to her silver coach to climb,
And Phoebus ’gins to show his glorious head.
Hark, how the cheerful birds do chant their lays,
And carol of love’s praise!
The merry lark her matins sings aloft,
The thrush replies, the mavis descant plays,
The ousel shrills, the ruddock warbles soft,
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent,
To this day’s merriment.
Ah! my dear love, why do ye sleep thus long,
When meeter were that ye should now awake,
To wait the coming of your joyous make,
And hearken to the birds’ love-learnëd song,
The dewy leaves among?
For they of joy and pleasance to you sing,
That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring.
My love is now awake out of her dreams,
And her fair eyes, like stars that dimmëd were
With darksome cloud, now show their goodly beams
More bright than Hesperus his head doth rear.
Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight,
Help quickly her to dight.
But first come ye, fair Hours, which were begot
In Jove’s sweet paradise, of Day and Night,
Which do the seasons of the year allot,
And all that ever in this world is fair
Do make and still repair.
And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian Queen,
The which do still adorn her beauty’s pride,
Help to adorn my beautifulest bride:
And as ye her array, still throw between
Some graces to be seen;
And as ye use to Venus, to her sing,
The whiles the woods shall answer, and your echo ring.
Now is my love all ready forth to come.
Let all the virgins therefore well await,
And ye fresh boys, that tend upon her groom,
Prepare your selves, for he is coming straight.
Set all your things in seemly good array,
Fit for so joyful day,
The joyfulst day that ever sun did see.
Fair Sun, show forth thy favorable ray,
And let thy lifeful heat not fervent be,
For fear of burning her sunshiny face,
Her beauty to disgrace.
O fairest Phoebus, father of the Muse,
If ever I did honor thee aright,
Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight,
Do not thy servant’s simple boon refuse,
But let this day, let this one day be mine,
Let all the rest be thine.
Then I thy sovereign praises loud will sing,
That all the woods shall answer, and their echo ring.
Hark how the minstrels ’gin to shrill aloud
Their merry music that resounds from far,
The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling croud,
That well agree withouten breach or jar.
But most of all the damsels do delight
When they their timbrels smite,
And thereunto do dance and carol sweet,
That all the senses they do ravish quite,
The whiles the boys run up and down the street,
Crying aloud with strong confusëd noise,
As if it were one voice.
“Hymen, io Hymen, Hymen,” they do shout,
That even to the heavens their shouting shrill
Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill;
To which the people, standing all about,
As in approvance do thereto applaud,
And loud advance her laud,
And evermore they “Hymen, Hymen!” sing,
That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring.
Lo! where she comes along with portly pace,
Like Phoebe from her chamber of the east,
Arising forth to run her mighty race,
Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best.
So well it her beseems, that ye would ween
Some angel she had been.
Her long loose yellow locks like golden wire,
Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers atween,
Do like a golden mantle her attire,
And being crownëd with a garland green,
Seem like some maiden queen.
Her modest eyes, abashëd to behold
So many gazers as on her do stare,
Upon the lowly ground affixëd are;
Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold,
But blush to hear her praises sung so loud,
So far from being proud.
Nathless do ye still loud her praises sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.
Tell me, ye merchants’ daughters, did ye see
So fair a creature in your town before,
So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she,
Adorned with beauty’s grace and virtue’s store?
Her goodly eyes like sapphires shining bright,
Her forehead ivory white,
Her cheeks like apples which the sun hath ruddied,
Her lips like cherries charming men to bite,
Her breast like to a bowl of cream uncrudded,
Her paps like lilies budded,
Her snowy neck like to a marble tower,
And all her body like a palace fair,
Ascending up, with many a stately stair,
To honor’s seat and chastity’s sweet bower.
Why stand ye still, ye virgins, in amaze,
Upon her so to gaze,
Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing,
To which the woods did answer, and your echo ring?
But if ye saw that which no eyes can see,
The inward beauty of her lively spright,
Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree,
Much more then would ye wonder at that sight,
And stand astonished like to those which read
Medusa’s mazeful head.
There dwells sweet Love, and constant Chastity,
Unspotted Faith, and comely Womanhood,
Regard of Honor, and mild Modesty;
There Virtue reigns as queen in royal throne,
And giveth laws alone,
The which the base affections do obey
And yield their services unto her will;
Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may
Thereto approach to tempt her mind to ill.
Had ye once seen these, her celestial treasures,
And unrevealëd pleasures,
Then would ye wonder, and her praises sing,
That all the woods should answer, and your echo ring.
Open the temple gates unto my love,
Open them wide that she may enter in,
And all the posts adorn as doth behove,
And all the pillars deck with garlands trim,
For to receive this saint with honor due,
That cometh in to you.
With trembling steps and humble reverence,
She cometh in before the Almighty’s view;
Of her, ye virgins, learn obedience,
When so ye come into those holy places,
To humble your proud faces.
Bring her up to the high altar, that she may
The sacred ceremonies there partake,
The which do endless matrimony make;
And let the roaring organs loudly play
The praises of the Lord in lively notes,
The whiles with hollow throats
The choristers the joyous anthem sing,
That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring.
Behold, whiles she before the altar stands,
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks
And blesseth her with his two happy hands,
How the red roses flush up in her cheeks,
And the pure snow with goodly vermil stain,
Like crimson dyed in grain;
That even the angels, which continually
About the sacred altar do remain,
Forget their service and about her fly,
Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair
The more they on it stare.
But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground,
Are governëd with goodly modesty,
That suffers not one look to glance awry,
Which may let in a little thought unsound.
Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand,
The pledge of all our band?
Sing, ye sweet angels, Allelujah sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.
Now all is done; bring home the bride again,
Bring home the triumph of our victory,
Bring home with you the glory of her gain,
With joyance bring her and with jollity.
Never had man more joyful day than this,
Whom heaven would heap with bliss.
Make feast, therefore, now all this live-long day;
This day for ever to me holy is;
Pour out the wine without restraint or stay,
Pour not by cups, but by the belly full,
Pour out to all that wull,
And sprinkle all the posts and walls with wine,
That they may sweat, and drunken be withal.
Crown ye God Bacchus with a coronal,
And Hymen also crown with wreaths of vine;
And let the Graces dance unto the rest,
For they can do it best:
The whiles the maidens do their carol sing,
To which the woods shall answer, and their echo ring.
Ring ye the bells, ye young men of the town,
And leave your wonted labors for this day.
This day is holy; do ye write it down
That ye for ever it remember may.
This day the sun is in his chiefest height,
With Barnaby the bright,
From whence declining daily by degrees,
He somewhat loseth of his heat and light,
When once the Crab behind his back he sees.
But for this time it ill ordainëd was
To choose the longest day in all the year,
And shortest night, when longest fitter were;
Yet never day so long but late would pass.
Ring ye the bells to make it wear away,
And bonfires make all day,
And dance about them, and about them sing:
That all the woods many answer, and your echo ring.
Ah! when will this long weary day have end,
And lend me leave to come unto my love?
How slowly do the hours their numbers spend!
How slowly does sad Time his feathers move!
Haste thee, O fairest planet, to thy home
Within the western foam:
Thy tirëd steeds long since have need of rest.
Long though it be, at last I see it gloom,
And the bright evening star with golden crest
Appear out of the east.
Fair child of beauty, glorious lamp of love,
That all the host of heaven in ranks dost lead,
And guidest lovers through the nightës dread,
How cheerfully thou lookest from above
And seemst to laugh atween thy twinkling light,
As joying in the sight
Of these glad many, which for joy do sing,
That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring!
Now cease, ye damsels, your delights forepast;
Enough is it that all the day was yours:
Now day is done, and night is nighing fast;
Now bring the bride into the bridal bowers.
The night is come, now soon her disarray,
And in her bed her lay;
Lay her in lilies and in violets,
And silken curtains over her display,
And odored sheets, and Arras coverlets.
Behold how goodly my fair love does lie,
In proud humility!
Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took
In Tempe, lying on the flowery grass,
Twixt sleep and wake, after she weary was
With bathing in the Acidalian brook.
Now it is night, ye damsels may be gone,
And leave my love alone,
And leave likewise your former lay to sing:
The woods no more shall answer, nor your echo ring.
Now welcome, night! thou night so long expected,
That long day’s labor dost at last defray,
And all my cares, which cruel Love collected,
Hast summed in one, and cancellëd for aye:
Spread thy broad wing over my love and me,
That no man may us see,
And in thy sable mantle us enwrap,
From fear of peril and foul horror free.
Let no false treason seek us to entrap,
Nor any dread disquiet once annoy
The safety of our joy:
But let the night be calm and quietsome,
Without tempestuous storms or sad affray:
Like as when Jove with fair Alcmena lay,
When he begot the great Tirynthian groom;
Or like as when he with thy self did lie,
And begot Majesty,
And let the maids and youngmen cease to sing:
Ne let the woods them answer, nor their echo ring.
Let no lamenting cries nor doleful tears
Be heard all night within, nor yet without;
Ne let false whispers, breeding hidden fears,
Break gentle sleep with misconceivëd doubt.
Let no deluding dreams nor dreadful sights
Make sudden sad affrights;
Ne let house-fires nor lightning’s helpless harms,
Ne let the Pouke nor other evil sprights,
Ne let mischievous witches with their charms,
Ne let hobgoblins, names whose sense we see not,
Fray us with things that be not.
Let not the shriek-owl nor the stork be heard,
Nor the night raven that still deadly yells,
Nor dammëd ghosts called up with mighty spells,
Nor grisly vultures make us once afeard:
Ne let the unpleasant choir of frogs still croaking
Make us to wish their choking.
Let none of these their dreary accents sing;
Ne let the woods them answer, nor their echo ring.
But let still Silence true night watches keep,
That sacred Peace may in assurance reign,
And timely Sleep, when it is time to sleep,
May pour his limbs forth on your pleasant plain,
The whiles an hundred little wingëd loves,
Like divers feathered doves,
Shall fly and flutter round about your bed,
And in the secret dark that none reproves,
Their pretty stealths shall work, and snares shall spread
To filch away sweet snatches of delight,
Concealed through covert night.
Ye sons of Venus, play your sports at will:
For greedy Pleasure, careless of your toys,
Thinks more upon her paradise of joys
Than what ye do, all be it good or ill.
All night, therefore, attend your merry play,
For it will soon be day:
Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing,
Ne will the woods now answer, nor your echo ring.
Who is the same which at my window peeps?
Or whose is that fair face that shines so bright?
Is it not Cynthia, she that never sleeps,
But walks about high heaven all the night?
O fairest goddess, do thou not envý
My love with me to spy:
For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought,
And for a fleece of wool, which privily
The Latmian shepherd once unto thee brought,
His pleasures with thee wrought.
Therefore to us be favorable now;
And sith of women’s labors thou hast charge,
And generation goodly dost enlarge,
Incline thy will to effect our wishful vow,
And the chaste womb inform with timely seed,
That may our comfort breed:
Till which we cease our hopeful hap to sing,
Ne let the woods us answer, nor our echo ring.
And thou, great Juno, which with awful might
The laws of wedlock still dost patronize,
And the religion of the faith first plight
With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize,
And eke for comfort often callëd art
Of women in their smart,
Eternally bind thou this lovely band,
And all thy blessings unto us impart.
And thou, glad Genius, in whose gentle hand
The bridal bower and genial bed remain,
Without blemish or stain,
And the sweet pleasures of their love’s delight
With secret aid dost succor and supply,
Till they bring forth the fruitful progeny,
Send us the timely fruit of this same night.
And thou, fair Hebe, and thou Hymen free,
Grant that it may so be.
Til which we cease your further praise to sing,
Ne any woods shall answer, nor your echo ring.
And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods,
In which a thousand torches flaming bright
Do burn, that to us wretched earthly clods
In dreadful darkness lend desirëd light,
And all ye powers which in the same remain,
More than we men can feign,
Pour out your blessing on us plenteously,
And happy influence upon us rain,
That we may raise a large posterity,
Which from the earth, which they may long possess
With lasting happiness,
Up to your haughty palaces may mount,
And for the guerdon of their glorious merit,
May heavenly tabernacles there inherit,
Of blessed saints for to increase the count.
So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this,
And cease till then our timely joys to sing:
The woods no more us answer, nor our echo ring.
Song, made in lieu of many ornaments
With which my love should duly have been decked,
Which cutting off through hasty accidents,
Ye would not stay your due time to expect,
But promised both to recompense—
Be unto her a goodly ornament,
And for short time an endless monument.
PROTHALAMION
Calm was the day, and through the trembling air
Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
Hot Titan’s beams, which then did glister fair,
When I (whom sullen care,
Through discontent of my long fruitless stay
In prince’s court, and expectation vain
Of idle hopes, which still do fly away
Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain)
Walked forth to ease my pain
Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames;
Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,
Was painted all with variable flowers,
And all the meads adorned with dainty gems
And crown their paramours
Against the bridal day, which is not long:
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
There in a meadow by the river’s side
A flock of nymphs I chancëd to espy,
All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,
With goodly greenish locks all loose untied
As each had been a bride;
And each one had a little wicker basket
Made of fine twigs entrailëd curiously,
In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket,
And with fine fingers cropped full feateously
The tender stalks on high.
Of every sort which in that meadow grew
They gathered some; the violet, pallid blue,
The little daisy that at evening closes,
The virgin lily and the primrose true,
With store of vermeil roses,
To deck their bridegrooms’ posies
Against the bridal day, which was not long:
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
With that I saw two swans of goodly hue
Come softly swimming down along the Lee;
Two fairer birds I yet did never see;
The snow which doth the top of Pindus strew
Did never whiter shew
Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be
For love of Leda, whiter did appear;
Yet Leda was, they say, as white as he,
Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near;
So purely white they were
That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,
Seemed foul to them, and bade his billows spare
To wet their silken feathers, lest they might
Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair,
And mar their beauties bright,
That shone as Heaven’s light,
Against their bridal day, which was not long:
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill,
Ran all in haste to see that silver brood
As they came floating on the crystal flood;
Whom when they saw, they stood amazëd still
Their wondering eyes to fill;
Them seemed they never saw a sight so fair
Of fowls so lovely that they sure did deem
Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair
Which through the sky draw Venus’ silver team;
For sure they did not seem
To be begot of any earthly seed,
But rather angels, or of angels’ breed;
Yet were they bred of summer’s-heat, they say.
In sweetest season, when each flower and weed
The earth did fresh array;
So fresh they seemed as day,
Even as their bridal day, which was not long:
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
Then forth they all out of their baskets drew
Great store of flowers, the honor of the field,
That to the sense did fragrant odors yield,
All which upon those goodly birds they threw
And all the waves did strew,
That like old Peneus’ waters they did seem
When down along by pleasant Tempe’s shore,
Scattered with flowers, through Thessaly they stream,
That they appear, through lilies’ plenteous store,
Like a bride’s chamber floor.
Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands bound
Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found,
The which presenting all in trim array,
Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crowned,
Whilst one did sing this lay
Prepared against that day,
Against their bridal day, which was not long:
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
“Ye gentle birds! the world’s fair ornament,
And heaven’s glory, whom this happy hour
Doth lead unto your lovers’ blissful bower,
Joy may you have, and gentle heart’s content
Of your love’s couplement;
And let fair Venus, that is queen of love,
With her heart-quelling son upon you smile,
Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove
All love’s dislike, and friendship’s faulty guile
For ever to assoil.
Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord,
And blessëd plenty wait upon your board,
And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound,
That fruitful issue may to you afford,
Which may your foes confound,
And make your joys redound
Upon your bridal day, which is not long:
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.”
So ended she; and all the rest around
To her redoubled that her undersong,
Which said their bridal day should not be long:
And gentle Echo from the neighbor ground
Their accents did resound.
So forth those joyous birds did pass along,
Adown the Lee that to them murmured low,
As he would speak but that he lacked a tongue,
Yet did by signs his glad affection show,
Making his stream run slow.
And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell
Gan flock about these twain, that did excel
The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend
The lesser stars. So they, enrangëd well,
Did on those two attend,
And their best service lend
Against their wedding day, which was not long:
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
At length they all to merry London came,
To merry London, my most kindly nurse,
That to me gave this life’s first native source,
Though from another place I take my name,
An house of ancient fame:
There when they came whereas those bricky towers
The which on Thames’ broad agëd back do ride,
Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,
There whilom wont the Templar-knights to bide,
Till they decayed through pride;
Next whereunto there stands a stately place,
Where oft I gainëd gifts and goodly grace
Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell,
Whose want too well now feels my friendless case.
But ah! here fits not well
Old woes, but joys to tell
Against the bridal day, which is not long:
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,
Great England’s glory and the world’s wide wonder,
Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did thunder,
And Hercules’ two pillars standing near
Did make to quake and fear:
Fair branch of honor, flower of chivalry,
That fillest England with thy triumphs’ fame,
Joy have thou of thy noble victory,
And endless happiness of thine own name
That promiseth the same!
That through thy prowess and victorious arms
Thy country may be freed from foreign harms,
And great Eliza’s glorious name may ring
Through all the world, filled with thy wide alarms,
Which some brave Muse may sing
To ages following,
Upon the bridal day, which is not long:
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
From those high towers this noble lord issuing,
Like radiant Hesper when his golden hair
In the ocean billows he hath bathëd fair,
Descended to the river’s open viewing,
With a great train ensuing.
Above the rest were goodly to be seen
Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature,
Beseeming well the bower of any queen,
With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature
Fit for so goodly stature,
That like the twins of Jove they seemed in sight
Which deck the baldric of the heavens bright;
They two, forth pacing to the river’s side,
Received those two fair brides, their love’s delight;
Which, at the appointed tide,
Each one did make his bride,
Against their bridal day, which is not long:
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
SONNETS FROM AMORETTI
25: How long shall this
How long shall this like dying life endure
And know no end of her own misery,
But waste and wear away in terms unsure,
Twixt fear and hope depending doubtfully?
Yet better were at once to let me die,
And show the last ensample of your pride,
Than to torment me thus with cruelty,
To prove your power, which I too well have tried.
But yet if in your hardened breast ye hide
A close intent at last to show me grace,
Then all the woes and wrecks which I abide
As means of bliss I gladly will embrace,
And wish that more and greater they might be,
That greater meed at last may turn to me.
53: The panther, knowing that his spotted hide
The panther, knowing that his spotted hide
Doth please all beasts, but that his looks them fray,
Within a bush his dreadful head doth hide,
To let them gaze whilst he on them may prey.
Right so my cruel fair with me doth play;
For with the goodly semblant of her hue
She doth allure me to mine own decay,
And then no mercy will unto me shew.
Great shame it is, thing so divine in view,
Made for to be the world’s most ornament,
To make the bait her gazers to imbrue.
Good shames to be to ill an instrument;
But mercy doth with beauty best agree,
As in their Maker ye them best may see.
58: By her that is most assured to her self
Weak is the assurance that weak flesh reposeth
In her own power, and scorneth others’ aid;
That soonest falls, when as she most supposeth
Her self assured, and is of nought afraid.
All flesh is frail, and all her strength unstayed,
Like a vain bubble blowen up with air:
Devouring time and changeful chance have preyed
Her glory’s pride, that none may it repair.
Ne none so rich or wise, so strong or fair,
But faileth, trusting on his own assurance:
And he that standeth on the highest stair
Falls lowest; for on earth nought hath endurance.
Why then do ye, proud fair, misdeem so far,
That to yourself ye most assurëd are?
67: Like as a huntsman
Like as a huntsman, after weary chase,
Seeing the game from him escaped away,
Sits down to rest him in some shady place,
With panting hounds beguilëd of their prey—
So after long pursuit and vain assay,
When I all weary had the chase forsook,
The gentle deer returned the self-same way,
Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook.
There she, beholding me with milder look,
Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide:
Till I in hand her yet half trembling took,
And with her own good will her firmly tied.
Strange thing, me seemed, to see a beast so wild,
So goodly won, with her own will beguiled.
68: Most glorious Lord of life
Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day
Didst make thy triumph over death and sin,
And having harrowed hell, didst bring away
Captivity thence captive, us to win:
This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin,
And grant that we, for whom thou didest die,
Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin,
May live forever in felicity:
And that thy love we weighing worthily,
May likewise love thee for the same again;
And for thy sake, that all like dear didst buy,
With love may one another entertain.
So let us love, dear love, like as we ought:
Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.
88: Since I have lacked the comfort
Since I have lacked the comfort of that light,
The which was wont to lead my thoughts astray,
I wander as in darkness of the night,
Afraid of every danger’s least dismay.
Ne aught I see, though in the clearest day,
When others gaze upon their shadows vain,
But the only image of that heavenly ray,
Whereof some glance doth in mine eye remain.
Of which beholding the idea plain,
Through contemplation of my purest part,
With light thereof I do my self sustain,
And thereon feed my love-affamished heart.
But with such brightness whilst I fill my mind,
I starve my body, and mine eyes do blind.
learnëd sisters: the Muses of poetry.
tead: torch.
dight: dress.
Tithones: Tithonus, a mortal loved by the goddess of dawn, who was given immortality but not eternal youth, so that his immortality is spent in a state of senility.
mavis: a song thrush.
ruddock: robin redbreast.
Hours: i.e., the daughters of Jove.
Cyprian Queen: Venus.
croud: violin.
spright: spirit.
wull: will.
Graces: three daughters of Jove, ladies in waiting to Venus.
Barnaby: St. Barnabas’s day, which in Spenser’s time fell on June 22.
Crab: Sign of the house of Cancer, out of which the sun moves in mid-June.
Maia: daughter of Atlas, and with Jove as the father, the mother of Mercury.
Tirynthian groom: i.e., Hercules, so called because he was born at the city of Tiryns.
Pouke: i.e., Puck, before Shakespeare’s treatment quite a formidable spirit.
religion of the faith first plight: i.e., the sanctity of the first pledge of conjugal fidelity.
summer’s-heat: a pun on Somerset, the ladies’ family name.
Peneus: a river in Thessaly.
assoil: set free.
shend: shame.
whilom: formerly.
noble peer: the Earl of Essex, who had returned from the capture of Cadiz.
meed: reward, gift.