Soon as the azure-colored gates of th' east
Were set wide open by the watchful morn,
I walked abroad, as having took no rest
(For nights are tedious to a man forlorn);
And viewing well each pearl-bedewéd flower,
Then waxing dry by splendor of the sun,
All scarlet-hued I saw him 'gin to lour
And blush, as though some heinous act were done.
At this amazed, I hied me home amain,
Thinking that I his anger causéd had.
And at his set, abroad I walked again;
When lo, the moon looked wondrous pale and sad:
Anger the one, and envy moved the other,
To see my love more fair than Love's fair mother.
What sugared terms, what all-persuading art,
What sweet mellifluous words, what wounding looks
Love used for his admittance to my heart!
Such eloquence was never read in books.
He promised pleasure, rest, and endless joy,
Fruition of the fairest she alive.
His pleasure, pain; rest, trouble; joy, annoy,
Have I since found, which me of bliss deprive.
The Trojan horse thus have I now let in,
Wherein enclosed these arméd men were placed
Bright eyes, fair cheeks, sweet lips, and milk-white skin;
These foes my life have overthrown and razed.
Fair outward shows prove inwardly the worst,
Love looketh fair, but lovers are accurst.
Weary with serving where I nought could get,
I thought to cross great Neptune's greatest seas,
To live in exile; but my drift was let
By cruel fortune, spiteful of such ease.
The ship I had to pass in was my mind,
Greedy desire was topsail of the same,
My tears were surges, sighs did serve for wind,
Of all my ship despair was chiefest frame;
Sorrow was master; care, the cable rope;
Grief was the mainmast; love, the captain of it;
He that did rule the helm was foolish hope;
But beauty was the rock that my ship split,
Which since bath made such shipwreck of my joy
That still I swim in th' ocean of annoy.
End this enchantment, love, of my desires,
Let me no longer languish for thy love.
Joy not to see me thus consume in fires,
But let my cruel pains thy hard heart move.
And now, at last with pitiful regard
Eye me, thy lover, lorn for lack of thee,
Which, dying, lives in hope of sweet reward
Which hate hath hitherto withheld from me.
Constant have I been, still in fancy fast,
Ordained by heavens to dote upon thy fair;
Nor will I e'er, so long as life shall last,
Say any's fairer, breathing vital air.
But when the ocean sands shall lie unwet,
Then shall my soul to love thee, dear, forget.