XXXIII.

Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace.
Even so my sun one early morn did shine,
With all triumphant splendor on my brow;
But, out, alack! he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath masked him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;

Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun staineth.

LII.

So am I as the rich, whose blesséd key

Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,
The which he will not every hour survey,
For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.
Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,
Since, seldom coming, in the long year set
Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.

So is the time that keeps you as my chest,
Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,
To make some special instant special-blest,
By new unfolding his imprisoned pride.

Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had, to triumph, being lacked, to hope.

LV.

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments

Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,

And broils root out the work of masonry,

Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.

'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity

Shall you pace forth: your praise shall still find room,
Even in the eyes of all posterity,

That wear this world out to the ending doom.

So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.

LXXIII.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare, ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west,

Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest;
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

LXXVI.

Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?
Why, with the time, do I not glance aside

To new-found methods and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,'

That every word doth almost tell my name,

Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?

O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
For as the sun is daily new and old,

So is my love, still telling what is told.

1 Well-known garb. Weed anciently meant clothing in general; it is modern usage that has limited it to mourning.

CXVI.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no; it is an ever-fixéd mark,

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error, and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

ANONYMOUS.

MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS.

[From Byrd's Psalms, Sonnets, &c. 1588.]

My mind to me a kingdom is,

Such perfect joy therein I find,

That it excels all other bliss

That God or nature hath assigned:

Though much I want that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

No princely port, nor wealthy store,

Nor force to win a victory;

No wily wit to salve a sore,

No shape to win a loving eye; To none of these I yield as thrall, For why, my mind despiseth all.

I see that plenty surfeits oft,

And hasty climbers soonest fall;

I see that such as are aloft,

Mishap doth threaten most of all; These get with toil, and keep with fear: Such cares my mind can never bear.

I press to bear no haughty sway;
I wish no more than may suffice;
I do no more than well I may,

Look what I want, my mind supplies;
Lo, thus I triumph like a king;
My mind's content with anything.

I laugh not at another's loss,

Nor grudge not at another's gain ;
No worldly waves my mind can toss;
I brook that is another's bane;
I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend;
I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.

My wealth is health and perfect ease,
And conscience clear my chief defence;
I never seek by bribes to please,

Nor by desert to give offence;
Thus do I live, thus will I die;
Would all do so as well as I!

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

Sir Henry Wotton was born in the year 1568, and died in 1639. He was for many years in public employments, and at the time of his death was provost of Eton College. A very interesting biography of him is contained in "Izaak Walton's Lives." The works of Wotton are not numerous, but the impression made by them and by his life is such as to secure for him the respect due to a wise, scholarly, and kindly man.

THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.

How happy is he born and taught,

That serveth not another's will;
Whose armor is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the worldly care

Of public fame, or private breath;

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

RICHARD BARNFIELD.

31

Who envies none that chance doth raise,

Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

Who hath his life from rumors freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;

Who God doth late and early pray,
More of his grace than gifts to lend ;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend;

This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.

RICHARD BARNFIELD.

Richard Barnfield was born about 1570, and was educated at Oxford. His place in literature is not an important one, and the quotation from his verses is given as one of the earliest specimens of pastoral poetry, which, when joined to fitting music, has become the model of the English glee.

As it fell upon a day,

In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade,

Which a grove of myrtles made;

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,

Trees did grow, and plants did spring;
Everything did banish moan,

Save the nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Leaned her breast up-till a thorn;

And there sung the doleful'st ditty,

That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;
Teru, teru, by and by ;