Let that time a thousand moneths endure,
Which brings from heaven the sweet and silver showers,
And joys the earth (of comfort late deprived)
With grass and leaves, fine buds, and painted flowers.
Ecchoe, returne unto the woods obscure.
Ring forth the Sheepheards Songs in love contrived.
Let old loves be revived,
Which angry Winter buried but of late,
And that in such a state
My soule may have the full accomplishment
Of joy and sweet content.
And since fierce paines and greefes thou doost controule:
Good Love, doo not forsake my inward soule.
Presume not (Sheepheards) once to make you meerie,
With springs, and flowers, or any pleasant Song,
(Unlesse mild Love possesse your amorous breasts)
If you sing not to him, your Songs doo wearie,
Crowne him with flowers, or else ye doo him wrong,
And consecrate your Springs to his behests.
I to my Sheepheardesse
My happy loves with great content doo sing.
And flowers to her doo bring.
And sitting neere her by the River side,
Enjoy the brave Spring-tide.
Since then thy joyes such sweetnes dooth enroule:
Good Love, doo not forsake my inward soule.
The wise (in auncient time) a God thee nam’d,
Seeing that with thy power and supreame might,
Thou didst such rare and mighty wonders make:
For thee a hart is frozen and enflam’d,
A foole thou mak’st a wise man with thy light,
The coward turnes couragious for thy sake.
The mighty Gods did quake
At thy commaund: To birds and beasts transformed,
Great Monarches have not scorned
To yeeld unto the force of beauties lure:
Such spoiles thou doost procure
With thy brave force, which never may be tould:
With which (sweet Love) thou conquer’st every soule.
In other times obscurely I did live
But with a drowsie, base, and simple kinde
Of life, and onely to my profit bend me:
To thinke of Love my selfe I did not give,
Or for good grace, good parts, and gentle minde,
Never did any Sheepheardesse commend me.
But crowned now they send me
A thousand Garlands, that I wone with praise,
In wrastling dayes by dayes,
In pitching of the barre with arme most strong,
And singing many a Song.
After that thou didst honour, and take hould
Of me (sweet Love) and of my happy soule.
What greater joy can any man desire,
Then to remaine a Captive unto Love:
And have his hart subjected to his power?
And though sometimes he tast a little sower
By suffering it, as mild as gentle Dove
Yet must he be, in liew of that great hire
Whereto he dooth aspire:
If Lovers live afflicted and in paine,
Let them with cause complaine
Of cruell fortune, and of times abuse,
And let not them accuse
Thee (gentle-Love) that dooth with blisse enfould
Within thy sweetest joyes each living soule.
Behold a faire sweete face, and shining eyes,
Resembling two most bright and twinkling starres,
Sending unto the soule a perfect light:
Behold the rare perfections of those white
And Ivorie hands, from greefes most surest barres:
That mind wherein all life and glory lyes,
That joy that never dyes,
That he dooth feele, that loves and is beloved,
And my delights approoved,
To see her pleas’d, whose love maintaines me heere,
All those I count so deere,
That though sometimes Love dooth my joyes controule:
Yet am I glad he dwels within my soule.
(Bartholomew Young)
More Poetry from Bartholomew Young:
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, Man Poems, God Poems, Life Poems, Light Poems, Time Poems, Faces Poems, Joy & Excitement Poems, Flowers Poems, Fate & Destiny Poems, Wisdom & Knowledge PoemsBased on Keywords: subjected, yeeld, auncient, arme, spring-tide, foole, heere, unlesse, possesse, remaine, turnes