Trust poems/ page 3 of 157 /
While fauour fed my hope, delight with hope was brought,Thought waited on delight, and speech did follow thought:Then grew my tongue and pen records vnto thy glorie:I thought all words were lost, that were not spent of thee:I thought each place was darke but where thy lights would be,And all eares worse then deafe, that heard not out thy storie
In a groue most rich of shade,Where birds wanton musicke made,May then yong his pide weedes showing,New perfumed with flowers fresh growing, Astrophel with Stella sweete,Did for mutuall comfort meet,Both within themselues oppressed,But each in the other blessed
When my love swears that she is made of truth,I do believe her, though I know she lies,That she might think me some untutor'd youth,Unlearnèd in the world's false subtleties
Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brainFull character'd with lasting memoryWhich shall above that idle rank remainBeyond all date, ev'n to eternity
It was the blue & plain ones. I forget all that.
My own clouds darkening hung.
Besides, it wasn't serious.
They took them in different rooms & fed them lies.
'She admitted you wanted to get rid of it.'
'He told us he told you to.'
Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shameIs lust in action, and till action, lustIs perjur'd, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame,Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,Enjoy'd no sooner but despisèd straight,Past reason hunted, and no sooner hadPast reason hated as a swallowed baitOn purpose laid to make the taker mad:Made in pursuit and in possession so,Had, having, and in quest to have extreme,A bliss in proof and prov'd a very woe,Before, a joy propos'd, behind, a dream: All this the world well knows, yet none knows well To shun the heav'n that leads men to this hell
How careful was I, when I took my way,Each trifle under truest bars to thrustThat to my use it might un-usèd stayFrom hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust;But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,Thou best of dearest, and mine only care,Art left the prey of every vulgar thief
As an unperfect actor on the stage,Who with his fear is put besides his part,Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart,So I for fear of trust forget to sayThe perfect ceremony of love's right,And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,O'er-charg'd with burthen of mine own love's might:O let my books be then the eloquenceAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast,Who plead for love and look for recompenceMore than that tongue that more hath more express't
Lorenzo: How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank; Here will we sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears