Work poems/ page 6 of 355 /
When sorrow (vsing mine owne fiers might)Melts downe his lead into my boyling brest,Through that darke fornace to my heart opprest,There shines a joy from thee my only light;But soone as thought of thee breeds my delight,And my young soule flutters to thee his nest,Most rude dispaire my daily vnbidden guest,Clips streight my wings, streight wraps me in his night,And makes me then bow downe my head, and say,Ah what does Phœbus gold that wretch auaile,Whom iron doores do keepe from vse of day?So strangely (alas) thy workes in me preuaile,That in my woes for thee thou art my joy,And in my joyes for thee my onely annoy
Stella since thou so right a Princesse artOf all the powers which life bestowes on me,That ere by them ought vndertaken be,They first resort vnto that soueraigne part;Sweete for a while giue respite to my hart,Which pants as though it still should leape to thee:And on my thoughts giue my LieftenancyTo this great cause, which needs both vse and art
Morpheus the liuely sonne of deadly sleepe,Witnesse of life to them that liuing die:A Prophet oft, and oft in historie,A Poet eke, as humours fly or creepe,Since thou in me so sure a power doest keepe,That neuer I with close vp sense do lie,But by thy worke (my Stella) I descrie,Teaching blind eyes both how to smile and weepe
“Long ago you laid the foundations of the earth itself,
And the heavens are the work of your hands.
They themselves will perish, but you yourself will keep standing;
And just like a garment they will all of them wear out.
Just like clothing you will replace them, and they will finish their turn.
But you are the same, and your own years will not be completed.”—Ps. 102:25-27.