Astrophil and
Stella, Sonnet
86
Alas, whence came this change of looks? If I
Have changed desert,
let mine own
conscience be
A
still-felt plague, to
self-condemning me:
Let woe gripe on my heart, shame load mine eye.
But if all faith, like spotless ermine, lie
Safe
in my soul, which only doth to
thee
(As
his sole object of felicity)
With wings of love in air of wonder fly,
O ease
your hand, treat not so hard
your slave;
In justice pains come not till faults do call;
Or if I needs, sweet judge, must torments have,
Use something else to chasten me withal
Than
those blessed eyes, where all
my hopes do dwell.
No
doom should make one’s heaven become
his hell.
Fifth Song
While favour fed my hope, delight with hope
was brought,
Thought waited on delight, and speech did follow thought;
Then drew my tongue and pen records unto thy glory;
I thought all words were lost, that were not spent of thee;
I thought each place was dark but where thy lights would be,
And all ears worse than deaf, that heard not out thy story.
I said thou wert most fair, and so indeed thou art;
I said thou wert most sweet, sweet poison to my heart;
I said my soul was thine—O that I then had lied!
I said thine eyes were stars, thy breasts
the milken way,
Thy fingers Cupid’s shafts, thy voice the angels’ lay,
And all I said so well, as no man it denied.
But now that hope is lost, unkindness kills delight,
Yet thought and speech do live, though metamorphosed quite;
For rage now rules the reins, which guided were by pleasure.
I think now of thy faults, who late thought of thy praise;
That speech falls now to blame, which did thy honour raise;
The same key open can, which can lock up a treasure.
Thou then, whom partial heavens conspired in one to frame,
The proof of beauty’s worth, th’inheritrix of fame,
The mansion seat of bliss, and just excuse of lovers;
See now those feathers plucked, wherewith
thou flew’st most high;
See what clouds of reproach shall dark thy honour’s sky;
Whose own fault casts him down, hardly high seat recovers.
And O my Muse, though oft you lulled her in your lap,
And then, a heavenly child, gave
her ambrosian pap,
And to that brain of hers your hiddenest gifts infused;
Since she, disdaining me, doth you in me disdain,
Suffer not her to laugh, while we both suffer pain;
Princes in subjects wronged, must deem themselves abused.
Your client poor myself, shall Stella handle so?
Revenge, revenge, my muse; defiance’ trumpet blow;
Threaten what may be done, yet do more than you threaten.
Ah, my suit granted is; I feel my breast to swell;
Now child, a lesson new you shall begin to spell:
Sweet babes must babies have, but shrewd girls must be beaten.
Think now no more to hear of warm fine-odored snow,
Nor blushing lilies, nor pearls’ ruby-hidden row,
Nor of that golden sea, whose waves in curls are broken:
But of thy soul, so fraught with such ungratefulness,
As where thou soon might’st help, most faith dost most
oppress;
Ungrateful who is called, the worst of evils is spoken.
Yet worse than worst, I say thou art a thief. A thief?
No God forbid. A thief, and of worst thieves the chief;
Thieves steal for need, and steal but goods, which pain recovers,
But thou, rich in all joys, dost rob my joys from me,
Which cannot be restored by time nor industry.
Of foes the spoil is evil, far worse of constant lovers.
Yet gentle English thieves do rob, but will not slay;
Thou English murdering thief, wilt have hearts for thy prey;
The name of murderer now on thy fair forehead sitteth;
And even while I do speak, my death wounds bleeding be,
Which, I protest, proceed from only cruel thee.
Who may, and will not, save, murder in truth committeth.
But murder, private fault, seems but a toy to thee;
I lay then to thy charge, unjustest tyranny,
If rule by force without all claim a tyrant showeth.
For thou dost lord my heart, who am not born thy slave;
And which is worse, makes me, most guiltless, torments have;
A rightful prince by unright deeds a tyrant groweth.
Lo, you grow proud with this, for tyrants make folk bow.
Of foul rebellion then I do appeach thee now;
Rebel by nature’s law, rebel by law of reason.
Thou, sweetest subject, wert born in the realm of love,
And yet against thy prince thy force dost daily prove;
No virtue merits praise, once touched with blot of treason.
But valiant rebels oft in fools’ mouths purchase fame;
I now then stain thy white with vagabonding shame,
Both rebel to the son, and vagrant from the mother:
For wearing Venus’ badge in every part of thee
Unto Diana’s train thou, runaway, didst flee:
Who faileth one, is false, though trusty to another.
What, is not this enough? Nay, far worse cometh here:
A witch I say thou art, though thou so fair appear;
For I protest, my sight never thy face enjoyeth,
But I in me am changed; I am alive and dead;
My feet are turned to roots; my
heart becometh lead;
No witchcraft is so evil, as which man’s mind destroyeth.
Yet witches may repent; thou art far worse than they;
Alas, that I am forced such evil of thee to say!
I say thou art a devil, though clothed in angel’s shining;
For thy face tempts my soul to leave the heaven for thee,
And thy words of refuse, do pour even hell on me.
Who tempt, and tempted plague, are devils in true defining.
You then, ungrateful thief, you murdering tyrant, you;
You rebel runaway, to lord and lady untrue;
You witch, you devil, alas—you still of me beloved,
You see what I can say; mend yet your froward mind,
And such skill in my muse you, reconciled, shall find,
That all these cruel words your praises shall be proved.
Sixth Song
O you that hear this voice,
O you that see this face,
Say whether of the choice
Deserves the former place:
Fear not to judge this ’bate,
For it is void of hate.
This side doth Beauty take,
For that doth Music speak,
Fit orators to make
The strongest judgments weak:
The bar to plead their right
Is only true delight.
Thus doth the voice and face
These gentle lawyers wage
Like loving brothers’ case
For father’s heritage:
That each, while each contends,
Itself to other lends.
For Beauty beautifies
With heavenly hue and
grace
The heavenly harmonies;
And in this faultless face
The perfect beauties be
A perfect harmony.
Music
more lofty swells
In speeches nobly placed;
Beauty as far excels
In action aptly graced;
A friend each party draws
To countenance his cause.
Love more affected seems
To Beauty’s lovely light,
And Wonder more esteems
Of Music’s wondrous might;
But both to both so bent,
As both in both are spent.
Music doth witness call
The ear, his truth to try;
Beauty brings to the hall
The judgment of the eye:
Both in their objects such,
As no exceptions touch.
The Common Sense, which might
Be arbiter of this,
To be forsooth upright,
To both sides partial is:
He lays on this chief praise,
Chief praise on that he lays.
The Reason, princess high,
Whose throne is in the mind,
Which Music can in sky
And hidden beauties find:
Say whether thou wilt crown
With limitless renown.
Seventh Song
Whose senses in so ill consort, their stepdame Nature lays,
That ravishing delight in them
most
sweet tunes do not raise;
Or if they do delight therein,
yet are
so cloyed with wit,
As with sententious lips to set
a
title vain on it;
O let them hear these sacred
tunes,
and learn in wonder’s schools
To be, in things past bounds of
wit,
fools, if they be not fools.
Who have so leaden eyes, as not
to see
sweet beauty’s show,
Or seeing, have so wooden wits,
as not
that worth to know;
Or knowing, have so muddy
minds, as
not to be in love;
Or loving, have so frothy
thoughts,
as eas’ly thence to move:
O let them see
these heavenly beams,
and in fair letters read
A lesson fit, both sight and
skill,
love and firm love to breed.
Hear then, but then with wonder
hear;
see, but adoring see;
No mortal gifts, no earthly
fruits,
now here descended be;
See, do you see this face? A
face? Nay,
image of the skies,
Of which the two life-giving
lights
are figured in her eyes.
Hear you this soul-invading
voice, and
count it but a voice?
The very essence of their
tunes, when
angels do rejoice.
In a grove most rich of shade,
Where birds wanton music made,
May, then young, his pied weeds
showing,
New perfumed with
flowers
fresh growing,
Astrophil with Stella
sweet
Did for mutual comfort meet,
Both within
themselves oppressed,
But each in the
other blessed.
Him great harms had taught much
care:
Her fair neck a foul yoke bare:
But her sight his cares did
banish,
In his sight her yoke did
vanish.
Wept they did, but now betwixt
Sighs of woe were glad
sighs mixed,
With arms crossed, yet
testifying
Restless rest, and living
dying.
Their ears hungry of each word,
Which the dear tongue would
afford,
But their
tongues restrained from
walking,
Till their hearts had ended
talking.
But when their tongues could
not
speak,
Love itself did silence break;
Love did set his lips asunder,
Thus to speak in love and
wonder:
‘Stella, sovereign of my joy,
Fair triumpher of
annoy,
Stella, star
of heavenly fire,
Stella, lodestar of desire;
‘Stella, in whose shining eyes
Are the lights of Cupid’s
skies;
Whose beams, where they once
are
darted,
Love therewith is straight
imparted;
‘Stella, whose voice when it
speaks,
Senses all asunder breaks;
Stella, whose voice when
it singeth
Angels to
acquaintance bringeth;
‘Stella, in whose body is
Writ each character of bliss;
Whose face all, all
beauty passeth,
Save thy mind, which
yet surpasseth:
‘Grant, O grant—but speech,
alas,
Fails me, fearing on to pass;
Grant—O me, what am I saying?
But no fault there is in
praying:
‘Grant, O dear, on knees I
pray’—
(Knees on ground he then did
stay)
‘That not I, but since I love
you,
Time and place for me may move
you.
‘Never season was more fit,
Never room more apt for it;
Smiling air allows my reason;
These birds sing, “Now use the
season”;
‘This small wind, which so
sweet is,
See how it the leaves doth
kiss,
Each tree in his best attiring,
Sense of love to love
inspiring.
‘Love makes earth the water
drink,
Love to earth makes water sink;
And if dumb things be so witty,
Shall
a heavenly grace want
pity?’
There his hands in their speech
fain
Would have made tongue’s
language
plain;
But her hands his hands
repelling,
Gave repulse, all grace
excelling.
Then she spake; her speech
was
such
As not ears, but heart did
touch;
While such wise she love
denied,
As yet love she signified.
‘Astrophil,’ said she, ‘my
love,
Cease in these effects to
prove:
Now be still, yet still believe
me,
Thy grief more than death would
grieve
me.
‘If that any thought in me
Can taste comfort but of thee,
Let me, fed with hellish
anguish,
Joyless, hopeless, endless
languish.
‘If those eyes you praised be
Half so dear as you to me,
Let me home return, stark
blinded
Of those eyes, and blinder
minded.
‘If to secret of my heart
I do any wish impart
Where thou art not
foremost placed,
Be both wish and
I defaced.
‘If more may be said, I say,
All my bliss in thee I lay;
If thou love, my love content
thee,
For all love, all faith is
meant thee.
‘Trust me, while I thee deny,
In myself the smart I try;
Tyrant honour thus doth use
thee;
Stella’s self might not refuse
thee.
‘Therefore, dear, this no more
move,
Lest, though I leave not thy
love,
Which too deep in me
is framed,
I should blush when thou
art named.’
Therewithal away she went,
Leaving him so passion-rent
With what she had done and
spoken,
That therewith my song is
broken.
Ninth Song
Go, my flock, go get you hence,
Seek a better place of feeding,
Where you may have some defence
From the storms in my breast
breeding,
And showers from my eyes
proceeding.
Leave a wretch, in whom all woe
Can abide to keep no measure;
Merry flock, such one forego,
Unto whom mirth is displeasure,
Only rich in mischief’s
treasure.
Yet, alas, before you go,
Hear your woeful master’s
story,
Which to stones I else would
show:
Sorrow only then hath glory,
When ‘tis excellently sorry.
Stella, fiercest shepherdess,
Fiercest, but yet fairest ever;
Stella, whom,
O heavens, do
bless,
Though against me
she persever,
Though I bliss inherit never;
Stella hath refused me,
Stella, who more love
hath proved
In this caitiff heart to be
Than can in good ewes
be moved
Toward lambkins
best beloved.
Stella hath refused me;
Astrophil, that so
well served,
In this pleasant spring must
see,
While in pride flowers
be preserved,
Himself only winter-starved.
Why, alas, doth she then swear
That she loveth me so
dearly,
Seeing me so long to bear
Coals of love,
that burn so
clearly,
And yet leave me helpless
merely?
Is that love? Forsooth,
I trow,
If I saw my good
dog grieved,
And a help for him did know,
My love should not
be believed
But he were by
me relieved.
No, she hates
me, wellaway,
Feigning love somewhat, to
please me;
For she knows, if she display
All her hate, death soon would
seize
me,
And of hideous torments ease
me.
Then adieu, dear flock, adieu:
But alas, if in your straying
Heavenly Stella meet with
you,
Tell her, in your
piteous blaying,
Her poor slave’s unjust
decaying.