Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 92

Be your words made, good sir, of Indian ware, 
     That you allow me them by so small rate? 
     Or do you cutted Spartans imitate? 
Or do you mean my tender ears to spare 
That to my questions you so total are? 
     When I demand of Phoenix Stella's state, 
     You say, forsooth, you left her well of late: 
O God, think you that satisfies my care? 
     I would know whether she did sit or walk; 
How clothed, how waited on? Sighed she or smiled? 
Whereof, with whom, how often did she talk? 
With what pastime time's journey she beguiled? 
     If her lips deigned to sweeten my poor name? 
     Say all, and all well said, still say the same.

Tenth Song

O dear life, when shall it be
     That mine eyes thine eyes may see,
     And in them thy mind discover,
     Whether absence have had force
     Thy remembrance to divorce
     From the image of thy lover?

Or if I myself find not,
     After parting, aught forgot,
     Nor debarred from beauty’s treasure,
     Let no tongue aspire to tell,
     In what high joys I shall dwell;
     Only thought aims at the pleasure.
Thought, therefore, I will send thee
     To take up the place for me;
     Long I will not after tarry.
     There unseen thou may’st be bold
     Those fair wonders to behold
     Which in them my hopes do carry.
Thought, see thou no place forbear,
     Enter bravely everywhere,
     Seize on all to her belonging;
     But if thou wouldst guarded be,
     Fearing her beams, take with thee
     Strength of liking, rage of longing.
Think of that most grateful time
     When my leaping heart will climb
     In her lips to have his biding:
     There those roses for to kiss,
     Which do breath a sugared bliss,
     Opening rubies, pearls dividing.

Think of my most princely power,
     When I blessed shall devour
     With my greedy lickerous senses
     Beauty, music, sweetness, love,
     While she doth against me prove
     Her strong darts but weak defenses.
Think, think of those dallyings,
     When with dove-like murmurings,
     With glad moaning passed anguish,
     We change eyes, and heart for heart,
     Each to other do impart,
     Joying till joy make us languish.
O my thought, my thoughts surcease;
     Thy delights my woes increase,
     My life melts with too much thinking.
     Think no more, but die in me,
     Till thou shalt revived be
     At her lips my nectar drinking.