 5. Sonnet's Ninety-One to One-O-Eight Stella, while now by honour's cruel might, I am from you, light of my life, misled, and that fair you, my son, thus overspread with absence veil, I live in sorrow's night. If this dark place yet show like candle-light some beauty's peace, as amber-coloured head, still cans, rose-cheeks, or lips more sweet, more red, or seeing jets black but in blackness bright. They please, I do confess, they please, mine eyes, but why? Because of you they models be, models such be wood-globes of glistering skies. Dear, therefore be not jealous over me, if you hear that they seem my heart to move. Not them, oh no, but you in them I love. 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 a phoenix Stella's state, you say, forsooth, you left her well of late. Oh 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 she did talk, with what pastime at time's journey she beguiled, if her lips dain't to sweeten my poor name. Say all, and all well said, still say the same. Oh 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, ought for God, nor debard 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 mayst be bold those fair wonders to behold, which in them my hopes do carry. Thought, see thou no place for bear, enter bravely everywhere, seize on all to her belonging. And 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, liquorous 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 past anguish, we change eyes, and heart for heart, each to other do impart, joying till joy make us languish. Oh, 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 revive it be at her lips, my nectar drinking. Oh, fate, oh, fault, oh, curse, child of my bliss, what sobs can give words grace my grief to show, what ink is black enough to paint my woe, through me, wretch me, even stellar vexed is. Yet truth, if Catef's breath may call thee, this witness with me, that my fouls stumbling so from carelessness did in no manner grow, but wit confused with too much care did miss. And do I then myself this vain skews-give? I have, live I, and know this, harmed thee, though worlds quite me, shall I myself forgive? Only with pains my pains thus eased be, that all thy hurts in my heart's rack I read, I cry thy sighs, my dear, thy tears I bleed. Grief find the words, for thou hast made my brain so dark with misty vapours, which arise from out thy heavy mould, that inbent eyes can scarce discern the shape of mine own pain. Do thou then, for thou canst, do thou complain for my poor soul, which now that sickness tries, which even to sense, sense of itself denies, though harbingers of death lodge there his train. Or if thy love of plain't yet mine forebears, as of a Catef worthy so to die, yet wail thyself, and wail with causeful tears, that though in wretchedness thy life doth lie, yet growest more wretched than thy nature bears, by being placed in such a wretch as I. Yet sighs, dear sighs, indeed true friends you are, that do not leave your least friend at the worst, but as you with my breast I oft have nursed, so grateful now you wait upon my care. Night-coward joy no longer tarry-dare, seeing hope yield when this woe strike him first, delight protests he is not for the cursed, though oft himself my mate in arms he swear. Nay, sorrow comes with such main rage, that he kills his own children, tears, finding that they by love were made apt to consort with me. Only true sighs, you do not go away. Thank may you have for such a thankful part, thank worthiest yet, when you shall break my heart. Thought, with good cause thou likes'd so well the night, since kind or chance gives both one livery, both sadly black, both blackly darkened be. Night-coward from sun, thou from thy own sunlight, silence in both displays his sullen might, slow heaviness in both holds one degree. That full of doubts, thou of perplexity, thy tears express night's native moisture right. In both amazeful solitariness, in night of sprites the ghastly powers to stir, in thee or sprites or sprited ghastliness. But alas night's side the odds hath fur, for that at length yet doth invite some rest, that though still tired, yet still dost it behest. Diane, that feign would cheer her friend the night, shows her oft at the full her fairest race, bringing with her those starry nymphs, whose chase from heavenly standing hits each mortal white. But, ah, poor night, in love with feibus light, and endlessly despairing of his grace, herself to show no other joy hath place, silent and sad in mourning weeds doth dite. Even so, alas, a lady, Diane's peer, with choice delights and rarest company, would feign drive clouds from out my heavy cheer. And woe is me, though joy itself were she, she could not show my blind brain ways of joy, will I despair my son's sight to enjoy. Ah, bed, the field where joy's peace some do see, the field where all my thought to war be trained, how is thy grace by my strange fortune stained, how thy lee shores by my size storm'd be. With sweet, soft shades thou oft inviteest me to steal some rest. But wretch I am constrained, spurred with love's spur, though gallad and shortly reigned with care's hand, to turn and toss in thee. While the black horrors of the silent night paint woe's black face so lively to my sight, that tedious leisure marks each wrinkled line. But when Aurora leads out Phoebus' dance, mine eyes then only wink, for spite perchance, that worms should have their son, and I want mine. When far spent night persuades each mortal eye to whom nor art nor nature granted light, to lay his then mark-wanting shafts of sight, closed with their quivers in sleep's armory. With window's ope then most my mind doth lie, viewing the shape of darkness and delight, takes in that sad hue which the inward night of his mazed powers keeps perfect harmony. But when bird's charm, and that sweet air which is Morn's messenger, with rose-enamled skies, calls each white to salute the flower of bliss, in tomb of lids, then buried are mine eyes, forced by their lord, who was ashamed to find such light in sense, with such a darkened mind. O tears, no tears, but rain from beauty's skies, making those lilies and those roses grow, which I, most fair, now more than most fair, show, while graceful pity beauty beautifies. O honey'd sighs, which from that breast do rise, whose pants do make unspilling cream to flow, winged with whose breath so pleasing zephyrs blow, as can refresh the hell where my soul fries. O plaints conserved in such a sugared phrase, that eloquence itself envies your praise, while sobbed out words a perfect music give. Such tears, sighs, plaints, no sorrow is, but joy. Or if such heavenly signs must prove annoy, all mirth farewell, let me in sorrow live. Stella is sick, and in that sick bed lies sweetness, which breathes and pants as oft as she. And grace, sick too, such fine conclusions, tries, that sickness brags itself best-graced to be. Beauty is sick, but sick in so fair guise, that is that paleness beauty's white we see. And joy, which is inseparate from those eyes, Stella now learns, strange case, to weep in thee. Love moves thy pain, and like a faithful page, as thy looks stir, runs up and down to make all folks pressed at thy will thy pain to swage. Nature with care sweats her darling's sake, knowing worlds pass, ere she enough can find of such heaven's stuff to clothe so heavenly mind. Where be those roses gone, which sweetened so our eyes? Where those red cheeks, which oft with fair increase did frame the height of honour in the kindly badge of shame? Who hath the crimson weeds stolen from my morning skies? How did the colour fade of those vermillion dyes which nature's self did make, and self-engrained the same? I would know by what right this paleness overcame that hue, whose force my heart still unto thralldom ties. One's adoptive sons, who by a beaten way their judgments hack me on, the fault of sickness lay. But feeling proof makes me say they mistake it far. It is but love, which makes his paper perfect white, to write therein more fresh the story of delight, while beauty's reddest ink venus for him doth stir. Oh happy Thames, that didst my stellar bear! I saw thyself with many a smiling line upon thy cheerful face, joy's livery wear, while those fair planets on thy streams did shine. The boat for joy could not to dance for bear, while wanton winds with beauty so divine, ravished, stayed not, till in her golden hair they did themselves, oh sweetest prison, twine, and feign those eels youth there would there stay, have made, but forced by nature still to fly, first did with puffing kiss those locks display. She so dishevelled, blushed, from window I with sight thereof cried out, O fair disgrace, let honour self to thee grant highest place. Envious wits, what hath been mine offence, that with such poisonous care my looks you mark, that to each word naysay of mine you hark, as grudging me my sorrow's eloquence? Ha! Is it not enough that I am thence? Thence, so far thence, that scarcely any spark of comfort dare come to this dungeon dark, where rigorous exile locks up all my sense. And if I by a happy window pass, if I but stars upon mine armour bear, sick, thirsty, glad, though but of empty glass, your moral notes straight my hid meaning tear from out my ribs, and puffing prove that I do stellar love. Fools! Who doth it deny? Who is it that this dark night underneath my window plaineth? It is one who from thy sight, being, ah, exiled, disdaineth every other vulgar light. Why, alas, and are you he? Be not yet those fancies changed? Dear, when you find change in me, though from me you be estranged, let my change to ruin be. Well, in absence this will die, leave to see, and leave to wonder. Absence sure will help, if I can learn how myself to sunder from what in my heart doth lie. But time will these thoughts remove, time doth work what no man knoweth. Time doth, as the subject prove, with time still the affection groweth in the faithful turtle-dove. But if you knew beauty see, will not they stir new affection? I will think they pictures be, image like of saints' perfection, poorly counterfeiting thee. But your reasons, purest light, bids you leave such minds to nourish. Dear, do reason know such spite, never doth thy beauty flourish more than in my reasons sight. But the wrongs, love-bears, will make love at length leave undertaking. No, the more fools it do shake, in a ground of so firm making, deeper still they drive the stake. Peace, I think that some give ear, come no more lest I get anger. Bliss, I will my bliss forbear, fearing sweet you to endanger, but my soul shall harbour there. Well, be gone, be gone, I say, lest that Argus' eyes perceive you. Oh, unjustous fortunes sway, which can make me thus to leave you, and from louts to run away. Unhappy sight, and hath she vanished by so near, in so good time, so free a place. Dead glass, doth thou thy object so embrace, as what my heart still sees thou canst not spy. I swear by her I love, and lack, that I was not in fault, who bend thy dazzling race only unto the heaven of Stella's face, counting but dust what in the way did lie. But cease, mine eyes, your tears do witness well, that you, guiltless thereof, your nectar missed, cursed be the page from whom the bad torch fell, cursed be the night which did your strife resist, cursed be the coachman which did drive so fast, with no worse curse than absence makes me taste. Oh, absent presence, Stella is not here. False, flattering hope, that with so fair a face bear me in hand, that in this orphan place, Stella, I say my Stella, should appear. What says thou now? Where is that dainty cheer that toldst mine eyes should help their famished case? But thou art gone. Now that self-felt disgrace doth make me most to wish my comfort near. But here I do store a fair lady's meat, who may with charm of conversation sweet make in my heavy mould new thought to grow. Sure they prevail as much with me as he that bade his friend, but then new maimed, to be merry with him, and not think of his woe. Stella, since thou so write a princess art, of all the powers which life bestows on me, that ere by them ought undertaken be they first resort unto that sovereign part. Sweet, for a while give respite to my heart, which pants as though it still should leap to thee, and on my thoughts give thy lieutenancy to this great cause, which needs both use and art. And as a queen, who from her presence sends whom she employs, dismiss from thee my wit, till it have wrought what thy own will attends. On servants' shame oft masters blame doth sit. Ho let not fools in me thy works reprove, and scornings say, see what it is to love. Then sorrow, using mine own fire's might, melts down his lead into my boiling breast. Through that dark furnace to my heart oppressed, there shines a joy from thee, my only light. But soon as thought of thee breeds my delight, and my young soul flutters to thee his nest. Most rude despair, my daily unbidden guest, clips straight my wings, straight wraps me in his night, and makes me then bow down my head and say, ah, what doth Phoebus gold that wretch avail whom I own doors to keep from use of day? So strangely, alas, thy works in me prevail, that in my woes for thee thou art my joy, and in my joys for thee my only annoy. End of Part 5 End of Astrophil and Stella by Sir Philip Sidney