Edmund Spenser (एडमंड स्पेंसर)

One day I wrote her name upon the strand,But came the waves and washed it away.

Agayne I wrote it with a second hand,But came the tyde, and made my paynes his pray.

"Vayne man," sayd she, "that doest in vaine assay,A mortall thing so to immortalize.

For I my selve shall lyke to this decay,and eek my name bee wyped out lykewize.".

"Not so," quod I, "let baser things devize,To dy in dust, but you shall live by fame.

My verse your vertues rare shall eternize,And in the heavens wryte your glorious name.

Where whenas death shall all the world subdew,Our love shall live, and later life renew.".

Most happy letters, fram'd by skilful trade,With which that happy name was first design'd.

The which three times thrice happy hath me made,With gifts of body, fortune, and of mind.

The first my being to me gave by kind,From mother's womb deriv'd by due descent.

The second is my sovereign Queen most kind,That honour and large richesse to me lent.

The third my love, my life's last ornament,By whom my spirit out of dust was raised.

To speak her praise and glory excellent,Of all alive most worthy to be praised.

Ye three Elizabeths for ever live,That three such graces did unto me give.

Ah whither, Love, wilt thou now carry me?,What wontless fury dost thou now inspire.

Into my feeble breast, too full of thee?,Whilst seeking to aslake thy raging fire.

Thou in me kindlest much more great desire,And up aloft above my strength dost raise.

The wondrous matter of my fire to praise,That as I erst in praise of thine own name.

So now in honour of thy mother dear,An honourable hymn I eke should frame.

And with the brightness of her beauty clear,The ravish'd hearts of gazeful men might rear.

To admiration of that heavenly light,From whence proceeds such soul-enchanting might.

Thereto do thou, great goddess, queen of beauty,Mother of love, and of all world's delight.

Without whose sovereign grace and kindly duty,Nothing on earth seems fair to fleshly sight.

Do thou vouchsafe with thy love-kindling light,T' illuminate my dim and dulled eyne.

And beautify this sacred hymn of thine,That both to thee, to whom I mean it most.

And eke to her, whose fair immortal beam,Hath darted fire into my feeble ghost.

That now it wasted is with woes extreme,It may so please, that she at length will stream.

Some dew of grace into my withered heart,After long sorrow and consuming smart.

WHAT time this world's great Workmaster did cast,To make all things such as we now behold.

It seems that he before his eyes had plac'd,A goodly pattern, to whose perfect mould.

He fashion'd them as comely as he could,That now so fair and seemly they appear.

As nought may be amended anywhere,That wondrous pattern, wheresoe'er it be.

Whether in earth laid up in secret store,Or else in heaven, that no man may it see.

With sinful eyes, for fear it to deflore,Is perfect Beauty, which all men adore.

Whose face and feature doth so much excel,All mortal sense, that none the same may tell.

Thereof as every earthly thing partakes,Or more or less, by influence divine.

So it more fair accordingly it makes,And the gross matter of this earthly mine.

Which clotheth it, thereafter doth refine,Doing away the dross which dims the light.

Of that fair beam which therein is empight,For, through infusion of celestial power.

The duller earth it quick'neth with delight,And lifeful spirits privily doth pour.

Through all the parts, that to the looker's sight,They seem to please. That is thy sovereign might.

O Cyprian queen, which flowing from the beam,Of thy bright star, thou into them dost stream.

That is the thing which giveth pleasant grace,To all things fair, that kindleth lively fire.

Light of thy lamp, which, shining in the face,Thence to the soul darts amorous desire.

And robs the hearts of those which it admire,Therewith thou pointest thy son's poison'd arrow.

That wounds the life, and wastes the inmost marrow,How vainly then do idle wits invent.

That beauty is nought else but mixture made,Of colours fair, and goodly temp'rament.

Of pure complexions, that shall quickly fade,And pass away, like to a summer's shade.

Or that it is but comely composition,Of parts well measur'd, with meet disposition.

Hath white and red in it such wondrous power,That it can pierce through th' eyes unto the heart.

And therein stir such rage and restless stour,As nought but death can stint his dolour's smart?.

Or can proportion of the outward part,Move such affection in the inward mind.

That it can rob both sense and reason blind?,Why do not then the blossoms of the field.

Which are array'd with much more orient hue,And to the sense most dainty odours yield.

Work like impression in the looker's view?,Or why do not fair pictures like power shew.

In which oft-times we nature see of art,Excell'd, in perfect limning every part?.

But ah, believe me, there is more than so,That works such wonders in the minds of men.

I, that have often prov'd, too well it know,And whoso list the like assays to ken.

Shall find by trial, and confess it then,That beauty is not, as fond men misdeem.

An outward shew of things, that only seem,For that same goodly hue of white and red.

With which the cheeks are sprinkled, shall decay,And those sweet rosy leaves, so fairly spread.

Upon the lips, shall fade and fall away,To that they were, even to corrupted clay.

That golden wire, those sparkling stars so bright,Shall turn to dust; and lose their goodly light.

But that fair lamp, from whose celestial ray,That light proceeds, which kindleth lovers' fire.

Shall never be extinguish'd nor decay,But when the vital spirits do expire.

Unto her native planet shall retire,For it is heavenly born and cannot die.

Being a parcel of the purest sky,For when the soul, the which derived was.

At first, out of that great immortal Spright,By whom all live to love, whilom did pass.

Down from the top of purest heaven's height,To be embodied here, it then took light.

And lively spirits from that fairest star,Which lights the world forth from his fiery car.

Which power retaining still or more or less,When she in fleshly seed is eft enraced.

Through every part she doth the same impress,According as the heavens have her graced.

And frames her house, in which she will be placed,Fit for herself, adorning it with spoil.

Of th' heavenly riches which she robb'd erewhile,Thereof it comes that these fair souls, which have.

The most resemblance of that heavenly light,Frame to themselves most beautiful and brave.

Their fleshly bower, most fit for their delight,And the gross matter by a sovereign might.

Tempers so trim, that it may well be seen,A palace fit for such a virgin queen.

So every spirit, as it is most pure,And hath in it the more of heavenly light.

So it the fairer body doth procure,To habit in, and it more fairly dight.

With cheerful grace and amiable sight,For of the soul the body form doth take.

For soul is form, and doth the body make,Therefore wherever that thou dost behold.

A comely corpse, with beauty fair endued,Know this for certain, that the same doth hold.

A beauteous soul, with fair conditions thewed,Fit to receive the seed of virtue strewed.

For all that fair is, is by nature good,That is a sign to know the gentle blood.

Yet oft it falls that many a gentle mind,Dwells in deformed tabernacle drown'd.

Either by chance, against the course of kind,Or through unaptness in the substance found.

Which it assumed of some stubborn ground,That will not yield unto her form's direction.

But is deform'd with some foul imperfection,And oft it falls, (ay me, the more to rue).

That goodly beauty, albe heavenly born,Is foul abus'd, and that celestial hue.

Which doth the world with her delight adorn,Made but the bait of sin, and sinners' scorn.

Whilst every one doth seek and sue to have it,But every one doth seek but to deprave it.

Yet nathëmore is that fair beauty's blame,But theirs that do abuse it unto ill.

Nothing so good, but that through guilty shame,May be corrupt, and wrested unto will.

Natheless the soul is fair and beauteous still,However flesh{"e}s fault it filthy make.

For things immortal no corruption take,But ye fair dames, the world's dear ornaments.

And lively images of heaven's light,Let not your beams with such disparagements.

Be dimm'd, and your bright glory dark'ned quite,But mindful still of your first country's sight.

Do still preserve your first informed grace,Whose shadow yet shines in your beauteous face.

Loathe that foul blot, that hellish firebrand,Disloyal lust, fair beauty's foulest blame.

That base affections, which your ears would bland,Commend to you by love's abused name.

But is indeed the bondslave of defame,Which will the garland of your glory mar.