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I saw a bird from joining grove,
That soaring came with comely grace:

The Lily and Vermilion strove,

In maiden-like and lovely face:

With seemly arms instead of wings;

No claws, but fingers set with rings.

And in her hand she held a dart,

As being of Diana's train:

O, that's the cause of all my smart,

And breeder of this endless pain!

The thing I sought not there I find,

And lost the freedom of my mind.

While on her eyes my eyes did hang,
From rolling eye there sprang a glance;
And therewith heard a sudden clang,

That struck me in a deadly trance:

But wak'd I saw blind Cupid's craft,

And in my heart the golden shaft.

I sued for grace, but she denied;
Her lofty looks she cast awry:
And when my folly she espied,
She laugh'd to see my misery:

Away she soars, and from my sight
She smiling takes her parting flight.

You are the bird that bred the bane,
That swelleth thus in restless thought;
You are the snare that thus hath ta'ne,
And senses all to thraldom brought:

You are the jailor that do keep

Your friend in bonds and dungeon deep.

Renowned chaste Penelope,

With all her words could not redrive

Her suitors, till she set a day

In which she would them answer give;
When thready spindle full was grown,

Then would she choose one for her own.

They daily came to see the end,

And every man doth hope to be

The chosen man to be her friend;

But women's wiles here men may see;
Her spill was never fully spun,

For night undid that day had done.

I hope the like you have decreed,

That found you spinning but of late;

Would God your spill were full of thread,

That might relieve my wretched state:

I will forget the wrongs are past,

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Choose one at length, I know you will;
Let tried faith for ten years space,
However that your spindle fill,

With joy possess that empty place:
And if you will, I do protest

My love shall far surmount the rest.

These lines that hope for better speed,
As loving spies are sent to see;
Where you have spun up all your thread,
And what good hap is left for me:

Let their return yet make him glad,

Whom love's despair hath made so sad.

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SONNET III.

From "Calica," consisting of 109 Sonnets.

Fol. 1693.

BY FULKE GREVILE, LORD BROOKE.

MORE than most fair, full of that heavenly fire,
Kindled above to shew the Maker's glory;

Beauty's first-born, in whom all powers conspire
To write the Graces' life, and Muses' story;

If in

my heart all Saints else be defaced,

Honour the Shrine where you alone are placed!

Thou window of the sky, and pride of spirits,
True character of honour in perfection;
Thou heavenly creature, judge of earthly merits,
And glorious prison of man's pure affection;

If in my heart all Nymphs else be defaced,
Honour the Shrine where you alone are placed!

SONNET IV.

You little stars that live in skies,

And glory in Apollo's glory,

In whose aspects conjoined lies

The Heaven's will and Nature's story;

Joy to be liken'd to those eyes,

Which eyes make all eyes glad or sorry;

For when you force thoughts from above,

These overrule your force by love.

And thou, O Love, which in these eyes
Hast married reason with affection,
And made them saints of Beauty's skies,
Where joys are shadows of perfection,
Lend me thy wings that I may rise
Up not by worth, but thy election:

For I have vow'd in strangest fashion
To love, and never seek compassion.

SONNET XXV.

CUPID, my pretty boy, leave off thy crying;
Thou shalt have bells or apples; be not peevish;
Kiss me, sweet lad; beshrew her for denying;
Such rude denials do make children thievish!

Did reason say that boys must be restrained?
What was it? Tell: hath cruel honour chidden?
Or would they have thee from sweet Myra weaned?
Are her fair breasts made dainty to be hidden?

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